THE FIRST BLOW.
It must be admitted by unprejudiced men and thinkers of all lands, that
the “Black-Hawk” war was precipitated by the rapacity of the whites. Not
satisfied with driving the Indians from the better portion of their
lands, they persisted still further in forcing them from their villages
about Rock Island. They would have been less than men if they had not
resisted, but to the last, Black-Hawk insisted that he would not be the
first to shed blood, and, as we have seen, the first man killed was one
of Black-Hawk’s band, by Stillman’s party.
This man seemed to have little knowledge of the Indian character, and
lacked the power of leading men. He had been sent out by General
Atkinson in advance, with orders to scour the country, find out the
position of the Indian force, and to act as his discretion seemed to
dictate. Captain Melton was with him, and had occasion twice to
remonstrate with him upon his manner of advancing through a country
favorable to an ambuscade. The troop consisted of two hundred and
seventy mounted men, marching without order, straggling where they
liked, and firing at any stray Indian of whatever tribe, whom they
chanced to meet.
When the flag of Black-Hawk appeared, Stillman ordered the bearers to be
taken prisoners.
“Excuse me, Major Stillman,” said Melton, as he heard the order. “Surely
you do not propose to make these men prisoners?”
“Certainly I do, sir; take your place and let me hear no more.”
“Your words will require an explanation at another time and place, my
good sir,” said Melton. “Be so good as to remember that I had no orders
to join you, and that if you insist upon such conduct, I will leave you
at once. These men came to you under the shadow of a white flag, and you
have no right to take them prisoners.”
“_Will_ you take your place, Captain Melton?” roared Stillman, “or must
I put you under arrest?”
Melton said no more, but fell back to the head of his troop, fully
determined to leave the irate major if he persisted in his conduct.
The three bearers of the flag were sent to the rear, under guard, and
the troop proceeded in the same disorderly manner. Some time after the
stragglers in advance caught sight of the warriors who had been sent out
to see what had been done with the bearers of the flag, and were
pursued, and two of them shot down without mercy, the rest escaping, by
taking to the woods in front. No sooner had he beheld this cruel and
uncalled for butchery, than the young captain of scouts called to his
men and they wheeled out of the line, faced about, and marched back
toward the river.
Stillman, boiling with rage, called his men to a halt, and rode back.
“What is the meaning of this conduct, Captain Melton?” he hissed, fairly
foaming at the mouth. “How dare you detach your command without orders?”
“If you think you have men enough in your rag-tag and bob-tail command
to stop us, you had better try it on, Major Stillman,” said Melton,
coolly. “I for one will not give countenance to _murder_, as you are
doing.”
“Murder, sir?”
“Murder is the word. Those Sacs were doing no harm who were just killed
by your men, and did not even use their weapons when your scoundrels
took after them. Go on your way, sir; I will not march a foot further
with you.”
“I will have you court-martialed, upon my return, sir,” cried Stillman.
“Very well; I shall take an opportunity to tell the court some things
not to your credit. Good-day, sir. But, for the safety of your men I
tell you to call in your stragglers, march in a more orderly manner and
beat the bushes thoroughly before you enter. Attention, scouts;
forward.”
And the compact little body rode away at a killing pace, leaving Major
Stillman to his own devices.
Stillman hesitated for some time before advancing, for he knew that the
desertion of Captain Melton was a great loss to him. While he stood in
doubt, the men who had killed two Indians came back at a gallop and
announced that the Indians were just across Sycamore creek and in some
force. All was now confusion in the white camp. Some who had dismounted
sprung into the saddle, and with wild shouts the disorderly band rushed
on, headed by the men who had just come in. Black-Hawk had not supposed
that Stillman intended to attack him, and the greater portion of his
force were on the other side of the village; in all, the great chief had
only forty men under his command when Stillman’s men came up at the
gallop, strung out across the plain, man, by man, according to the speed
of their horses, and in this manner crossed the creek. Black-Hawk had
not hoped that they would thus give themselves a prey to him, and his
ambuscade was quickly formed.
When half the party had crossed the creek and were massed in disorder
upon the bank and the rest were struggling up, some crossing the creek,
and others yet upon the plain beyond, the war-whoop of the Sacs
announced the onset, and from every side the warriors poured in upon the
foe. One withering volley was poured in, which strewed the earth with
dead and dying forms, and at the same moment the charge was made and the
knife and hatchet was doing its silent but deadly work before the doomed
men had time to lift a hand. To show the utter foolishness with which
the advance was made, it is enough to say that the warlike major was
never in the fight at all, so quickly was the force which had crossed
the creek disposed of by the furious attack of Black-Hawk.
The cry was, “Satan take the hindmost.” Hardly waiting for Stillman’s
order to retreat, they broke and fled in every direction, each man for
himself, lashing their horses to get out of the fearful imbroglio into
which their own foolhardy conduct had forced them.
Thus, in one desperate charge forty Indians had put two hundred and
seventy white men to flight! It is no discredit to the West, for the men
of Stillman’s force, under a different leader, would have laughed at the
efforts of the Sac force. They came into Dixon’s Ferry as they had left
Sycamore creek, one at a time, and the loss gradually dwindled from
seventy to about one-fourth of the number.
The alarm went forth through the land, and the little force of Sac
warriors were magnified into an army. The work had been done, however,
and a scene of blood and death was about to be enacted upon the border.
Captain Melton rode back to the settlement, after leaving Stillman, but
had not gone far when the flying men from the band of heroes began to
come up with him. Seeing that the war was begun in earnest he faced
about and prepared to meet them as best he might, knowing nothing of the
small force of Black-Hawk. After waiting all night for some sign of
Indian pursuit, as none was made he drew off his men and reached the
settlement some hours after the arrival of Stillman, who had been
filling the ears of the inhabitants with stories of the cowardly conduct
of the captain.
The captain quickly set matters right, and only that he had more
important business upon his hands, would have followed Stillman to the
camp of Atkinson, to which he had directed his steps. Taking ten of his
men, he rode up the river, to the residence of Mr. Wescott, but as he
drew near, he found evidences upon every hand of the presence of the
destroyer, and as he crossed the hill, saw, to his horror, that during
the last night the cabin had been attacked. Wild with fear, he rushed in
at the broken door and found every thing in confusion, and scattered
here and there, various bits of Indian finery, beads and the like, which
told him beyond a doubt who had done the work.
“Indians,” said one of the men. “Good heaven, captain, they are killed!”
They explored the house everywhere, but not a trace of the family could
be seen. Upon the floor near the entrance was a little pool of fresh
blood, which looked as if it had been shed the night before, and Melton
looked at it with a shudder.
“Where are they?” he groaned. “Who has done this ruin?”
“It is always so in an Indian war,” said his lieutenant. “Some band of
Indians coming up to join Black-Hawk, have rushed in on them, before
they had time to fire a shot.”
“Somebody has been hurt,” said Melton. “Ha! what have you got there,
Chris?”
One of the men came forward, holding in his hand a heavy knife, with
about three inches broken from the point. Upon the hilt of the weapon,
rudely engraved, was the name, “R. Garrett.”
“Dick Garrett has been here, then,” said Melton, turning pale; “and if
he has taken Sadie Wescott, it is done for Black Will. Oh! heaven, what
shall we do?”
“Hold on,” said a feeble voice from beneath their feet. “Help me out of
this and I’ll let ye know.”
“Some one is in the cellar,” said Melton. “Up with the trap and let him
out.”
The trap-door was opened, and Cooney Joe, bleeding and ghastly, appeared
at the foot of the ladder. A dozen hands were extended to help him up,
and he was seated upon one of the stools, gasping for breath.
“What is this, Joe?” said Melton. “Speak, man; don’t you see that I am
in torture until I know the worst?”
“The worst is, that a party of red niggers, headed by Dick Garrett, made
a rush at us last night, and took Mr. Wescott and the gal prisoners. I
had a tussle with Dick Garrett, and one of them cussid reds hit me over
the head with a hatchet, and I fell into the cellar. I do’no’ what drove
’em off, but they did not come down to raise my wool, and I’ve been too
weak to git out without help.”
“You don’t know which way they went?”
“Don’t I tell ye they knocked the life clean out of me, the fust crack?
I didn’t fairly git my senses back till I heerd ye talking. ’Tain’t
above two hours sence they left.”
“How many had Dick Garrett under him?”
“Mebbe twenty, the ugliest-lookin’ lot of whites painted red you ever
sot yer livin’ eyes on. I’ll be bu’sted ef they wouldn’t spile a
lookin’-glass by jest peekin’ into it; darned lot of ruffi’ns!”
“We must follow them,” hissed Melton, through his set teeth. “I’ll have
the girl out of their hands, if I have to follow them into Black-Hawk’s
village.”
“See here; Black-Hawk do’no’ nothin’ ’bout it. The pizen cusses took his
darter with ’em, but she sp’iled one chap, sure as you live. He got an
arrer clean through him.”
“She is a brave girl, Joe. Oh, how sorry I am that you are hurt.”
“Hold hard; you ain’t goin’ without me, you know. One of your chaps wash
out this cut, and put some plaster on it, and we’ll make it do. I’m
goin’, you bet.”
“I fear you are not strong enough.”
“You be grannied! You see I’ve got a sort of snickering notion after
that there Injin gal, and I’ll be blowed if I don’t help her.”
In his border life Melton had picked up a slight knowledge of surgery,
and he washed and dressed the wound as well as the limited conveniences
at his disposal would admit. Having done so, Cooney Joe rose up, though
somewhat “weak and staggering,” to use his own expression, and was ready
to “fight or run,” as circumstances might require.
“Now see here, cripples,” he said. “That carroty-headed son of a gun,
Dick Garrett, is a whole boss-team, you bet ye. He’ll fight—he will—till
the teeth meet in the flesh. Oh, you bet he is on it, now. He kin shoot,
and when we foller him, we ain’t tracking Sacs, so look out for
thunder.”
“And he is in league with Black Will, and that scoundrel has a hundred
ruffians at his beck and call,” said Melton. “We never should have had
any trouble with the Indians but for men of his kidney.”
“Now fur trailing,” said Cooney Joe. “Stand one side, you critters, and
let the old man work! I’ve got a mark that can’t be beat, fur Dick wears
the biggest moccasin of any man in the Nor’-west. Look around mighty
spry, and when you find a track like a young canoe, that’s Dick
Garrett’s hoof.”
The trail was quickly found, and led to the northward. They followed it
swiftly, Cooney Joe bending slightly in the saddle, and keeping his eyes
on the trail, while the rest followed, keeping far enough behind not to
disturb the trail. After a march of nearly two miles, the track suddenly
ended upon the bank of the Father of Waters, and they knew that the
scoundrels had taken to the stream.
“Now ain’t this cussid mean; ain’t it enuff to make a man raise his hand
against his venerable ancestor?” roared Joe. “They’ve took water, they
hev. Here; send back two men with the hosses, fur we’ve got to hoof it.”
This plan was adopted, and two of the men returned with the horses,
while the rest searched about among the reeds, and after some trouble
found two rude dug-outs concealed, in which, by making two trips, they
crossed the great stream. Here they scattered and searched up and down
for the trail which they had lost, still guided by the ponderous hoof of
Dick Garrett.
“Oh, _ain’t_ he pizen, that Dick!” growled Cooney Joe. “Its just his
nat’ral cussedness, you know. He’s aweer that I like to ride, and he
jest done this to be mean. Comes nat’ral to him, meanness does. Here you
are; come on, boys!”
He had taken up the recovered trail as if no interruption had occurred,
and the party moved on across the plain. They were tried men, who had
followed Captain Melton in many an hour of danger, but even their hearts
gave a great leap as they plunged into the Indian country, perhaps never
to return.