But now the army of invasion neared the Miami settlements, where the redskins were making busy preparation to give the Americans a warm reception. They had met in a grand war council, at which the plan of attack had been decided upon, and various tribes had been given positions in the line. Little Turtle was to be Commander-in-Chief, so he made a rousing speech, telling the Indians to fight to the last ditch, to attack the militia in preference to the regular troops, and to rush the enemy in such masses that they would be overwhelmed. An ambuscade was decided upon where the ground was most favorable to the savages, and here Little Turtle pointed out the proper positions which he wished the various warlike bands to assume. The intelligent Miami chief was not to take any position in the line of battle, but was to direct the operations from the rear, like a white general, and thus the Indians displayed more foresight than usual; foresight which was to tell with tremendous effect upon the illy disciplined frontier detachments under St. Clair.
On November 3rd, the army of invasion camped upon the eastern fork of the Wabash River, upon a narrow hillock, where the troops were somewhat crowded together, with the artillery and cavalrymen in the centre. Around them was boggy, swampy ground, while all about the wintry woods in frozen silence gave no warning of the savage foe, lurking beneath the underbrush in vindictive anger.
The militiamen were marched well to the front, nearly a quarter of a mile beyond the rest of the troops, and there went into camp, while several bands of savages seen in the gloomy woods made them fully aware that they were in touch with the foe.
At sunrise, next morning, the soldiers were up and doing, and, as they were dismissed from parade, St. Clair sent orders that some entrenchments should be thrown up before they marched against the Miami towns, which he knew to be not far distant. Just as these orders reached the commander of this advance guard, a blood-curdling yell sounded from the woodland in front. Another and another followed, and then a volley of musketry flashed from the dense underbrush. A second volley followed the first, the militiamen could see no foe, while many of their comrades were soon writhing upon the ground in mortal agony. Some endeavored to fight, but the majority, terrified by the sudden and unexpected onslaught, turned and rushed in a wild panic back to the camp of the regulars. In vain the officers tried to stop the retreat; the men dashed past them like cowards, and precipitating themselves among the regular troops, spread dismay and confusion among them. The veterans sprang to arms, while the drums rolled the call to quarters. As the painted braves came bounding through the underbrush, they were met with a crashing volley from the old campaigners, which halted their mad career. They stopped, crouched down behind the brush and fallen timber, and soon surrounded the camp on all sides. The pickets were either killed or driven in upon the centre; while wild yells, cries of defiance, and savage catcalls issued from the followers of Little Turtle.
But now the battle was on in earnest, and the Indians ceased their cries to creep from log to log, from tree to tree, and closer to the American line. The deep boom of the cannon reverberated through the forest, as the regulars turned their pieces against the foe. The soldiers foolishly stood in close order, and, as they were in the open, they were a shining mark for the balls of the Indians. Men fell dead and wounded upon every side; the lines began to waver and break, while St. Clair and Butler walked behind their men, urging them to be cool, and to hold their own without flinching. St. Clair's blanket, coat and leggins were pierced by eight bullets; a lock of his gray hair was clipped off by a ball; yet he came through the battle unscathed. Butler had less good fortune. His arm was broken by a leaden missile; another struck him in the side, so that he had to be carried to the centre of the line. Here, propped up upon knapsacks, he directed the fighting with grim good humor until, in one of the Indian charges, a painted warrior broke through the American line and buried his tomahawk in his brain.
The cannon kept up their fire, but the savages turned their unerring rifles upon the gunners, and soon had killed nearly every one of them. When they saw the men lying upon the ground, they took courage, and with a wild yelping made a charge from the woodland in the endeavor to capture the pieces. But now the Americans could see the skulking foe, and with bayonets fixed, made a dash into the oncoming horde of painted braves. The Indians did not wait to receive the blow, but, turning about, scurried helter-skelter to the protection of the forest, into which the victorious rangers ran in great enthusiasm. This was shortlived, for the redskins quickly surrounded them in the rear, poured in a galling fire from behind the protection of stumps and logs, and, before they could get back to their own line, had killed one-half of those who had charged them. One detachment rushed across the Wabash in pursuit of the Indians, and, before the men returned to the American line, nearly all had been slaughtered. The dead were lying about in heaps; the tomahawks of the Indians dispatched every man who was breathing; while, as one of the packers has written in his memoirs, "the bleeding heads of the scalped artillerymen and rangers looked like pumpkins in a December cornfield on the farm in Pennsylvania."
The fight had now lasted all day, and the American army had begun to realize that it was impossible to defeat the bloodthirsty followers of Little Turtle, who, emboldened by the disorganization in the ranks of the white men, now pushed in upon them from every quarter. It was five o'clock in the evening when the ranks began to give away. The camp and artillery were abandoned. Most of the militia threw away their arms and accoutrements. St. Clair in vain endeavored to stem the torrent of the rout. Horses, soldiers, and the few camp followers and women who had accompanied the army were all mixed together in a confusion of panic-stricken uselessness. But out of the rabble St. Clair managed to get enough men together to charge the savages, who held the roadway in the rear, to push them aside, and make room for the torrent of fugitives who now ran for their lives towards Fort Jefferson. The troops pressed on like a drove of bullocks. They stampeded; they fled ignominiously; while in their rear the wild wail of jubilation from the victorious red men sounded harshly from the dark background of the frozen forest. St. Clair, like Braddock, had been overwhelmingly repulsed.
From the moment of retreat until sunset the yelping redskins followed the panic-stricken Americans. Thirty-eight officers and five hundred and ninety-three men were slain or missing, while twenty-one officers and two hundred and forty-two men were wounded, many of whom died soon afterwards, so that practically two-thirds of the entire force of fourteen hundred were either lost or disabled. What a terrible defeat! What a humiliating blow! And all through the sagacity and ability of Little Turtle, Chief of the Miamis, the man with a red skin who organized and led an Indian army in a manner equal to the best of white leaders. Fortunate, indeed, was it that the Indians stopped to plunder the camp of the Americans, for, had they kept on, it is probable that only a few stragglers would have lived to tell the tale of the awful butchery. "Five hundred skull bones lay in the space of three hundred and fifty yards," said an American general, who visited the battle ground not many months after the defeat. "From thence, five miles on, the woods were strewn with skeletons, muskets, broken wagons, knapsacks and other debris." The loss to Little Turtle's men has never been ascertained, but it is certain that his dead and missing were not proportionate to those of St. Clair.
At Fort Jefferson the most severely wounded were left, while the rest of the troops, in fear and utter disorganization, hurried forward to Fort Washington and the log huts of Cincinnati. Here they huddled in security, cursing their ill fortune, their losses, and the Indians. An American officer who ran into a party of thirty braves near the battle ground a day or two after the defeat (and who was held by them until he persuaded them that he was an Englishman from Canada), was told that the troops under Little Turtle numbered but fifteen hundred, and that the number of killed was fifty-six. One of these warriors dangled one hundred and twenty-seven American scalps on a pole before his eyes, while they had three pack horses laden with as much wine and kegs of brandy as could be strapped to their backs. The savages were all much emboldened by their great victory, and numerous raids upon the border showed that they were more unfriendly to the whites than ever.