CHAPTER VIII
THE END OF THE “BLACK HAWK” WAR
Some allowance ought surely to be made for a man who is condemned to go through life with such a name as Muckkertamesheckkerkerk; and, to do the United States Government justice, the gentleman so styled seems to have been treated with a good deal of patience and lenity.
“Black Hawk” (to give him at once the name by which he is better known in American history) was an Indian chief who contrived to be as much a thorn in the flesh of the white rulers of his country as—let us say—some of the Welsh princes were in that of our Plantagenet kings. He was born in 1767, and by the time he was fifteen had so distinguished himself in war and in hunting that he became a recognised brave of his tribe—the Sac and Fox. Up till the year 1804 the new republic could afford to ignore the deeds and misdeeds of this renowned patriot, for he confined most of his energies to warfare with the Cherokees and Osages—sub-tribes of the Iroquois; but, as white civilisation continued to push westward, it became necessary either to conciliate or to subdue those who stood in the way of its progress.
At first conciliation did not appear difficult. General Harrison invited Black Hawk—now a man of four-and-thirty, and the recognised champion of all the Algonquin Indian tribes—to appear at St. Louis, in order to discuss the question of boundaries, and to enter into a treaty which would be of mutual benefit. Black Hawk came, and with him a host of tributary chiefs—Shawnees, Blackfeet, Sacs and Foxes, etc.
The American General’s proposals were fair and to the point. The redskins were to renounce all claim to about seven hundred miles of land east of the Mississippi, in return for an annual payment of a thousand dollars. A couple of hundred pounds as rental for a strip of land some eight hundred miles long sounds ridiculous enough to us, unless we bear in mind that the Indians were merely asked to keep to the other side of the river; they were not giving up towns or houses or cultivated lands; they were receiving what—to them—meant a very substantial income, in return for their migrating to far better hunting-grounds in Iowa and Minnesota. Black Hawk solemnly agreed to the contract, with—we must believe—every intention of keeping his word.
Unluckily, General Harrison and his officers had rather lavish notions of hospitality; and when Black Hawk’s decision was made known to the other chiefs, most of them were a great deal too drunk to know what they were agreeing to. The money was paid regularly enough, and, for some few years, whatever breaches of the treaty there were, were so trifling that the Government could easily wink at them. Black Hawk went about his hunting and his civil warfare 108 and conducted himself as a respectable savage should.
Then he got into bad hands. As the troubles of our own armies in India and the Soudan have shown, it is no uncommon thing to find peaceable men stirred to fighting frenzy by some maniac who makes it his business to cause as much strife as possible in the name of religion. A great prophet had arisen among the Indians—a Shawnee, in whose hands poor Black Hawk was wax; and who gave the redskins no rest till they crossed the river in a body, and swept eastwards as far as Michigan, driving the handful of white settlers back and back to the towns from which they had come. This was in 1811. In the following year, now thoroughly persuaded that he and all the chiefs and all the white subscribers to the treaty were drunk when it was signed, and that it was no longer binding, Black Hawk pressed on into Michigan as far as Detroit. This was more than human patience could stand; the white citizens turned out, and drove away the Indians with such slaughter that their leader was only too glad to draw off. For four years he confined his attacks to petty farm raids, and, in 1816, signed another treaty, which was followed by fourteen years of comparative peace, though Black Hawk and a few of his supporters refused to retire across the river again.
By 1830 the States Government, realising its folly in having allowed any deviation from the strict terms of the agreement, obliged Black Hawk to sign another, by which every acre of land east of the river became white property. It was now that the real trouble began. 109 The Indian chief was growing old, losing his former promptness of action, and becoming more and more a slave to the Shawnee prophet’s counsels. During the fourteen years that he had been practically defying the Government, he and his immediate adherents had begun to farm a little; and just now their crops were ripening, and harvest-time was almost due. When the order came for him to leave the neighbourhood he lost his head or his temper, refused to stir, and threatened with death anyone who dared to interfere with him. A week later he returned from his hunting to find some white labourers calmly ploughing up his crops and parcelling out his land. There was a brief scuffle, and the whites were obliged to flee, and thus opened the last period of the war.
Knowing that vengeance would be taken, Black Hawk sent across the river for more warriors, and prepared to make a decided stand. But instead of the half-dozen shopkeepers and labourers he had been prepared to meet, he found himself attacked by a body of men several hundred strong, well armed, and many of them mounted. These were the Illinois militia under General Gaines—hardy trappers, farmers, and timber-rafters, whose fathers had fought with and defeated British regiments. The Indians’ nerve failed them, and, after a single deadly volley from the militia, they fled. But, instead of crossing the river, they went north, into Wisconsin, where they looked to find remnants of their tribe who would ally themselves with them.
During the whole of the next year, and until the summer of 1832, a very clever guerrilla warfare was 110 carried on by the savages; hundreds of white men were killed, and scarcely one Indian; nor was there much in the shape of a pitched battle. It was then that General Atkinson, an old and experienced fighter of Indians, was sent to put an end to the whole matter. Dispatching a small force of light cavalry, under General Scott, to search the woods, he marched the bulk of his little army towards the Wisconsin River, in the hope of eventually surrounding the Indians and capturing Black Hawk.
His march proved more tedious than he had bargained for. Nowadays tired New Yorkers and Chicagoites, with a taste for sport, devote their summer holidays to shooting over the beautiful Wisconsin highlands; but in 1832 there were no railways or palace-like hotels there. Even a farm was a rarity, and every hill or ravine might conceal a score of Indian sharpshooters. The whole aspect of the country was savage, dreary, and forbidding. It had been the duty of the advance guard to see that there were no redskins lying in ambush; but General Atkinson soon began to think that that duty had been very much neglected, for at almost every mile an arrow or a bullet came from nowhere, wounding some man or horse, and in one case killing a Sioux guide. This kind of thing continued for a couple of days or more; and Atkinson had begun to say somewhat hard things of his colleague when one of the scouts rode up to report a mound of earth which, he said, looked very much like a grave. Before the day was out, six more such mounds had been seen by the wayside, and as most of them were marked by a cross, hastily made with a 111 couple of sticks, it was all too probable that these were the graves of white men.
The old soldier’s mind was soon made up.
“We must get double work out of our horses, boys,” he said; “there’ll be no camping to-night; I’m going to overtake General Scott.”
All sorts of possibilities suggested themselves, the most prominent of which was that they were coming to a district more thickly populated by Indians, who had been picking off Scott’s men with increasing rapidity; for the last four graves were ominously close together. Scouts were doubled and, so far from making any pretence of a stealthy march, lanterns and torches were lit, and every hiding-place hurriedly examined. The night passed without any sign of Indians; but, soon after daybreak, three or four columns of smoke were seen rising from behind a hill that lay in the line of march. Half a dozen scouts galloped forward and soon disappeared. Atkinson’s men closed up, baggage-waggons were dragged to the centre, and in a moment everyone was prepared either to charge or to repel a charge.
In less than five minutes a single horseman appeared on the top of the hill and clattered down the slope. Atkinson spurred his horse and hurried to meet the messenger—one of the six scouts.
“Well?” he shouted when he was within earshot.
“General Scott—cholera—had to give up!” was the cheering intelligence.
“Forward!” shouted Atkinson, and the company hastened over the hill, at the foot of which a pitiable state of things awaited them. Soon after the start of 112 Scott’s troops, cholera, in its most malignant form, had broken out among the party. In less than two days seven men were dead, and now the remainder had been obliged to abandon their march, for there was scarcely a trooper of them who was not more or less afflicted by the horrible malady. As some little consolation for these tidings, General Scott reported that he had dislodged a party of Sac and Fox Indians from a ravine, and that these had fled collectively towards Bad Axe River.
Leaving behind the few men that he could spare to guard and nurse the sick, Atkinson hastily drew his force to a safe distance from the cholera camp, and, after a few hours’ rest, marched for the nearest reach of the river, and along the bank, northwards.
Indian chasing does not permit of lengthy rest; the cavalry did not stop again till long after nightfall, and were off again before dawn. That afternoon, as they came to a wider strip of river, the General realised—and not for the first time—that it is the unexpected that usually happens. Barely a mile ahead, a schooner, towed by three cutters, was moving slowly northward. Atkinson galloped ahead, but before he had overtaken the vessel the men in the boats had long ceased rowing, and she was heading more towards the opposite bank.
“Who are you?” was suddenly shouted from her after-deck.
“General Atkinson. Who are you, and what are you about here? Seen any Injuns?”
“The Warrior—Captain Throckmorton.—All right, sir; I’m sending a boat ashore for you.”
This was the first that Atkinson had heard of a river expedition having been sent. He knew Captain Throckmorton as a very distinguished young officer, and a clever linguist, master of several native dialects. While he was speculating as to what had brought the schooner here, and, further, as to the meaning of a white, flag-like object which—as he looked past the vessel’s stern—he could see waving on the opposite bank, one of the cutters had pulled ashore and was waiting for him. A lieutenant met him at the gangway.
“Cap’n’s talking to the redskins. Come aft, sir, please.”
Then the waving white thing was explained; there were Indians on the far bank, seeking, under cover of the white flag, to parley with the Captain. Atkinson joined him and, as well as he was able, followed the dialogue.
“If you want to speak to me, you must send at least ten of your men aboard.”
“I have not so many with me.”
“Liar. I saw over a hundred of you a few minutes ago. Where’s your hopeful leader? Where’s Black Hawk?”
“They were but women and children whom you saw.”
“Where’s Black Hawk?”
“Are those General Atkinson’s warriors on the other bank?”
“Yes,” interrupted the old soldier explosively; “and I reckon you’ll find that out purty soon.”
“Where is Black Hawk?” once more demanded the Captain.
“He is—he is—oh, across the river.”
“Will you come aboard if I send you a boat?”
“No.”
“Then I give you fifteen minutes in which to send away your women. You know what that—Heads oh!”
A flight of arrows had greeted the Captain’s last remark. Happily no one was struck, and the schooner immediately put into mid-stream again.
Through the thick foliage on the bank, a redskin or a white feather could be seen every now and then; the muffled sound of voices could also be heard. Then another volley of arrows came; and another, and exclamations from the direction of the boats showed that two men were wounded. The captain motioned to the crews to shelter behind the vessel, but still he gave no order. He had promised a quarter of an hour’s grace, and only five minutes of that time had gone by.
“Hear that?” said Atkinson suddenly; and Throckmorton nodded. Every man on deck had heard the click-click of a score or more of gun-hammers being pulled back.
The crew looked questioningly, but not impatiently, at their captain; they knew that he would not go back from his word. There were still seven minutes to wait.
“Lie low, all hands,” said Throckmorton very quietly; and as he spoke twenty or more sparks and flashes showed through the leaves and a shower of lead flew over their heads. The man at the wheel was shot in the shoulder; but the Captain sprang back and had taken the spokes almost before the sailor fell.
“Let them go on,” he said, looking at his watch again. “Your turn will come, my lads.”
Perhaps no other men on the face of the earth, save those of British extraction, would have stood by uncomplainingly during those next five minutes without returning a shot. Every man had a loaded musket in his hand, except the two or three who were in attendance on the howitzer, ready at a second’s notice to fire. Another flight of arrows came; then one more, and the schooner’s spars and bulwarks were bristling with them.
“Two more minutes!” said Throckmorton. “Look out; they’re firing again.”
The volley came. One man fell dead, and another had his hat carried away; but still no one spoke. Captain Throckmorton beckoned a sailor to him and bade him take the wheel; and again expectant eyes were turned on him. Suddenly he returned his watch to his pocket, and everyone gave a little gasp of relief. The Captain nodded to the men at the howitzer, and instantly a shell flew among the trees; and, before the echo of the report had died away, the sailors’ muskets began an incessant fire. Indians appeared from everywhere—from tree-branches, grass, sedge, in many cases only to fall before the steady rain of bullets. Some ran north, others south, and these latter suddenly found their retreat cut off by a heavy fire from the other bank; for Colonel Dodge, whom Atkinson had left in charge, had only waited for the men on the schooner to begin firing to get his own carabineers to work.
“Where can my waggons ford it?” asked Atkinson significantly.
Captain Throckmorton soon produced a soundings-chart and showed that, at about a mile higher up, the waggons could easily cross, now that the tide was running down.
“Put me ashore, then.”
In a very few minutes the old fighting-man was in the saddle again; and, while the baggage was moved on to the ford, he and a hundred light-armed cowboys were swimming their horses across the river. The shelter from which the Indians had fired proved to be a narrow, copse-like strip which separated the river from an undulating prairie.
“There they go, General!” cried a young fellow, Captain Dixon, who rode behind the leader.
“Ay; making for the hills. I know; the same old plant. We must pretend to be taken in.—Go on, Dixon; after ’em with twenty men.”
The General knew well enough, from bygone experience, that the spot from which the score or so of redskins were fleeing was probably that at which the bulk of their army lay perdu, and that they were merely trying their old trick of getting a pursuing force between the two halves of their own. He rode steadily on, and, before he reached the hills, saw that he had not been mistaken. The fleeing Indians had suddenly wheeled and were bearing down furiously on Captain Dixon’s few men.
“Forward!” shouted Atkinson. “He can take good care of himself. We want Black Hawk.... And here he is, by the living Jingo!”
As he spoke, sixty or seventy Indians appeared at the top of the hill, four of them beautifully mounted; 117 the rest on wrecks of animals that could scarcely be matched in a Belfast job-yard.
“Fire! A hundred dollars to the man who gets Black Hawk—alive or dead,” shouted Atkinson as he drew his horse to one side.
Without drawing bridle, the troop fired and reloaded, as only men born, reared, and nourished in the saddle as these were could have done. Three of the well-mounted Indians, ignoring the volley, rode straight at the white men, and were followed more hesitatingly by the rest, with the exception of those killed, and of the fourth man, evidently—from his fantastic garb—the aged Shawnee prophet.
“Black Hawk! Black Hawk! Over with him!” roared the excited Yankees, as a splendid-looking old man, six feet four inches in height, rode fearlessly at them. Pistol-bullets whizzed round his head, but he appeared to ignore them and, swinging his war-hatchet, began to cut a way through the cowboys. His two well-horsed companions—his sons—followed closely, and in a couple of minutes six of Atkinson’s men were dead. But one glance behind him showed the chief that he was playing a losing game. General Atkinson seemed to have surrounded all the rest of the Indians with his troop, who were hewing them down right and left. Captain Dixon’s men, too, had put to flight or killed those who had turned on them, and were now coming to reinforce their comrades.
With a passionate yell of disappointment and hatred, the chief turned his horse’s head in the direction whither the prophet was already fleeing; and, with his sons, rode for some distant bluffs. It was all very 118 well for Atkinson to spur in pursuit, shouting, “After him!” The white men’s horses had been almost dead-beat before the flight began, and now could scarcely move at all; and the General was obliged to await his baggage-vans for the pitching of his camp, for at least a few hours.
But, before those few hours were ended, another party of Indians came riding into view, and, as the men sprang to their arms, one of Atkinson’s Sioux guides cried jubilantly: “They are our brothers! They are the white chief’s brothers also.”
The strangers galloped up and showed a goodly supply of fresh scalps. They had pursued and slaughtered those of Black Hawk’s warriors who could not escape with him.
“Why didn’t you catch Black Hawk?” asked Atkinson disgustedly.
“We know where he has gone to hide. What will the white chief give us for Black Hawk and his sons?”
The old man named a price, and the troop rode off again. Soon after sunrise they returned, and in their midst were Black Hawk and his sons. The old chief was sullenly silent—a broken man, in fact—and one is glad to know that these rough cowboys had it in them to treat the poor old fellow with the courtesy becoming his standing among the natives.
With his two sons and seven other braves he was taken to Fort Monroe and there imprisoned for a short time; but when the country was once more quieted, the Government appointed a fresh chief in his place and he was set at liberty. He died among his own people six years later.