“Ugh! Duke him here at right time!” grunted Bright Wing, as he rammed home another charge.
The ends of the broken line swung into place—and still the battle raged.
The rain ceased to fall; the sky began to clear. Darkness gave place to dawn. The commander ordered a charge all along the lines. Inch by inch the savages gave way—in spite of the bravery of their chiefs, and the inspiration of Tenskwatawa’s war-song. At last they could stand the cold steel of the bayonets no longer. They broke and fled. Down the slope and across the boggy prairie, toward their town, they hastened, carrying many of their dead and wounded with them. Victory had perched upon Harrison’s banner; and the palefaces had won the battle of Tippecanoe.
The victorious troops pursued the fleeing savages, until the yielding surface of the wet prairie compelled the mounted riflemen to halt. Then the whole force returned to camp. The whites had lost one hundred and eighty in killed and wounded; the Indians, probably, had lost an equal number.
At sunrise squads of soldiers were engaged in burying the dead and carrying the wounded to the surgeon’s quarters. Joe Farley was on the detail. At the southwestern angle of the camp, he came upon the body of a tall and lank militiaman. The man lay upon his side—a contorted, blood-stained heap. His head rested upon his arm, and his face was partially concealed. Supposing that the poor fellow was dead, Farley caught him by the shoulder, to turn him over. The dying man moaned feebly. Bending over him, Joe said tenderly:
“I didn’t mean to be rough, friend, I thought you was—was—are you hurt bad?”
The blue lips moved—and these words were breathed into Farley’s face:
“I left my children in ol’ Kaintuck,
In the cabin with the’r mother;