Rock Island, July, 1846.
Starved Rock is the unpoetical name of a singular spot on the Illinois
river about sixty miles east of this place, and eight miles south of
Ottawa. It is a rocky bluff, rising from the margin of the stream to the
height of more than a hundred feet, and is only separated from the main
land by a narrow chasm. Its length might probably measure two hundred
and fifty feet. Its sides are perpendicular, and there is only one point
where it can be ascended, and that is by a narrow stair-like path. It is
covered with many a cone-like evergreen, and, in summer, encircled by
luxuriant grape and ivy vines, and clusters of richly colored flowers.
It is undoubtedly the most conspicuous and beautiful pictorial feature
of the sluggish and lonely Illinois, and is associated with the final
extinction of the Illinois tribe of Indians. The legend, which I
listened to from the lips of a venerable Indian trader, is as follows.
Many years ago, the whole region lying between Lake Michigan and the
Mississippi was the home and dominion of the Illinois Indians. For them
alone did the buffalo and antelope range over its broad prairies; for
them did the finest of rivers roll their waters into the lap of Mexico,
and bear upon their bosoms the birchen canoe, as they sought to capture
the wild water fowl; and for them alone did the dense forests, crowding
upon these streams, shelter their unnumbered denizens.
In every direction might be seen the smoke of Indian wigwams curling
upwards to mingle with the sunset clouds, which told them tales of the
spirit land.
Years passed on, and they continued to be at ease in their possessions.
But the white man from the far east, with the miseries which have ever
accompanied him in his march of usurpation, began to wander into the
wilderness, and trouble to the poor red man was the inevitable
consequence. The baneful “fire water,” which was the gift of
civilization, created dissensions among the savage tribes, until in
process of time, and on account of purely imaginary evils, the
Pottowattomies from Michigan determined to make war upon the Indians of
Illinois. Fortune, or rather destiny, smiled upon the oppressors, and
the identical rock in question was the spot that witnessed the
extinction of an aboriginal race.
It was the close of a long siege of cruel warfare, and the afternoon of
a day in the delightful Indian summer. The sunshine threw a mellow haze
upon the prairies, and tinged the multitudinous flowers with deepest
gold; while, in the shadow of the forest islands, the doe and her fawn
reposed in perfect quietness, lulled into a temporary slumber by the hum
of the grasshopper and wild bee. The wilderness world wore the aspect of
a perfect sabbath. But now, in the twinkling of an eye, the delightful
solitude was broken by the shrill whoop and dreadful struggle of bloody
conflict upon the prairies and in the woods. All over the country were
seen the dead bodies of the ill-fated Illinois, when it was ordered by
Providence that the concluding skirmish between the hostile parties
should take place in the vicinity of Starved Rock.
The Pottowattomies numbered near three hundred warriors, while the
Illinois tribe was reduced to about one hundred, who were mostly aged
chiefs and youthful heroes—the more desperate fighters having already
perished, and the women and children of the tribe having already been
massacred and consumed in their wigwams. The battle was most desperate
between the unequal parties.
The Illinois were about to give up all for lost, when, in their frenzy,
they gave a defying shout, and retreated to the rocky bluff. From this,
it was an easy matter to keep back their enemies, but alas! from that
moment they were to endure unthought-of suffering, to the delight of
their baffled, yet victorious enemies.
And now to describe in words the scene that followed and was prolonged
for several days, were utterly impossible. Those stout-hearted Indians,
in whom a nation was about to become extinct, chose to die upon their
strange fortress, by starvation and thirst, rather than surrender
themselves to the scalping-knife of their exterminators. And, with a few
exceptions, this was the manner in which they did perish. Now and then,
indeed, a desperate man would lower himself, hoping thereby to escape,
but a tomahawk would cleave his brain before he touched the ground or
water.
Day followed day, and those helpless captives sat in silence, and gazed
imploringly upon their broad beautiful lands, while hunger was gnawing
into their very vitals. Night followed night, and they looked upon the
silent stars, and beyond, to the home of the Great Spirit, but they
murmured not at his decree. And if they slept, in their dreams they once
more played with their little children, or held converse with their
wives, and roamed the woods and prairies in perfect freedom. When
morning dawned it was but the harbinger of another day of agony; but
when the evening hour came, a smile would sometimes brighten up a
haggard countenance, for the poor, unhappy soul, through the eye of an
obscure faith, had caught a glimpse of the spirit land. Day followed
day, and the last lingering hope was utterly abandoned. Their destiny
was sealed, and no change for good could possibly take place, for the
human blood-hounds who watched their prey, were utterly without mercy.
The feeble, white-haired chief crept into a thicket and there breathed
his last. The recently strong-bodied warrior, uttering a protracted but
feeble yell of exultation, hurled his tomahawk upon some fiend below,
and then yielded himself up to the pains of his condition. The lithe
form of the soft-eyed youth parted with its strength, and was compelled
to totter, fall upon the earth and die. Ten weary, weary days passed on,
and the strongest man and last of his race was numbered with the
dead:—and a glorious banquet was presented to the eagle and the raven.