Thus the campaign of Pontiac, prosecuted with such swiftness and such success, bade fair to end in triumph. “We hate the English,” the Indians sent word to the French on the Mississippi, “and wish to kill them. We are all united: the war is our war, and we will continue it for seven years. The English shall never come into the West!”
But Fort Detroit and Fort Pitt stood firm. For months Pontiac beleaguered the northern fortress, gaining advantages whenever the garrison attacked him, but unable to reduce the fort. All summer long the eyes of the world were upon Detroit; and the gallant defense of Fort Pitt, was, comparatively, forgotten. But the maintenance of this strategic point was of incalculable importance to the West. The garrison felt this. And here, if anywhere, was courage shown in battle. Here, if ever, brave men faced fearful odds with unshaken courage worthy of their Saxon blood.
In planning his campaign Pontiac delegated the Shawanese and Delawares to carry Fort Pitt. If they could not do it he might be assured that the position was impregnable. They were his most reliable warriors, and, once given the task of carrying out the second most important coup of their great leader’s plan, could be trusted to use any alternative savage lust could suggest, or trick savage cunning could invent in order to accomplish their portion of the terrible conquest of the West. The defense of Detroit was brave; but Detroit was on the great water highway east and west. Succor was possible, in fact probable, in time; if not, there was a way of escape. At Fort Pitt could either be expected? The only approach to it was this indifferent roadway hewn westward from Bedford in 1758. Moreover the fort had never been completed. On three sides the flood tides of the rivers had injured it. Ecuyer, its valiant defender, threw up a rough rampart of logs and palisaded the interior. And in this fragile fortress, hardly worthy of the name, behind which lay the darkling Alleghenies and about which loomed the Black Forest, were gathered some six hundred souls, a larger community, probably, than the total population of Detroit. And around on every side were gathered the lines of ochred warriors preparing for another charge even to the very blood-bespattered walls. The garrison might well have believed itself beyond the reach of succor, if indeed succor could avail before need of it had vanished. The bones of Braddock’s seven hundred slain lay scattered about the forests only seven miles away. Could another army come again? Little wonder that the Shawanese and Delawares were already flushed with victory as they renewed their unavailing attacks.
The task of relieving Fort Pitt was placed upon the tried shoulders of Colonel Henry Bouquet, whose brilliant services in Forbes’s campaign have been fully described. Amherst, then commanding in America, sent him the remains of the Forty-second and Seventy-seventh regiments, which amounted to the pitiful total of three hundred and forty-seven men and officers; concerning additional troops Amherst was painfully plain: “Should the whole race of Indians take arms against us I can do no more.” Recruits joined the army as it moved along through Lancaster and Carlisle, which augmented the force slightly.
But the brave Bouquet, with an army not exceeding five hundred men, set out westward from Bedford on the rough road he himself had made with the vanguard of the “Head of Iron” five years before. The appalling condition in which he found the country along the border would have daunted a less bold man. Every fort from Lake Erie to the Ohio had been razed to the ground. The whole country was panic-stricken. Houses were left vacant or burned, together with crops, and the mountain roads were blocked with fugitives, half famished, who threw themselves upon the intrepid Bouquet at his camps. It was indeed a trying time, a time for such a man as Bouquet to show himself.
Never did the success of a campaign in the history of war depend more on the sagacity, bravery, and personal knowledge of a single commanding officer. This daring Swiss was everywhere and everything. He knew that the enemy, though they retired before him even as he approached Fort Ligonier, were watching every movement of the coming army. He knew they were cognizant of his weakness, the debility of his men, the lack of provision, the paucity of scouts and spies. He knew, and so did the silent, lurking spies of the enemy, that Braddock’s slain outnumbered his whole force.
But Ligonier—named by Bouquet himself from a warrior whose bravery was now his inspiration—was not a place to pause, though just beyond lay the death-trap where Aubrey had defeated the ill-fated Grant five years before. On he went. As the inevitable battle-ground was neared Bouquet redoubled his watchfulness. When a darker defile than usual was reached, with a rifle across his lap, the commander went forward and himself led the army’s van into it.
On the morning of the fifth of August tents were struck early and another day’s march commenced. Over broken country enveloped in forests the army went its way. By one o’clock they had made seventeen miles and were not less than half a mile from Bushy Run, their proposed camping place. Suddenly was heard the report of rifle fire in front. As the main army listened the noise quickened to a sharp rattle—and the decisive battle of Bushy Run was commenced.
The two foremost companies were ordered forward to support the vanguard now hotly engaged. This causing no abatement, the convoy was halted and a general charge formed. By an onward rush, with fixed bayonets, Bouquet and his eager men cleared the field. But firing on the right and left and in the rear announced that both flanks and the convoy were simultaneously attacked. An order was given to fall back. This having been executed, an unbroken circle was formed about the terrified horses.
Though in number the combatants were nearly equal, the savages had all the advantage of a superior force fighting under cover. Bouquet’s army, like Braddock’s, was in the open. With furious cries accompanied by a heavy fire, the Indians attempted to break the iron circle. And they fought with sly cunning. Not waiting to receive the answering attacks, they leaped behind the nearest trees, only to come back to the attack with increased ferocity from another quarter. The English suffered severely while the active Indians, under cover, were almost untouched. Nothing but implicit confidence in Bouquet could have inspired this little army with the steadiness it displayed. No one lost composure. Each man knew they could not retreat or advance—fight they must and fight they surely did.