The fires were stamped out, leaving the camp in darkness. Pandemonium broke loose. The rattle of discharging rifles grew to a roar. The redmen’s war-whoops were answered by yells. The castanet-like click of rattling strings of deer-hoofs mingled with the muttering roll of drums and the piercing peals of bugles. Terrified oxen lowed and bellowed; frightened pack and draught horses neighed shrilly as they broke their tethers, and ran madly about the camp. Officers—pistol in hand—rode along the lines, encouraging their men to stand firm.
The impetuosity of the savages—born of ignorance and fanaticism—was a fair match for the cool valor of the whites. Neither party would give ground. The battle spread until it raged fiercely upon three sides of the camp. The Indians forgot their ancient tactics and boldly fought in the open. They met the soldiers face to face—and madly charged the lines of bayonets. Again and again the opposing forces came together with a reeling shock. Blood drenched the dead grass. Curses and groans commingled; and over all rose the weird voice of Tenskwatawa—upon an eminence a short distance away—chanting his war-song.
Major Daviess and Colonel White fell mortally wounded. Captain Spencer and his lieutenants were all dead; and Captain Warwick was dying. Colonel Owen dropped at the governor’s side. He was mounted upon a white horse at the time; and as Harrison had ridden a white horse on the previous day, undoubtedly the Indians mistook the aide for the commander. Dead and dying braves and soldiers lay thick upon the hotly contested field.
During the battle Harrison spurred from one part of the camp to another, disposing his troops to the best advantage. His officers begged him not to expose himself, but he persisted in being where the fire was hottest. His courage and coolness did much to hold the men steady under the deadly fusillade in the darkness. One ball pierced his hat rim and another cut a lock of hair from his temple—but still he rode unharmed through the scathing fire. Seeing an ensign—a Frenchman—sheltering himself behind a tree, the governor cried, angrily:
“Out from behind that tree, you cowardly rascal!”
“Me not behind ze tree,” explained the ensign; “ze tree in front of me. Zere, ze tree—here, my position. What can I do, governor?”
With a laugh Harrison rode on and left the fellow.
A Winnebago broke through the lines of militia and dropped dead within the camp. A tall militiaman sprang forward to scalp the prostrate savage—but received a death-wound.
“Served him right!” snarled Joe Farley, who was loading and firing with the rapidity and precision of a piece of machinery. “Tryin’ to make an Injin of hisself—the heathen!”
The left flank began to give way before the desperate and persistent foe. Ross Douglas and Bright Wing were fighting side by side, in that quarter. A half-dozen warriors sprang through the broken lines, brandishing their arms and yelling fiendishly. Four of them fell dead in their tracks. Douglas and his comrade engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with the other two. The Wyandot quickly dispatched his opponent, but Ross was not so fortunate. His foot slipped upon the blood-soaked sod, and he fell prostrate. His savage foe, with raised tomahawk, was upon him. The young scout closed his eyes, expecting death. But the next moment the Indian lay gasping for breath, with Duke’s keen fangs buried in his throat.