In the latter part of April, 1813, General Harrison, commander-in-chief
of the Western troops, was at Fort Meigs, upon the Maumee.
War between the United States and Great Britain had been declared
in June, 1812. In July, Fort Mackinaw had fallen into the hands of
the English; in August, Hull had basely surrendered at Detroit,
and the Americans had met defeat at the River Raisin. In the early
autumn—September—the Prophet’s braves had laid siege to Forts Wayne and
Harrison, but had been unsuccessful at both places. Thus had closed the
year.
In the early part of 1813, the Western campaign had opened in earnest. In
January, General Winchester had been defeated and captured at Frenchtown.
Immediately following this battle—or massacre, rather—General Harrison
had moved forward to the rapids of the Maumee, and begun the construction
of Fort Meigs. Here he had assembled all the troops at his disposal,
intending to recover the ground lost through Hull’s cowardice and
Winchester’s incapacity. But the weather had continued unfavorable; and
the commander had returned to the interior of the state, with the view
of raising re-enforcements. Hardly had he set to work, however, when
he received word that a large force of the enemy was marching to attack
the garrison upon the Maumee. The general had returned with all possible
expedition, arriving at the fort on the twentieth of April.
Fort Meigs—so named in honor of the illustrious governor of Ohio—was
situated upon the south bank of the Maumee, at the foot of the rapids.
It stood upon high ground, about sixty feet above the surface of the
river; and its walls of earth and heavy timbers inclosed nearly ten
acres. In outline it resembled an irregular “D”—the curved portion of
the letter facing the stream. At each of the angles of the outer wall,
was a strong blockhouse; and traverses of earth were thrown up inside of
the inclosure, to protect the occupants from the shells of an attacking
army. The fort was a depot of stores of all kinds, for the approaching
campaign; and at the time of General Harrison’s return from the interior
was garrisoned by about five hundred men—regulars and volunteers.
After his arrival, on the twentieth of April, the commander kept patrols
out, watching for the enemy. On the twenty-sixth, he was apprised that
the advance guard was approaching. A few hours later, a number of white
men and Indians appeared on the opposite shore, and coolly and critically
inspected the fortification. On the twenty-seventh, a party of savages
crossed to the south side of the stream, and annoyed the garrison with
a desultory rifle-fire. But little damage was done; and the general
and his men feverishly awaited the appearance of the main body of the
enemy—which they knew was not far away.
The morning of the twenty-eighth was clear, and gave promise of a
beautiful day. But the wind sweeping up from the lake was raw and chill.
The soldiers within the fort were astir at an early hour. To their
unbounded surprise, they could discover nothing of their enemies of
the day before. Some of the officers and men were of the opinion that
the Indians, discouraged by their ill-success, had gone to meet their
brethren and allies and inform them the place could not be taken. But
General Harrison did not harbor such belief. On the contrary, he felt
that the withdrawal of the small band of savages portended a systematic
attack by a large force—an attack he was not well able to withstand.
So he sent Captain Hamilton and a squad of men down the river, on a
reconnoitering expedition. Then drawing his cloak around his shoulders,
and restlessly pacing up and down the inclosure, he inwardly condemned
the niggardly and dilatory policy of the government, and prayed that
re-enforcements might arrive in time to save him from an ignominious
surrender.
His face wore an anxious and worried expression; but his thin lips were
firmly set, his keen eyes shone with the fire of an indomitable purpose.
The soldiers—every one of whom loved him and had unbounded confidence
in him—looking upon him, knew that no white flag would float over Fort
Meigs, as long as there was a man left to load and fire a gun. And each
one of them—from the highest officer to the meanest subaltern—resolved to
die like a hero.
Near one of the blockhouses at the eastern extremity of the fort, stood a
white man and an Indian. The former was slightly past middle age, tall,
stooped, and ungainly. The latter was much younger, lithe, strong, and
straight as an arrow. For some time they stood silently watching the
commander, as he paced to and fro. At last the white man blew his long
nose vigorously, wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his horny
hand, and, screwing his homely features into a comical grimace, said in a
drawling tone:
“Injin, the sight o’ the ol’ Gener’l makes me sad—makes me think o’ him
that’s dead an’ gone.”
“Ugh!” his red companion grunted stolidly. But the copper-colored face
twitched; the bare and brawny chest heaved.
“Yes,” the speaker continued, “the sight o’ General Harrison calls
up things I wish I could fergit—it does, by cracky! Gol-fer-socks! I
can’t fergit ’em—not if I lived to be as old as Methusaler,—’r was it
Nebbycaneezer? I’m a little rusty on Scriptur’, an’ liable to git mixed,
somehow. But, pshaw! The past is gone—an’ gone ferever. The comrade we
both loved is dead. Didn’t we see him shot through the heart? No—come to
think of it—he wasn’t shot through the heart; ’cause he was shot in the
right side—an’ the heart’s on the _left_ side, in _most_ human critters.
But he was dead, anyhow—killed by the danged Winnebagoes!”
Again the speaker paused long enough to blow his nose and wipe his watery
eyes. Then he resumed in the same mournful, sing-song voice:
“Though I seen him dyin’ with my own eyes, Injin, sometimes I find myself
thinkin’ he’s still alive—I do, by Matildy Jane! I’ve dream’d o’ him
nights so much, it ’pears to me he _can’t_ be dead. But, of course, he
_is_. ’Cause why? We left him dyin’. Well, it don’t do no good to grieve.
But ther’s one thing I’d like to know right smart—an’ that’s what become
o’ the dog.”
“Ugh!” ejaculated the Indian, nodding. “Me heap like know where hound.
Much good dog—sight big brave.”
The white man went on:
“An’ dang-it-all-to-dingnation! Here we are—jest got back from eighteen
months o’ traipsin’ from one Winnebago town to another, all over God’s
creation, all over the Northwest—an’ we’re right plump into another
hornets’ nest. Talk ’bout jumpin’ out o’ the fryin’ pan into the fire!
We’ve jumped out o’ ice water into b’ilin’ oil. Here we’ve been drug
’round fer a year an’ a half, beat and starved an’ cuffed every day in
the week—an’ give a double dose on Sundays. My heart’s been in my mouth
so much, I’ve chawed off one end of it an’ spit it out with my tobacker—I
have, by my gran’father’s barn-door britches! An’ now we’ve made our
escape at last—got half-way back from p’rdition to glory—we’re in another
peck o’ trouble.
“As near as I can learn from the talk that’s goin’ on ’mong
the soldiers, Gener’l Proctor an’ Tecumseh’s comin’ to attack
this place—with not less’n three thousan’ white an’ red devils.
Three thousan’ to five hundred! A purty pickle—I swear! W’y,
hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it! They’ll eat us up without salt
’r pepper! ’Cause Ol’ Tippecanoe’ll never surrender—he don’t know _how_.
He’s jest like ol’ Mad Anthony—they say he trained under that ol’ war
hoss—an’ he’ll fight as long as he’s got an ounce of lead left, an’ a
flintlock to shoot it in. Look at him now, Bright Wing. He’s ev’ry inch a
soldier, ain’t he?”
“Ugh!” the imperturbable Wyandot assented. “Tippecanoe him heap sight
brave. Him kill many bad Shawnees, Winnebagoes, Pottawatomies. Him fight
till me, you—all dead.”
“Well,” Farley groaned resignedly, “I s’pose we can stand it, if the rest
of ’em can. But the good Lord knows we’ve stood ’bout enough! Dodrot it!
Sometimes I think the Lord has sent all my latter trials an’ tribulations
upon me, fer growlin’ ’bout whackin’ them bulls from Fort Harrison to
the Prophet’s Town—I do, by flapjacks! An’ then ag’in I git to thinkin’
my punishment is jest the natur’l result o’ the heartless way I’ve used
the women folks. W’y, Injin, I used to be a reg’lar heart-breaker. I
didn’t have no mercy on the unfortunates that bowed down an’ worshiped
my beautiful face an’ form. I was a reg’lar Apoller in them days, I
was—purty as a pictur’. But look at me now! Whackin’ bulls an’ sufferin’
Injin torment has jest ’bout ruined me. Where’s my purty hair, eh? An’
look at this nose, an’ these ears, an’ this face! Injin, my beauty’s
suffered a blightin’ frost—it has, by my gran’mother’s petticoat! W’y,
ding-it-all-to-dangnation! A few more hard knocks, an’ I won’t look no
better’n the average man—I won’t, by ginger! An’ to think that an Injin
squaw—the oldest an’ ugliest one in the whole Winnebago tribe—follered
an’ tagged me from Dan to Barsheber! Follered an’ tagged me till I
couldn’t eat n’r sleep—an’ the frogs inside o’ me jest natur’ly got
disgusted an’ quit business. It was awful—awful! Injin, clap y’r eyes
upon me an’ tell me what I’ve done to deserve such a fate.”
And Joe solemnly lifted his well-worn coonskin cap and faced his
companion.
Bright Wing looked upon his loquacious and whimsical friend and smiled,
while his beady eyes twinkled; but he said nothing.
Farley was indeed a comical object. His clothing hung in tatters upon
his angular form; his toes peeped from his cowhide shoes. During his
captivity, the Winnebagoes had essayed the hapless task of making an
Indian of him. They had plucked out his scant hair, leaving his scalp
bare and shiny—excepting a straw-colored tuft at the crown. They had
pierced his nose and ears, and ornamented those necessary appendages
with large shell rings. And, to complete the fantastic whole, had
tattooed the totem of the clan, whose prisoner he was, in blue ink upon
his forehead. He was a sight to excite mirth and commiseration at the
same time.
“Well, what do you think o’ my looks, anyhow?” he asked, when Bright Wing
had finished his silent inspection and was looking toward a distant part
of the inclosure.
“Joe him very much pretty—heap nice sight,” the Wyandot chuckled
gutturally. “Him Winnebago now—big chief.”
“That’s it—that’s it!” Farley moaned lugubriously. “I knowed it—my
beauty’s gone ferever! I’ll never dare to peep in a lookin’-glass
ag’in—the shock ’ld be too much fer my delicate constertution to bear. By
King David’s cross-eyed wives! But my punishment’s too great fer mortal
man to stand! Drivin’ oxen an’ bein’ the human habitation of a colony
o’ frogs wan’t enough; the Winnebagoes had to have a whack at me. An’
they’ve finished the job——”
Then, with sudden animation:
“But what’re you lookin’ at, Injin?”
Bright Wing silently pointed toward the commander’s quarters on the
southern side of the inclosure. General Harrison was just entering the
door of his tent, and, hurrying toward it, were an officer and a number
of soldiers.
“That’s Cap’n Hamilton an’ his squad,” Joe cried excitedly. “They’ve jest
got back from the’r scoutin’ trip down the river. Now we’ll know what’s
comin’. Le’s mosey out that way.”
Captain Hamilton, leaving his men outside, entered the commander’s tent
and stood at attention.
“Well, Captain,” Harrison remarked calmly, “you’re back soon. What’s your
report?”
The inferior officer saluted and replied:
“Three miles down the river we came upon the main body of the enemy,
rapidly advancing in this direction.”
“Who’s in command?”
“General Proctor.”
“And Tecumseh commands the savages?”
“He does, General.”
“Is their force as large as reported?”
“I judge from what I saw that they have a force of fully three thousand
men—British regulars, Canadian militia, and Indians.”
“Are they well supplied with heavy artillery?”
“I think they are, General. At any rate, they have some heavy pieces.”
“Is that all you were able to learn?”
“It is, General.”
“The enemy will be here in a few hours at the most,” Harrison remarked.
“They mean to invest us—to storm us, if necessary. Their force is six
times that of ours. But we must repulse them. To surrender means to lose
all for which we have planned and fought—and to court death at the hands
of the savages. If General Clay and his Kentuckians were only here——”
Then with fiery energy:
“But we must bestir ourselves. Captain, go and give the order that the
gates be tightly closed at once—after a supply of water, sufficient to
last several days, has been brought from the river.”
The captain saluted and withdrew. Turning to an orderly standing near the
door, the commander said briskly:
“Find the field commissary, Captain William Oliver, and send him here.”
A few minutes later Captain Oliver put in an appearance. He was young and
beardless, but strong, active, and courageous.
By this time, a number of officers had gathered at the commander’s
quarters and were holding animated conference with him. All looked up
at the young Captain’s entrance. Harrison broke off in the middle of a
sentence and, advancing, took the newcomer’s hand.
“Captain Oliver,” he said solemnly, “you know the strait in which we’re
placed. If re-enforcements don’t arrive within a few days this place,
with all its stores, will inevitably fall into the hands of the British.
Such an event would be an incalculable disaster. It mustn’t happen.
But we must have help. General Green Clay is on his way hither, with a
regiment of Kentucky militia. I have received word that he’s coming by
way of the Auglaize. At the present time he must be near Fort Winchester.
I’ve decided to send a dispatch to him, apprising him of the condition
of affairs and urging him to hasten to our aid; and I’ve chosen you to
perform the perilous mission. Your brother officers approve my plan—and
my choice of messenger. Are you willing to venture upon the hazardous
undertaking, Captain Oliver?”
The assembled officers craned their necks, and listened breathlessly for
the young commissary’s reply. It was not long in coming. Firm and clear
his voice rang out:
“I’ll go, General—willingly and gladly. I’ll deliver your dispatch into
General Clay’s hands—or die on the way.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Harrison murmured, his voice soft with emotion.
Then quickly:
“How soon can you start?”
“At once, General.”
“Very well—the sooner the better. You should be beyond reach of our
enemies before they invest the fort. Make your preparations and return in
a half hour. I’ll have the dispatch ready for you. By the way, how many
men do you want?”
“One, General—a guide.”
“Hadn’t you better take a score?”
“They’d be of no use to me, General—and you need them here,” was the firm
reply.
“True,” the commander returned reflectively. “Well, come back in half an
hour. I’ll have everything in readiness.”
Captain Oliver bowed and withdrew. Just outside of the tent he
encountered Farley, Bright Wing, and a number of soldiers. Awkwardly
lifting his cap, the whimsical Joe stepped forward and asked:
“Are we goin’ to have a brush with the Britishers an’ redskins, Cap’n?”
“More than a brush, I imagine,” answered the commissary, edging his way
through the crowd.
“An’ what’re we goin’ to do?” Farley inquired.
“Fight,” was the curt response.
Joe was nettled.
“Any fool’d know that,” he muttered; “’specially if he’d been in the
fight o’ Tippecanoe with the ol’ Gener’l——”
Captain Oliver stopped suddenly and, wheeling around, interrupted:
“You were with General Harrison at Tippecanoe, my friend?”
“I was,” Farley answered proudly. “Me an’ Bright Wing, here, was both
there.”
“From your dress and general appearance, I judge you are a woodman—a
hunter.”
“I am—what ther’ is left o’ me, which ain’t very much sence the danged
Winnebagoes sp’iled my beauty.”
“You’ve been a prisoner among the Indians?”
“Yes—both of us, ever sence the battle o’ Tippecanoe. We jest
escaped—jest got in here yisterday.”
“Does the commander know you?”
“He used to—but I don’t s’pose he would now. The danged Winnebagoes——”
Captain Oliver impatiently interrupted:
“I’m going on a journey. Would you and your red friend like to accompany
me?”
“That d’pends,” was the cautious reply. “If it’s toward the Winnebago
country——”
“Please step this way,” said the Captain, plucking Joe’s ragged sleeve.
When they were beyond earshot of the others, the officer explained:
“I’m going on a perilous mission. I want someone to accompany me as
guide—someone acquainted with the woods——”
“Well, where’re you goin’?” Joe persisted.
“I’m going to meet General Clay, who is coming by way of the Auglaize.”
“An’ you want me an’ the Injin to go with you, as guides?”
“That’s it. You’re an American?”
“Did you take me fer a Britisher?”—indignantly.
“And you’re acquainted with the country up and down the valley?”
“I know it as well as I know the road to my own mouth; so does the
Injin—he’s a Wyandot, an’ true as steel. When do you want to start?”
“Immediately. Will you go with me?”
“Yes.”
“And the Indian?”
“Of course.”
“How soon can you be ready?”
“We’re ready now—if we only had guns an’ ammynition. You see, when we
got away from the Winnebagoes we hadn’t nothin’ but the clo’es on our
backs—which ain’t much to speak of.”—And Joe glanced ruefully at his
tattered garments.—“We lived on roots an’ barks, on the road here. Give
us guns an’ ammynition, an’ we’re with you.”
“You shall have what you want,” was the decided reply. “Call your friend
and come with me.”
A half hour later, Captain Oliver and his chosen guides passed out at the
western gate of the fort, and disappeared in the dense woods upon the
southern bank of the river.
An hour after the departure of the brave dispatch-bearer and his two
comrades, the enemy put in an appearance upon the opposite shore of
the stream. General Harrison pushed the work upon the grand traverse.
This was a wall of earth and timbers, running through the center of the
inclosure, the full length of the fortification. It was nine hundred
feet long, twenty feet wide at the base, and twelve feet high; and was
intended to serve as a protection against the shells of the British.
Anticipating the fact that the enemy would erect powerful batteries
on the opposite shore, the American commander ordered that numerous
excavations be made in the south side of the grand traverse, to which his
men could retreat in time of danger from exploding missiles.
All the afternoon, the Indians annoyed the soldiers of the garrison with
a desultory rifle-fire; but as they fired at long range, their shots did
little except to cause the Americans to reply in like manner. Late in the
evening, two or three boat-loads of savages landed upon the south bank of
the river, and, taking up positions among the neighboring trees, poured a
more effective fire upon the fort. The soldiers answered briskly; and the
fusillade was kept up until nightfall.
In the meantime, the Americans had trained two eighteen-pounders upon
their enemies across the river, causing them to retire to cover; and the
British had succeeded in crossing the stream and throwing up earthworks
for the protection of their fieldpieces, a short distance from the
southeastern angle of the fort. The place was completely invested.
Preparations were active, on the one side, to storm the garrison; on the
other, to repel the most vigorous assault.
On the morning of the twenty-ninth, General Harrison issued a general
order, appealing to the patriotism of his men.
All day the rifle-fire was continued by both sides. Several of the
Americans received serious wounds, and a number of the enemy were killed.
On the morning of the thirtieth, the condition of affairs was much the
same. Within the fort, the grand traverse was nearing completion; and the
British were placing their heavy siege guns in position on the opposite
shore.
The Americans were well supplied with food, but they suffered much from
want of water. They were digging a well within the inclosure; but, in
the meantime, they had to procure their supply from the river at night—a
hazardous proceeding.
On the following day, the British had a number of their cannon in
position, and began a bombardment. The Americans returned shot for shot;
and a number of men were killed upon each side.
For the next four days there was little change in the situation. Both
armies were on the alert to take an advantage of the other, but none
offered. General Harrison had removed all his tents and paraphernalia
behind the traverses; and the enemy had nothing to shoot at but the bare
earthen walls. The soldiers within the fort and the savages without kept
up an incessant rifle-fire; and the great guns on both sides thundered.
But the American commander’s supply of shot and shell was running short.
Apparently, the enemy had abandoned all idea of storming the fort and had
settled down to take it by siege.
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