The watchful sentries of the English camp no sooner saw the dim red light of dawn in the far east than hideous and awe-inspiring whoops arose from all sides of the British camp. The English soldiers sprang to their guns, and it was not a moment too soon, for, with a thundering roar, a volley was poured in upon them. Under cover of the trees and bushes the enemy crept up close to where courageous Bouquet stood in the centre of his men, crying to them to fight the red men as they themselves fought: to crouch behind logs, boulders, bushes, and to shoot with the greatest accuracy. Terrible thirst beset the English, for no water was at hand and they could not reach the stream near by, while the groans of the wounded stirred the savages to renewed vigor in the assault. Again and again the English charged, but the Indians vanished into the brush like serpents, and reappeared to the onslaught just as soon as the Highlanders and backwoodsmen had reformed their line. The redskins redoubled their yells and saw the horses plunging and rearing to gain their freedom from behind a wall of flour bags, which also sheltered the wounded, and aiming at them, endeavored to stampede the entire herd. This had its effect. Many maddened brutes broke away from their halters, galloped through the ring of kneeling troops and yelping Indians, and rushed madly into the forest, sweating with fear and terror. The savages yelled with pleasure at this and taunted the troops in broken English from behind the shelter of trees and boulders, saying, "We got you! We got you!"
The fight had now waged from daylight until ten o'clock, and there was a lull in the battle—a lull which allowed Bouquet to perfect a plan for drawing the Indians into an ambuscade, which he hoped would finish the affair. This was: to allow two companies on the centre of the line to fall back and swing around to the left, behind some thick brush where they could not be seen. The place vacated by them was not to be filled up, and thus the British commander hoped to entice the Indians into the gap in his line. When they had come well inside, the two companies which had retreated were to close in upon their rear, and then hem them in so that they could be slaughtered. At the word of command, the two companies fell back and disappeared from view.
When the savages saw this retreat, they were sure that they at last had the British on the run, and so pressed onward with loud and exultant yells of defiance. A thin line of troops had filled up the gap in the line, and these were pushed back towards the interior of the camp, while the Indians seemed to be about to break into the very heart of the circle. With wild, hilarious yelpings they ran headlong into the gap, but, as they did so, the two companies which had retreated broke from the cover of the bushes which had hidden them, and bore down upon their rear with yells as fierce as those of the men of the forest. The Indians faced about with great courage and fired into the oncoming mass of men, but the Highlanders fell upon them with the bayonet. Nothing could stand such an attack; the red warriors broke and fled, while two companies which had advanced from their position in the line and had lain down upon the ground, poured a murderous fire into them as they passed. Numbers fell to the ground in their death agony. The remainder fled precipitously, while the four companies united and chased them furiously through the woods. Seeing which, the remaining Indians gave up all hope of success against the stalwart British, and, with one parting volley and yell of defiance, they, too, melted away into the forest. The fight at Bushy Run was over. About sixty Indian corpses lay upon the ground, among which were those of several chiefs, while eight English officers and one hundred and fifteen men had breathed their last amidst the dark forests of Pennsylvania. Next day the victorious troops marched onward to the relief of Fort Pitt—with their wounded upon litters—and, although frequently attacked by small bands of savages, reached there without further loss or mishap.
At far-away Detroit the siege went merrily on, but a detachment of three hundred regular troops was hastening to its relief. On July the 26th the seasoned veterans of this remarkable siege were overjoyed to see the red coats of their brethren-in-arms as they silently entered the fort, after coming down the river under cover of the night. This was fortunate, for so bold had Pontiac's warriors become that it would have fared ill with them had they advanced by daylight. Commanded by Dalzell, a brave and courageous man, the detachment was composed of seasoned British soldiers and twenty independent forest rangers, who were so anxious to get at the enemy that arrangements were immediately made for an attack upon Pontiac. But by some unknown means this arch-conspirator and Napoleonic designer of the movement against the English learned of the plan, and not only removed the women and children from his camp, but stationed two strong parties of his warriors in an ambuscade, behind piles of cord-wood which lay on either side of the road that the English had to take. Three hundred of the British left the fort about an hour before day, and marched rapidly up the bank of the stream in the direction of the Ottawa camp. They proceeded in silence until they reached a small bridge over a stream called Bloody Run, and were half way across it before they knew that the Indians had the slightest suspicion of their approach. Suddenly terrific yells burst from their front and a roar of musketry sounded in their ears from the high banks on either side. Half the advance party fell in their tracks, while the rest turned to run, but Dalzell raised his voice above the uproar, rushed to the front, sword in hand, and led on his men. They pushed across the bridge, and ran up the banks, but not an Indian was in sight. In vain the British looked for them—they had fled—but in the murk of the early morn their guns flashed from behind outhouses and fences, while fierce war cries rose with vigor and intensity. Again and again the soldiers advanced, but it was useless, and so, abandoning all idea of a successful attack upon Pontiac's camp, they retreated to the stockade at Detroit, fired at all the way and presenting somewhat the same appearance as Lord Percy's troops in the retreat from Lexington some years later, at the outbreak of the American Revolution.
As the soldiers were retreating before the warriors of Pontiac, Dalzell used every effort to restore order, and at last succeeded in doing so. The Indians had taken possession of a house, near the road, from the windows of which they fired down upon the English; so some of the rangers broke down the door with an axe, rushed in, and drove the redskins away. A captain was ordered to drive off some braves from behind some neighboring fences, and, as he charged them with his company, he fell, mortally wounded, shouting: "On, on, England forever!" The Indians ran off, but no sooner had the men turned about than the savages came running in upon the flank and rear, cutting down the stragglers with their tomahawks and scalping all who fell. A Sergeant of the 55th Regiment lay helplessly wounded, and realizing that he soon would be scalped, he gazed with a look of despair after his comrades as they made off. This caught the eye of warm-hearted Dalzell. So—with the true spirit of a hero—he ran over to the wounded man to pull him away out of danger, where he could be carried to the fort. But as he leaned over him, a rifle shot sounded through the dense mist which shrouded the battle field, and he fell dead across the body of the disabled private. Few saw him struck, and no one dared to turn back to recover his body, and thus, deserted and alone, the brave Englishman lay upon the field of battle to be scalped and plundered by the exultant savages.
This was the last important event attending the remarkable siege of Detroit. Winter was approaching, the Indians had nothing laid by which could sustain them through the winter, and so they had to repair into the forests in order to trap, hunt, and fish. When spring arrived, the various bands, as they came in to see the great chief Pontiac, told him that they were tired of the war and that they wished for peace. The Hurons and Pottawattamies, who had partly been forced into the war by threats of the followers of Pontiac, withdrew altogether, and thus completely ruined the ambitions of the great Ottawa chief, who had been so sure of success that he had already made arrangements with the French of dividing the conquered territory with them. The garrison at Detroit still watched his movements with anxiety. "'Tis said that Pontiac has gone to the Mississippi, but we don't believe it," wrote one of the soldiers at this time, and so constant watch and guard was kept up within the palisades which had successfully defied the might of the cruel leader of the conspiracy. He was still near by; no one dared to venture far into the wilderness; and there was constant dread of a fresh assault.
But the reign of terror was drawing to its close, and when, in the early summer of 1764, General Bradstreet arrived with a force of three thousand men, all the tribes in the vicinity of Detroit came in and concluded a peace, with the exception of the fierce Delawares and Shawnees, who had so unsuccessfully besieged the ramparts of Fort Pitt. Pontiac, himself, took no part in the council and was no longer seen. He abandoned both the country and his followers, and, according to report, went far to the southwest to the territory of the Illinois. Here, nursing in silence his wrath, resentment, and mortification, he brooded upon his fate, and contemplated a fresh outbreak against the English, trusting that the tribes in the vicinity of the Illinois River—the St. Josephs, the Miamis, the Marcontens, the Pians, and the Illinois—would be sufficiently strong to cope with the force and intelligence of the British. His plot against Detroit had been a complete failure. True—the smaller forts upon the frontier had fallen before the unexpected assaults of his allies—but the great prize, Detroit, had slipped his grasp. Now a large garrison was there, his Indians were starved and awed into submission. Fort Pitt still frowned down from its height in perpetual menace to his allies, and rumors of an advance upon the warlike Delawares and Shawnees filled him with chagrin and mortification. His confederacy was fast breaking.
And the advance came. The brave and hardy Bouquet with an army of Pennsylvania rangers, Virginia trappers, and regular troops, pushed far into the country of the warlike Delawares in the valley of the Ohio. Reaching a spot in the very heart of the Indian country, he erected a stout palisade, and awaited a deputation from the fierce enemies of the Pennsylvania frontier. All the villages of the Shawnees were within a few days' march, so no choice was left to the Indian warriors but to sue for peace or else battle with a man, who, at the desperate encounter of Bushy Run, had routed their entire force of fighting braves, with an army one-third the size of that which he now had with him. Bouquet meant business, and the Indians knew it. The frontiersmen were tired of scalpings, burnings, and robberies on the border. They had marched out to conclude a treaty of perpetual peace, or to give these wild rangers of the forest such a beating that they would remember it forever. Confident in their strength and the justice of their cause, they awaited the advent of the Indian Chiefs, with rifles loaded, bullet pouches well filled, and spirits fired with hatred for the cruel savages.
When the Indian Chiefs arrived next day, they found a small-sized army of over fifteen hundred fighting men drawn up in battle array. The soldiers were silent, their bright red coats of the Royal Americans shone brightly against the green of the forest, the bayonets flashed; the flags fluttered; and the even ranks of backwoodsmen in fringed hunting-frocks and moccasins had stern determination written upon their weather-beaten countenances. The Highlanders, with bare legs and kilts, leaned carelessly upon their rifles and gazed with indifference at the painted chieftains of the forest, who, seating themselves with sullen dignity, appointed one of their number to deliver a speech. In this the orator promised to give up all the white captives which the Indians held and to make peace. "I am come among you to force you to make atonement for the injuries you have done us," answered the martial Bouquet. "I have brought with me the relatives of those you have murdered. They are eager for vengeance, and nothing restrains them from taking it but my assurance that this army shall not leave your country until you have given them ample satisfaction. You are all in our power, and, if we choose, we can exterminate you from the earth, but the English are a merciful and generous people, adverse to shed the blood even of their greatest enemies; and if it were possible that you could convince us that you sincerely repent of your past perfidy, and that we could depend on your good behavior for the future, you might yet hope for mercy and peace. If I find that you faithfully execute the conditions which I shall prescribe, I will not treat you with the severity which you deserve. I give you twelve days from this date to deliver into my hands all the prisoners in your possession, without exception—Englishmen, Frenchmen, women, and children—whether adopted into your tribes, married, or living among you under any denomination or pretense whatsoever. And you are to furnish these prisoners with clothing, provisions, and horses, to carry them to Fort Pitt. When you have fully complied with these conditions, you shall then know on what terms you may obtain the peace you sue for." This speech had the desired effect; prisoners by the hundreds were soon brought in, and, after forcing the Indians to give him hostages to insure the keeping of peace, Bouquet went back to the settlements with his army, threatening that if the Indians again went upon the war path he would return with a larger force and completely annihilate the warring tribes.
News of this was reported to Pontiac, as he sullenly meditated further plans for revenge in his wigwam among the Illinois. Daily he saw his followers dropping off from him. To hold out longer against the whites was folly. He was surrounded by enemies. In the West were unfriendly Indian tribes; to the South were the hereditary enemies of his people, the Cherokees; in the East were the whites, and to the North a strong and vigorous garrison held the fortress of Detroit. Foiled, defeated, dismayed, he determined to accept that peace which he knew that the English would give, to smoke the calumet (or peace pipe) with his white conquerors, and to wait for some favorable opportunity for revenge. Consequently he attended a council between his tribesmen—the Ottawas—and the English at Detroit, promised allegiance to the British flag, and, requesting that the past be forgotten, threw down a wampum belt upon the floor, saying: "By this belt I remove all evil thoughts from my heart. Let us live together as brothers." In the spring he attended a council at Oswego, New York, presided over by Sir William Johnson, and, being requested for a speech, rose to say: "Father, when our great father of France was in this country, I held him fast by the hand. Now that he is gone, I take you, my English father, by the hand, in the name of all nations, and promise to keep this covenant as long as I live." Here he delivered a belt of wampum. "Father, when you address me, it is the same as if you addressed all the nations of the West. Father, this belt is to cover and strengthen our chain of friendship, and to show you that if any nation shall lift the hatchet against our English brethren we shall be the first to feel and resent it."
True to his promise, the Great War Chief remained at peace with the whites from now on. Who can reckon what bitter thoughts must have assailed this red Napoleon when he considered the humiliating close of his campaign? Proud, ambitious, savage, he saw the oncoming rush of the men of a different race with revengeful apprehension. His great plan of extermination of the British had completely failed. The Indian lack of order, well-defined plan, and knowledge of warfare, had failed to make but a temporary impression upon the garrison of the frontier. Their non-providence of provisions and forethought in gathering them, had caused the abandonment of the siege of Detroit. Their inability to successfully approach a well-built stockade had made it impossible for them to damage the walls of Fort Pitt. Pontiac had plead with his white Canadian allies—during the attack on Detroit—and had requested them to show his Indians how to make tunnels of approach as the English did in their own warfare. But the French said that they did not, themselves, know how to dig these trenches—which was an untruth—and so he had to give up this proper method of attack. Had his followers been taught in the civilized schools of military discipline, they would, by mere numbers, have annihilated the brave defenders of Detroit; but they were children of the forest—rude, untutored huntsmen—and as such only could they make war.
Across from the present city of St. Louis, Missouri, is an old hamlet called Cahokia, and here were gathered several Illinois Indians one pleasant day of the early spring of 1769. Pontiac had wandered to St. Louis to see an old acquaintance called St. Ange, and, hearing that some drinking bout, or social gathering was in progress, told his white acquaintance that he was going to cross the river to see what the warriors of Illinois were doing. St. Ange besought him not to join them, for he was not popular with this tribe. "I am a match for the English; I am a match for twenty red men," answered the Ottawa Chief, boastfully, "and I have no fear for my life." So saying, he entered a canoe and crossed to the other shore of the river.
A feast was in progress, and to it the mighty Pontiac was invited as soon as his presence among the Illinois was known. There were songs, boasts, speeches, and the whiskey bottle was passed freely about. There is no doubt that the red Emperor drank deeply, and, when the affair was over, he walked majestically down the village street to the adjacent woods, where he was heard to chant his medicine songs in the dark and silent wood. An English trader who had an intense dislike for the mighty war chief was then in the village, and, seeing that the moment was propitious for an assault upon him, bribed a strolling warrior of the Kaskaskia tribe of the Illinois with a barrel of liquor to kill the fierce leader of the Ottawas. Fired, perhaps, by an equal hatred for Pontiac, the red assassin soon consented to do the deed, for he was promised still further reward if he should be successful. As the dark figure of the leader of the great Indian conspiracy loomed strangely erect in the shadow of the forest, a silent form crept—like a wildcat—close to where he stood. A twig snapped. Pontiac turned to see what disturbed the quiet of the forest, and, as he did so, a tomahawk was buried in his brain. He fell prostrate upon the green carpet of moss. A shrill wail of triumph startled the night birds from the branches, and thus, foully and brutally assaulted, died the mighty Sachem of the Ottawas.
A frontiersman in the Ohio country, named Brown, was looking about for good land upon which to settle, and, finding some excellent territory in the Kishacognillas Valley, was wandering around in search of springs. About a mile from the edge of the valley he discovered a bear, and as he travelled along—hoping to get a shot at him—he suddenly came upon a spring. Being very thirsty, he set his rifle against a small tree, and, rushing down the bank near the water, laid down to drink.
"Upon putting my head down," says the pioneer, "I saw reflected in the water, on the opposite side, the shadow of a tall Indian. I sprang to my rifle, when the savage gave a yell, whether for peace or war I was not just then sufficiently master of my faculties to determine; but upon my seizing my rifle and facing him, he knocked up the pan of his gun, threw out the priming, and extended his open palm to me in token of friendship. After putting down our guns, we again met at the spring and shook hands. This was Logan—the best specimen of humanity I ever met with, either white or red. He could speak a little English, and told me that there was another white hunter a little way down the stream, and offered to guide me to his camp. There I met another white man named Maclay. We remained together in the valley a week, looking for springs and selecting lands, and laid the foundation of a friendship which never had the slightest interruption.
"We visited the camp at Logan's Spring, and Maclay and he shot at a mark for a dollar a shot. Logan lost four of five rounds, and acknowledged himself beaten. When we were about to leave him, he brought out as many deerskins as he had lost dollars, and handed them to Mr. Maclay, who refused to take them, alleging that we had been his guests, and did not come to rob him; that the shooting had only been a trial of skill, and the bet merely nominal.
"Logan drew himself up with great dignity, and said: 'Me bet to make you shoot your best—me a gentleman, and me take your dollar if me beat.'
"So he was obliged to take the skins, or affront our friend, whose nice sense of honor would not permit him to receive even a horn of powder in return."
This incident well illustrates the character of Logan: a Chief of the Mingoes, one of the bravest of men, one of the greatest of orators, and a redskin who preferred peace to war. He was the second son of Shikellimus—a wealthy Sachem—but, although he inherited the talents of his father, he did not inherit his prosperity. He took no part—except that of peace-making—in the French and English war of 1760, and was always considered a friend of the white man, as he was at heart, although circumstances made him rebel against the aggressions of the frontiersmen. His residence was at a western settlement near Sandusky, Ohio, and near by were about three hundred red warriors.
This eminent Indian supported his family by killing deer, dressing the skins, and selling them to the whites. He also traded in the land, which he had inherited from his forebears, and sold quite a piece to a tailor named De Yong, who lived in Ferguson's Valley, near the Scioto River. According to the stipulation in this particular trade, he received his pay in wheat, and, taking it to the mill, found it so worthless that the miller refused to grind it, saying: "It is good for nothing. Take it away." Much chagrined at this turn of fortune, the Indian Chief took the matter before a Judge, named Brown, who questioned him about the character of the wheat, asking him what was in it that so much resembled the wheat itself, and yet was not wheat.
"I do not know what to call it," said Logan.
"It must have been cheat," said the Judge.
"Yah," answered the Indian, "that very good name for him. It was cheat."
"I will give you redress," cried the man of law, handing him a writ to give to the constable. "This will bring you in money for your skins. Take it to the constable and he will see that you have justice."
But the uncivilized, yet honest, Indian could not understand how this little piece of paper could force a rogue to pay him what he really owed. "I no understand," said he.
Judge Brown took down his own commission, with the arms of the King upon it, and explained to the Mingo Chief the first principles and operations of the civil law.
"Law good," said Logan, after a while. "Make rogues pay up. White man's law good. But my law better—Do to other man as you wish him to do to you."
Another incident well exhibits the goodness of heart possessed by this noted warrior, until cruel injustice made him turn against the whites with hatred and revenge in his soul.
When a child of a certain Mrs. Norris was just beginning to learn to walk, her mother remarked—in the presence of Logan—that she was sorry that she did not have a pair of moccasins for her daughter, so that her feet could be more firmly supported as she endeavored to stand upright. The Indian said nothing, at the time, but soon afterwards asked Mrs. Norris if she would not allow the little girl to go with him to his cabin and spend the day. To this request the mother gave a reluctant consent, for she feared treachery, but knowing the delicacy of an Indian's feelings—and particularly those of Logan—she finally permitted her little girl to accompany the celebrated red man to his home. The hours of the day wore slowly away—only too slowly for the anxious mother. It was soon dusk, and still her little one had not returned. Mrs. Norris was in a paroxysm of fear, but just as the sun began to sink in the West, the trusty chieftain was seen coming down the path before the house, holding the little girl in his arms, and upon her feet were two beaded moccasins—the product of Logan's skillful handiwork.
This well illustrates the kindly spirit of Logan. He lived quietly and peacefully, until events occurred which changed the whole course of his life. In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder occurred in the Ohio country, among some of the white settlers, and the crime was laid to the door of the Mingoes. It is probable that the Indians did not commit the crime, for numerous white adventurers were traversing the frontier at this time, some of whom disguised themselves as Indians, and thought no more of murder than of sleep. In spite of this a cry went up from all sides, "Revenge upon the red dogs who have stolen our horses and killed our friends! Revenge!"
It was not long before other events occurred which soon led to a serious war. Among the backwoodsmen on the Maryland border was a settler named Michael Cresap—a good, sturdy woodsman, but when his blood was heated and his savage instincts were aroused, he was a relentless hater, and a determined, vindictive enemy. He feared no man and would as readily kill a redskin as a deer. Collecting a party of armed huntsmen, he paddled down the Kanawha River in quest of vengeance upon the Indians, and soon perpetrated a foul and ignoble deed. As he and his followers rounded a bend in the stream near Yellow Creek, a canoe filled with Indian women and children—and one man only—was seen coming towards them. The savages were unarmed, unprepared, and did not expect an attack from the whites, who now concealed themselves on the bank of the river and awaited the approach of the redskins. The canoe soon touched the shore, a murderous fire was opened upon the inoffensive occupants, and before many moments, every Indian had been slaughtered. Three of these people were relatives of Logan: the man of peace and friend of the white man.
The great Mingo Chief had just been present at an Indian council and had persuaded the Mingoes, who feared war, that peace was far better. With a majestic look he had declared that the "Long Knives," or Virginians, would soon come like trees in the woods, and would drive them from their lands, unless the hatchet were laid down. His counsel had prevailed, the redskins had decided to make no resistance to the whites, but when they heard of the massacre their whole demeanor was changed. Logan had been paid for his kindly spirit of forbearance by the murder of his family. The tiger was aroused in him. His proud spirit was fired with intense anger, and, swearing that his tomahawk should drink the blood of the white man till its vengeance should be appeased with a tenfold expiation, he prepared for a bloody struggle. On all sides the savages made ready for a long and serious campaign.
Skirmishing had already taken place between bands of Indians and whites, but no great battle was to occur for some time. Logan—with a band of eight chosen warriors—boldly penetrated the white settlements at the headwaters of the Monongahela River, took many prisoners, killed many whites, and defied every attempt at capture. The Shawnees, the Mingoes (or Senecas) and a few Delawares and Cherokees were also in the field, pillaging, burning and murdering on the frontier; while the white settlers crowded into the large towns for protection.
An incident now occurred which well exhibits the kindly spirit of Logan, even when in the heat of battle, when blood was being freely spilled on every side, and when the savages were taking every possible advantage of the whites. A white prisoner named William Robinson fell into the hands of Logan's band, and, being tried by the council, the great Mingo Chief endeavored for nearly an hour to persuade his men to let the captive go. But his eloquence was of no avail, and it was decided that the trembling paleface should be tortured at the stake. While bound to a post, Logan suddenly leaped into the circle of howling redskins, cut the thongs which held the prisoner, threw a belt of wampum around him, led him in safety to his wigwam, and shouted in a loud voice to the clamoring braves, "I have adopted him in place of my brother killed at Yellow Creek."
A few days later the Chief of the warring red men dictated a letter to his adopted brother, who wrote it upon birch bark with ink made of gun powder and water. It was completed, tied to a war club, and stuck into the logs of a house near Helston Creek, where the entire family which had formerly resided there had been massacred. Some days later it was found by a party of riflemen, who were decidedly surprised and chagrined to read the following:
"Captain Cresap:—What did you kill my people on Yellow Creek for? The white people killed my kin at Conestoga, a great while ago, and I thought nothing of that. But you killed my kin again on Yellow Creek, and took my cousin prisoner. Then I thought I must kill, too, and I have been three times to war since; but the Indians are not angry—only myself.
Captain John Logan."
The soldiers who found this note were upon a foray into the Ohio territory, led by a Colonel McDonald, who was a brave and resolute Indian fighter. They were much impressed by the dignity of this missive, but did not stop upon their errand of death, and, pushing to the mouth of Captina Creek, moved upon the Mingo village of Wapitomica, on the Muskingum, destroying several villages on the way, and returning safely with several chiefs as prisoners. But they were pursued by the savages in force, and realizing that to insure peace upon the border, it would be necessary to send a good-sized army against the allied tribes, the Governor of Virginia (Lord Dunmore) decided to send a small army of backwoodsmen, soldiers, and trappers into the country of the redskins. Three thousand men were ordered to advance against the Indians. One half of the force under the command of General Andrew Lewis was to march to the mouth of the Kanawha River in Ohio; while Governor Dunmore, himself, was to lead the other half from Pittsburg to Point Pleasant, Ohio, where the two bodies were to meet and fight a decisive battle with the Indian warriors under Logan and Cornstalk; the latter a great Chief of the Shawnees, and an excellent fighter.
"Did I not tell you that the Long Knives would move against us?" said Logan to his followers. "They must be defeated. I wished to live at peace with my white brothers, and I bore them no ill will, until they murdered my relatives. I fear that we shall not have strength enough to beat off these palefaces, but have courage, ye red men, and we shall have many a scalp of these fringed shirts to hang in our wigwams."
"We will be ready," shouted his followers, and soon their wild war cries echoed through the forests as they leaped about in a circle and prepared their spirits for the coming battles.
Meanwhile the sturdy pioneers were collecting on the frontier and preparing for the advance into the wilderness. General Andrew Lewis was a stout backwoodsman who little feared the savages and had a contempt for danger that was extraordinary. His army soon gathered in the western mountains of Virginia, and a hardier, more energetic body of fighters it would have been difficult to find. With droves of pack-horses to carry their light equipment, and numbers of beef cattle to feed upon, the men in buckskin and fringed hunting shirts finally moved off in the direction of Ohio and the Great Kanawha. There were one hundred and sixty miles of wilderness to pass through before the objective point would be reached, and deep forests lay in the path of the little army. But in the front was a veteran scout, who knew the dense wilderness like a book, and piloted the soldiers surely and directly to the river which they searched for.
As the small force moved through the forest, the men presented a most picturesque appearance. The straggling sunbeams glistened upon their long rifles and sheath knives, while their powder horns swung jauntily from long cords across their bodies and tapped against the wooden butts of their guns, as they were held carelessly under the right shoulders. The twigs and branches crashed as the pack train pushed its way through the unbroken forest, the horses snorting and whinnying, the oxen and cows lowing and grunting, while the baaing of a few sheep added to the general disturbance. The men marched silently, without singing or laughing, for they were on gruesome business, and they knew that many of their numbers would not return. In the front was Colonel Charles Lewis—a brother of the General in charge. He was resplendent in a scarlet coat, and this one bit of color was the only bright spot among the yellow buckskin hunting shirts and the dark coonskin caps of the Rangers. Surely, carefully, and courageously they moved onward upon their mission of death, while the startled deer sped from their path like the shadows of those departed.
Upon the last day of September the army of invasion reached its destination and speedily formed an intrenched camp. Lewis waited for a week for the arrival of Lord Dunmore and his men. "Egad," said he at length, "I believe that the old fox has deserted us, and we Virginians must fight the redskins on our own hook."
Hardly had he made the remark when a scout came running into the camp with news that startled the vigilant commander.
"While hunting deer with Tom Briscoe," said he, "we suddenly came upon a camp of Cornstalk's men, all of them in war paint. They fired upon us before we could get away and killed my companion. Now I am come to tell you that they are advancing upon you, and you will be attacked before another sun."
"Is that so?" drawled General Lewis, lighting his pipe. "Then we must get ready for the varmints and fight them without Lord Dunmore and his men."
Not long after this he rose from the stump upon which he was seated and gave orders that his brother Charles Lewis should take two regiments and march in the direction of the Indians to reconnoitre next morning, while he made a proper disposition of the rest of the army, in order to support them. The two regiments had barely advanced a quarter of a mile from the camp, when loud war whoops sounded from their front and flanks, and they were suddenly set upon by a howling, yelping mob of redskins. It was just about daylight, and, dropping immediately behind stumps and fallen logs, the soldiers awaited the attack of the Indians with calm determination. Remembering past battles with the children of the forest, the Rangers did not heedlessly expose themselves, and fired only when they saw the head or portion of the body of a warrior. The firing grew hot. The yelling and screeching of the savages was discordant and fierce, while the steady "crack, crack" from their rifles soon began to tell upon the crouching ranks of the Virginian volunteers. Colonel Charles Lewis was most conspicuous in his red coat and so became an easy target for the guns of the savages. Soon, pierced by several balls, he was obliged to leave the firing line, and, staggering back to the camp, he perished with his face towards the foe, still urging on the Rangers with his dying breath.
At this moment it seemed as if the redskins would triumph. Above the din of battle Cornstalk's voice could be heard, calling, "Be strong! Be strong!" And when a savage showed symptoms of flight, he is said to have immediately struck him down with his tomahawk. A warrior named Red Hawk, too, was conspicuous among his own men, urging them on to resistance with stern voice and determined gestures. The right wing of the Americans began to give way, the Rangers began to fall back from the murderous bullets, but at this time reinforcements rushed to the threatened point, and, with a yell as fierce as that of the savages, the fresh troops crept up to the oncoming foe. The two lines were more than a mile in length, the combatants were so close together that they often grappled in a hand-to-hand combat, using their knives and tomahawks freely. The crack of the rifles was mingled with the groans of the wounded, the jeers of the Indians, the shouts of the backwoodsmen, and the wild yells of the chiefs and commanding officers.
It was now about twelve o'clock, and the savages began to give way before the assaults of the entire army of Virginians, who had just come up. But, instead of retreating to a great distance, the Indians hid behind a breastwork of fallen logs and branches which extended clean across a neck of land which ran between the Ohio and Kanawha Rivers. Not only had they had forethought enough to prepare this, but they had placed men on both sides of the stream, in the rear of the Virginians, so that if they had been defeated not one would have been able to escape. The warriors retreated stubbornly, contesting each inch of the way, and soon—from the protection of the stout breastwork—easily held at bay the victorious white men. Colonel Fleming, who commanded the left wing, was twice hit, but kept his command and continually cheered on his men with words of confidence. When the reinforcements had arrived at the critical moment, he was again shot—this time through the lungs—but he still refused to give way to any other officer, and led his men right up to the breastwork, behind which fifteen hundred Shawanoe, Delaware, Mingo, Wyandot, and Cayuga warriors poured a rain of bullets at the oncoming Virginians. The Rangers lay down behind the trees and boulders of the forest and eagerly waited further orders.
General Lewis saw that he had to cripple the enemy or they would be claiming a victory and would thus get aid from other tribes. Seventy-five of his men had been either killed or mortally wounded, and over one hundred were slightly disabled. It was time for action, so, sending three companies to the rear of the breastwork, he ordered the backwoodsmen to dash into the Indians from that direction, while the rest of the army would swarm over the front of the fortification. Unseen by the savages, the soldiers were soon in the forest behind the supposedly impregnable position of the red warriors, but scouts brought news of their advance to Cornstalk, and, believing them to be reinforcements from Lord Dunmore, and not part of the very troops which he had been just engaged with, the Indian War Chief ordered a retreat. As the sun sank upon the field of battle, the Indian fighting men fell back across the river in the direction of their towns along the Ohio River, while cheer after cheer went up from the Virginians, as they realized that the day of bloodshed had been ended.
The battle was over, at last, and it had been a severe struggle. Fifty-two graves had to be dug for the dead backwoodsmen of the forest, while half the commissioned officers were lifeless upon that bloody field. The Indians' loss is unknown—thirty-three were found dead on the ground which had been contended for, but, as many of their stricken had been thrown into the river, it was impossible to ascertain exactly how many had fallen. The probabilities are that they lost about as many as did the whites, and thus the battle of Point Pleasant or the Great Kanawha, in the autumn of 1774, seems to justify the assertion that it was the most severe Indian battle that had taken place upon the soil of America up to that time. The whites were eager for another fight, as they wished to revenge the death of their comrades, and so, as soon as burial services were over for those who had fallen, they again took up the march in the direction in which the Indians had disappeared. There were many curses against Lord Dunmore for not having joined them, as he had promised, and several of the Virginian Rangers called him "coward" and "traitor."
So near, indeed, had this British Governor been to the Virginians at Point Pleasant, during the battle, that his men could easily hear the sound of fighting when they placed their ears to the ground. He had advanced from Pittsburg with a strong force and could certainly have fallen upon the rear of the Indians had he so wished, but, as he did not hurry his course, it is evident that he had no intention of co-operating with the troops of General Lewis, as he had proposed to do. Some have contended that he wished to sacrifice the Virginians so as to defeat the savages himself, and secure reputation for great prowess. This is an absurd contention, for he would speedily have been denounced as a treacherous dog and would have suffered death from his own men. Others have stated that he felt that the Indians' cause was a just one, that he knew that the Virginians were soon going to rebel against England, and thus he wished to bring peace with as little destruction of life as possible. It is probable that he was anxious to keep the good will of the Indians, with a view of gaining them as allies to the mother country later on. In fact, after the American Revolution broke out, he sent emissaries to these very savages, asking their assistance against the people of Virginia, so his lack of aggression in advancing to the aid of General Lewis is, therefore, partly explained. We must remember that he was an Englishman, was patriotic, and wished to do nothing that would hurt the interests of the mother country.
The troops under Lord Dunmore, numbering as many as those of General Lewis, passed through the Blue Range at Potomac Gap, and crossed into Ohio near Wheeling, West Virginia. As the British advanced into the Indian country, scouts came in from the Senecas and Delawares, and, on October sixth, Lord Dunmore had a conference with them, offering terms of peace. The savages carried his words back to the retreating warriors who had fought at Point Pleasant, as Lord Dunmore's army pushed on to the left bank of Sippo Creek, Ohio. Here the soldiers soon made a fortified camp, called Camp Charlotte, and waited for emissaries from the warlike Indians. A messenger was also sent to intercept the march of General Lewis, telling him not to fight again, until his commanding officer—Lord Dunmore—had had a conference with the red men, but, smarting from the loss of his brother, and fired with the zeal for a signal victory, Lewis felt little desire to heed the command of the Governor, and pressed on to Congo Creek, which was within striking distance of the Indian towns near Chillicothe, Ohio. Again Dunmore sent him a command not to attack the Indians, and, seeing that the Rangers were bent upon further bloodshed, he went in person to find the Virginian leader. Drawing his sword when he met him, he said: "Sir, if you persist in your obstinacy in disobeying my commands, I shall run you through with this weapon. I am your commanding officer, sir." "I will retire," answered Lewis, "but your conduct, sir, is cowardly and treacherous to the interests of Virginia."
The Indians were now thoroughly cowed by the show of force which the whites presented and were, therefore, contemplating peace. At a conference at their chief town, Cornstalk arose and upbraided them because they had not listened to his and Logan's suggestions for peace before the bloody battle of Point Pleasant. "What will you do now?" said he. "The Big Knife is coming on us, and we shall all be killed. Now you must fight or we are undone." He paused for a reply, and then added, "Now let us kill all our women and children and go out and fight the palefaces until we die?" Still there was no answer to this brave proposal. So, rising from the seat upon the ground, the Great Chief struck his tomahawk into a post of the council house with a sharp, resounding blow, exclaiming, "I will then go and make peace." "Ough! Ough!" came from all sides. "Go and make peace." So the noted warrior hastened to Dunmore's camp to settle the difficulties between them immediately.
Logan was not with him; in fact, he had taken no part in these councils, but had remained alone in the Mingo village, brooding over the wrongs, and upon the cruel vengeance which he had taken upon the whites for the murder of his relatives. "He is like an angry dog," said a Delaware warrior. "His bristles are all up, but they are gradually falling." When urged to attend the peace conference, he muttered: "I am a warrior and not a counsellor. I will not come to the meeting, for my people have not followed my advice."
At the conference at Camp Charlotte Cornstalk spoke for his red brethren, and he is said to have delivered a great oration, which was quite equal to the speeches of Patrick Henry, the great orator of the Virginia House of Burgesses. "I have heard many orators," said Colonel Wilson of Dunmore's staff, "but none whose power of delivery surpassed that of Cornstalk on this occasion. His looks when addressing Dunmore were truly grand and majestic, yet peaceful and attractive. When he arose, he was in no wise confused or daunted, but spoke in a distinct and audible voice, without stammering or repetition, and with peculiar emphasis." Such was the impression which he created that a speedy peace was agreed upon, which was to insure some years of quiet to the frontiers of Virginia and Pennsylvania. The Indians retired to their towns, and the army of invasion made preparations for returning to the settlements of tide-water Virginia.
Although Logan had refused to attend the conference, Lord Dunmore considered it most important to learn what were his future intentions towards the whites, as he was a renowned chieftain and had quite a following. He could, in fact, easily stir up another rebellion, should he so wish, and thus it would be of considerable value to the whites to obtain from him a statement to the effect that he would keep the peace in future. Therefore, a messenger named John Gibson was sent to the Mingo camp in order to interview the savage warrior and persuade him to sign the peace pact. Gibson was a frontier veteran who had lived for a long time near the Indians and knew their manners, customs, and language as well as that of his own race. And he proved to be an excellent emissary, for Logan talked freely to the sturdy backwoodsman. For some time they discussed the war and its outcome, and then, weeping bitterly, the Mingo Chieftain made a speech which will always live as one of the finest examples of Indian eloquence recorded in the history of the conquest of America by the whites. Gibson took the words of Logan down in writing, bade the sad old warrior farewell, and, turning towards the English camp, soon had presented the answer of the noble red man to Lord Dunmore. The Governor read it in council before the entire frontier army, among whom were Clark and Cresap, the two backwoods soldiers to whom Logan ascribed the murder of his family.
"I appeal to the white man to say if he ever entered Logan's cabin hungry and he gave him no meat; if ever he came cold and naked and he clothed him not?" were the words of Logan. "During the course of the last long and bloody war (the French and Indian War, and the Conspiracy of Pontiac) Logan remained idle in his camp, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites that my countrymen pointed as I passed, and said: 'Logan is the friend of the white man.' I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace; but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one."
To the sad and sober thoughts of the Mingo Chief, the frontiersmen listened with respectful attention, and in the hearts of some, no doubt, came feelings of remorse that the lives of his own people had been so cruelly taken. At the conclusion of the reading of this address, Clark turned to Cresap and said: "You must be a very great man that the Indians hold you guilty for every mean thing that has happened." "It was not I who did this deed, but Daniel Greathouse," answered Cresap, "and I have half a mind to put an end to him when next we meet, because of this brutal murder." It would have indeed been well if someone would have made the guilty frontiersman suffer for this cruel deed, which had wrecked the life and hopes of an Indian Chief, who, at heart, was a friend of the pioneers, and not an enemy. The triumph of the Anglo-Saxons had dealt a heavy blow to the one red man of friendly intentions who resided in the country of the Ohio.
The troops under Lord Dunmore soon returned to Virginia, and, at the outbreak of the American Revolution, took part in many of the engagements of the first year of warfare. Proud, gloomy Logan never recovered from the grief which the loss of his family had inspired. His life was spent among his own people, and frequently he was engaged in the various skirmishes and uprisings of the border. We know that he became intemperate, and, like so many other red men of noble qualities, became a victim of drink—a habit which lowered him in the estimation of both the whites and those of his own race. At last, when returning from Detroit to his own country, after assisting in making a treaty of peace, he was murdered by a party of whites, but the details of his death are not known.
Thus perished one of the few redskins who, at heart, was friendly to those of a different color. One can forgive his fierce outburst of passion against the whites, for who of us would not have been constrained to do likewise, after the murder of our entire family, and in cold blood? His features were noble, his form was majestic, his words bore evidence of a mind in which only the loftiest thoughts resided. His speech to the emissary of Lord Dunmore has been favorably compared with the best efforts of Demosthenes and Cicero, the great orators of Greece and Rome, and the annals of Indian warfare have never brought to light a character of similar grandeur and majesty of disposition. The muse of history smiles brightly upon the spirit of Logan: the Friend of the White Man, the Great Chieftain of the Mingoes.
A little schooner was about to be launched in a port of the eastern seaboard of the United States, and crowds of people gathered around to see the vessel take to the water. It was an event of more than usual interest, for a tall Indian chief of majestic bearing stood at the prow in order to speak a word of parting to the new-made hull. He placed one hand upon the planking, and, turning to the expectant onlookers, spoke with great feeling.
"You have a great name given to you," he said, pointing to the ship. "Your name is Red Jacket. Strive to deserve this name. Be brave and daring. Go boldly into the troublesome waters of the great sea and fear neither the swift wind nor the strong waves. Be not frightened nor overcome by them, for it is in resisting storms and tempests that I, whose name you bear, obtained my renown. Let my great example inspire you to courage and lead you to glory. Strike, you men! Break the underpinning from this favored vessel and let us see it plough into the surging ocean!" As he ceased, the stanchions which held the schooner were knocked away, and proudly and serenely she dipped into the waters of the blue Atlantic.
The great chief who had christened this little vessel was one of the most famous orators who has ever existed among the Indians of America. His birth is supposed to have taken place about the year 1750, under a great tree which formerly stood near the spring of crystal water at Canoga Point, on the western shores of Lake Cayuga, in western New York. His parents were Senecas—a powerful tribe that lived at Can-e-de-sa-ga, at the present site of Geneva, New York, and they were members of the Iroquois confederation of Indian people. His father, although a member of this tribe, was by birth a Cayuga—a thoughtful and far-seeing race, who were the scholars and thinkers of the northern Indians—and, although learned, was not a man of any prominence or distinction. His mother is said to have had white blood in her veins, and so the remarkable ability to express himself in a logical manner may be traced to this taint in the blood of the eloquent Red Jacket, who in infancy was called O-te-tiana, which signifies, "The Always Ready."
Tradition has it that when a young man Red Jacket was remarkably fleet of foot, so fleet, in fact, that he was employed by his people as a "runner" or messenger. But his ambition was to become a great orator and speaker, and thus leaving the active participation in warfare to spirits more bold than his own, he endeavored to become the greatest counsellor among his people. This ability to sway the thoughts and feelings of others made him chief—a position to which he aspired, and of which he was very jealous—and, when he came to this honor, he took another name, according to the custom of his nation. This was the euphonious one of Sa-go-ye-wat-ha, which means "The Keeper Awake."
But how came it that he was called Red Jacket, when these other names were so much more distinguished and musical? This is explained by a chronicler of this period of history, who says: "During the war of the Revolution this Seneca warrior made himself very useful to the British officers as a messenger. He was doubtless of great value to them because of his intelligence and gift for oratory, and, in return for his services, the officers presented the young man with a scarlet jacket, very richly embroidered. He took much delight in this coat of a flaming red, and this peculiar dress became a mark of distinction and gave him the name by which he was afterwards best known. Even after the war, when the Americans wished to particularly ingratiate themselves with him, they would present him with a red jacket. The young Prince of the wolf den would don the bright raiment with a look of immense pride, and he was much admired by his followers as he strutted about attired in this attractive dress." Thus Sa-go-ye-wat-ha became known by the title of Red Jacket, a name which clung to him through life, and by which he has been known to historians.