Tecumseh
Wayne's victory in 1795, followed by the Treaty of Fort Greenville, gave
the Northwest welcome relief from Indian warfare, and within four years
the Territory was ready to be advanced to the second of the three grades
of government provided for it in the Ordinance of 1787. A Legislature
was set up at Cincinnati, and in due time it proceeded to the election
of a delegate to Congress. Choice fell on a young man whose name was
destined to a permanent place in the country's history. William Henry
Harrison was the son of a signer of the Declaration of Independence, the
scion of one of Virginia's most honored families. Entering the army in
1791, he had served as an aide-de-camp to Wayne in the campaign which
ended at Fallen Timbers, and at the time of his election was acting as
Secretary of the Territory and ex-officio Lieutenant-Governor.
Although but twenty-six years of age, and without a vote in the House of
Representatives, Harrison succeeded in procuring from Congress in 1800
an act dividing the Territory into two distinct "governments," separated
by the old Greenville treaty line as far as Fort Recovery and then by a
line running due north to the Canadian boundary. The division to the
east was named Ohio, that to the west Indiana; and Harrison was made
Governor of the latter, with his residence at Vincennes. In 1802 the
development of the back country was freshly emphasized by the admission
of Ohio as a State.
Meanwhile the equilibrium between the white man and the red again became
unstable. In the Treaty of 1795 the natives had ceded only southern
Ohio, southeastern Indiana, and a few other small and scattered areas.
Northward and westward, their country stretched to the Lakes and the
Mississippi, unbroken except by military posts and widely scattered
settlements; and title to all of this territory had been solemnly
guaranteed. As late as 1800 the white population of what is now Indiana
was practically confined to Clark's Grant, near the falls of the Ohio,
and a small region around Vincennes. It numbered not more than
twenty-five hundred persons. But thereafter immigration from the
seaboard States, and from the nearer lands of Kentucky and Tennessee,
set in on a new scale. By 1810 Indiana had a white population of
twenty-five thousand, and the cabins of the energetic settlers dotted
river valleys and hillsides never before trodden by white man.
In this new rush of pioneers the rights of the Indians received scant
consideration. Hardy and well-armed Virginians and Kentuckians broke
across treaty boundaries and possessed themselves of fertile lands to
which they had no valid claim. White hunters trespassed far and wide on
Indian territory, until by 1810 great regions, which a quarter of a
century earlier abounded in deer, bear, and buffalo, were made as
useless for Indian purposes as barren wastes. Although entitled to the
protection of law in his person and property, the native was cheated and
overawed at every turn; he might even be murdered with impunity. Abraham
Lincoln's uncle thought it a virtuous act to shoot an Indian on sight,
and the majority of pioneers agreed with him.
"I can tell at once," wrote Harrison in 1801, "upon looking at an Indian
whom I may chance to meet whether he belongs to a neighboring or a more
distant tribe. The latter is generally well-clothed, healthy, and
vigorous; the former half-naked, filthy, and enfeebled by intoxication,
and many of them without arms excepting a knife, which they carry for
the most villainous purposes." The stronger tribes perceived quite as
clearly as did the Governor the ruinous effects of contact between the
two peoples, and the steady destruction of the border warriors became a
leading cause of discontent. Congress had passed laws intended to
prevent the sale of spirituous liquors to the natives, but the courts
had construed these measures to be operative only outside the bounds of
States and organized Territories, and in the great unorganized Northwest
the laws were not heeded, and the ruinous traffic went on uninterrupted.
Harrison reported that when there were only six hundred warriors on the
Wabash the annual consumption of whiskey there was six thousand gallons,
and that killing each other in drunken brawls had "become so customary
that it was no longer thought criminal."
Most exasperating, however, from the red man's point of view was the
insatiable demand of the newcomers for land. In the years 1803, 1804,
and 1805 Harrison made treaties with the remnants of the Miami, Eel
River, Piankeshaw, and Delaware tribes--characterized by him as "a body
of the most depraved wretches on earth"--which gained for the settlers a
strip of territory fifty miles wide south of White River; and in 1809 he
similarly acquired, by the Treaty of Fort Wayne, three million acres, in
tracts which cut into the heart of the Indian country for almost a
hundred miles up both banks of the Wabash. The Wabash valley was richer
in game than any other region south of Lake Michigan, and its loss was
keenly felt by the Indians. Indeed, it was mainly the cession of 1809
that brought once more to a crisis the long-brewing difficulties with
the Indians.
About the year 1768 the Creek squaw of a Shawnee warrior gave birth at
one time to three boys, in the vicinity of the present city of
Springfield, Ohio. ¹ One of the three barely left his name in aboriginal
annals. A second, known as Laulewasikaw, "the man with the loud voice,"
poses in the pages of history as "the prophet." The third brother was
Tecumseh, "the wild-cat that leaps upon its prey," or "the shooting
star," as the name has been translated. He is described as a tall,
handsome warrior--daring and energetic, of fluent and persuasive speech,
given to deep reflection, an implacable hater of the white man. Other
qualities he possessed which were not so common among his people. He had
perfect self-command, a keen insight into human motives and purposes,
and an exceptional capacity to frame plans and organize men to carry
them out. His crowning scheme for bringing together the tribes of the
Middle West into a grand democratic confederacy to regulate land
cessions and other dealings with the whites stamps him as perhaps the
most statesmanlike member of his race.
¹ Authorities differ as to the facts of Tecumseh's birth. His earliest
biographer, Benjamin Drake, holds that he was "wholly a Shawanoe" and
that he was a fourth child, the Prophet and another son being twins.
William Henry Harrison spoke of Tecumseh's mother as a Creek.
While yet hardly more than a boy, Tecumseh seems to have been stirred to
deep indignation by the persistent encroachment of the whites upon the
hunting-grounds of his fathers. The cessions of 1804 and 1805 he
specially resented, and it is not unlikely that they clinched the
decision of the young warrior to take up the task which Pontiac had left
unfinished. At all events, the plan was soon well in hand. A less
far-seeing leader would have been content to call the scattered tribes
to a momentary alliance with a view to a general uprising against the
invaders. But Tecumseh's purposes ran far deeper. All of the Indian
peoples, of whatever name or relationships, from the Lakes to the Gulf
and from the Alleghanies to the Rockies, were to be organized in a
single, permanent confederacy. This union, furthermore, was to consist,
not of chieftains, but of the warriors; and its governing body was to be
a warriors' congress, an organ of genuine popular rule. Joint ownership
of all Indian lands was to be assumed by the confederacy, and the
piecemeal cession of territory by petty tribal chiefs, under pressure of
government agents, was to be made impossible. Only thus, Tecumseh
argued, could the red man hope to hold his own in the uneven contest
that was going on.
The plan was brilliant, even though impracticable. Naturally, it did not
appeal instantly to the chieftains, for it took away tribal independence
and undermined the chieftain's authority. Besides, its author was not a
chief, and had no sanction of birth or office. Its success was dependent
on the building of an intertribal association such as Indian history had
never known. And while there was nothing in it which contravened the
professed policy of the United States, it ran counter to the
irrepressible tendency of the advancing white population to spread at
will over the great western domain.
By these obstacles Tecumseh was not deterred. With indefatigable zeal he
traveled from one end of the country to the other, arguing with chiefs,
making fervid speeches to assembled warriors, and in every possible
manner impressing his people with his great idea. The Prophet went with
him; and when the orator's logic failed to carry conviction, the
medicine-man's imprecations were relied upon to save the day. Events,
too, played into their hands. The Leopard-Chesapeake affair, ¹ in 1807,
roused strong feeling in the West and prompted the Governor-General of
Canada to begin intrigues looking to an alliance with the redskins in
the event of war. And when, late in the same year, Governor Hull of
Michigan Territory indiscreetly negotiated a new land cession at
Detroit, the northern tribes at once joined Tecumseh's league, muttering
threats to slay the chiefs by whom the cession had been sanctioned.
¹ See Jefferson and his Colleagues, by Allen Johnson (in The Chronicles
of America).
In the spring of 1808 Tecumseh and his brother carried their plans
forward another step by taking up their residence at a point in central
Indiana where Tippecanoe Creek flows into the Wabash River. The
place--which soon got the name of the Prophet's Town--was almost
equidistant from Vincennes, Fort Wayne, and Fort Dearborn; from it the
warriors could paddle their canoes to any part of the Ohio or the
Mississippi, and with only a short portage, to the waters of the Maumee
and the Great Lakes. The situation was, therefore, strategic. A village
was laid out, and the population was soon numbered by the hundred.
Livestock was acquired, agriculture was begun, the use of whiskey was
prohibited, and every indication was afforded of peaceful intent.
Seasoned frontiersmen, however, were suspicious. Reports came in that
the Tippecanoe villagers engaged daily in warlike exercises; rumor had
it that emissaries of the Prophet were busily stirring the tribes, far
and near, to rebellion. Governor Harrison was not a man to be easily
frightened, but he became apprehensive, and proposed to satisfy himself
by calling Tecumseh into conference.
The interview took place at Vincennes, and was extended over a period of
two weeks. There was a show of firmness, yet of good will, on both
sides. The Governor counseled peace, orderliness, and industry; the
warrior guest professed a desire to be a friend to the United States,
but said frankly that if the country continued to deal with the tribes
singly in the purchase of land he would be obliged to ally himself with
Great Britain. To Harrison's admonition that the redskins should leave
off drinking whiskey--"that it was not made for them, but for the white
people, who alone knew how to use it"--the visitor replied pointedly by
asking that the sale of liquor be stopped.
Notwithstanding the tenseness of the situation, Harrison negotiated the
land cessions of 1809, which cost the Indians their last valuable
hunting-grounds in Indiana. The powerful Wyandots promptly joined
Tecumseh's league, and war was made inevitable. Delay followed only
because the Government at Washington postponed the military occupation
of the new purchase, and because the British authorities in Canada,
desiring Tecumseh's confederacy to attain its maximum strength before
the test came, urged the redskins to wait.
For two more years--while Great Britain and the United States hovered on
the brink of war--preparations continued. Tribe after tribe in Indiana
and Illinois elected Tecumseh as their chief, alliances reached to
regions as remote as Florida. In 1810 another conference took place at
Vincennes; and this time, notwithstanding Harrison's request that not
more than thirty redskins should attend, four hundred came in Tecumseh's
train, fully armed.
A large portico in front of the Governor's house [says a contemporary
account] had been prepared for the purpose with seats, as well for the
Indians as for the citizens who were expected to attend. When Tecumseh
came from his camp, with about forty of his warriors, he stood off, and
on being invited by the Governor, through an interpreter, to take his
seat, refused, observing that he wished the council to be held under the
shade of some trees in front of the house. When it was objected that it
would be troublesome to remove the seats, he replied that "it would only
be necessary to remove those intended for the whites--that the red men
were accustomed to sit upon the earth, which was their mother, and that
they were always happy to recline upon her bosom." ¹
¹ James Hall, Memoir of William Henry Harrison, pp. 113-114.
The chieftain's equivocal conduct aroused fresh suspicion, but he was
allowed to proceed with the oration which he had come to deliver. Freely
rendered, the speech ran, in part, as follows:
I have made myself what I am; and I would that I could make the red
people as great as the conceptions of my mind, when I think of the Great
Spirit that rules over all. I would not then come to Governor Harrison
to ask him to tear the treaty [of 1809]; but I would say to him,
Brother, you have liberty to return to your own country. Once there was
no white man in all this country: then it belonged to red men, children
of the same parents, placed on it by the Great Spirit to keep it, to
travel over it, to eat its fruits, and fill it with the same race--once
a happy race, but now made miserable by the white people, who are never
contented, but always encroaching. They have driven us from the great
salt water, forced us over the mountains, and would shortly push us into
the lakes--but we are determined to go no further. The only way to stop
this evil is for all red men to unite in claiming a common and equal
right in the land, as it was at first, and should be now--for it never
was divided, but belongs to all.... Any sale not made by all is not
good.
In his reply Harrison declared that the Indians were not one nation,
since the Great Spirit had "put six different tongues in their heads,"
and argued that the Indiana lands had been in all respects properly
bought from their rightful owners. Tecumseh's blood boiled under this
denial of his main contention, and with the cry, "It is false," he gave
a signal to his warriors, who sprang to their feet and seized their
war-clubs. For a moment an armed clash was imminent. But Harrison's cool
manner enabled him to remain master of the situation, and a
well-directed rebuke sent the chieftain and his followers to their
quarters.
On the following morning Tecumseh apologized for his impetuosity and
asked that the conference be renewed. The request was granted, and again
the forest leader pressed for an abandonment of the policy of purchasing
land from the separate tribes. Harrison told him that the question was
for the President, rather than for him, to decide. "As the great chief
is to determine the matter," responded the visitor grimly, "I hope the
Great Spirit will put sense enough into his head to induce him to direct
you to give up this land. It is true he is so far off he will not be
injured by the war. He may sit still in his town, and drink his wine,
while you and I will have to fight it out."
Still the clash was averted. Once more, in the summer of 1811, Tecumseh
appeared at Vincennes, and again the deep issue between the two peoples
was threshed out as fruitlessly as before. Announcing his purpose to
visit the southern tribes to unite them with those of the North in a
peaceful confederacy, the chieftain asked that during his absence all
matters be left as they were, and promised that upon his return he would
go to see President Madison and "settle everything with him."
Naturally, no pledge of the kind was given, and no sooner had Tecumseh
and twenty of his warriors started southward on their mission to the
Creeks than Harrison began preparations to end the menace that had been
so long hanging over the western country. Troops were sent to Harrison;
and volunteers were called for. As fast as volunteers came in they were
sent up to the Wabash to take possession of the new purchase.
Reinforcements arrived from Pittsburgh and from Kentucky, and in a short
while the Governor was able to bring together at Fort Harrison, near the
site of the present city of Terre Haute, twenty-four companies of
regulars, militia, and Indians, aggregating about nine hundred
well-armed men.
Late in October this army, commanded by Harrison in person, set forth
for the destruction of the Tippecanoe rendezvous. On the way stray
redskins were encountered, but the advance was not resisted, and to his
surprise Harrison was enabled to lead his forces unmolested to within a
few hundred yards of the Prophet's headquarters. Emissaries now came
saying that the invasion was wholly unexpected, professing peaceful
intentions, and asking for a parley. Harrison had no idea that anything
could be settled by negotiation, but he preferred to wait until the next
day to make an attack; accordingly he agreed to a council, and the army
went into camp for the night on an oak-covered knoll about a mile
northwest of the village. No entrenchments were thrown up, but the
troops were arranged in a triangle to conform to the contour of the
hill, and a hundred sentinels under experienced officers were stationed
around the camp-fires. The night was cold, and rain fell at intervals,
although at times the moon shone brightly through the flying clouds.
The Governor was well aware of the proneness of the Indians to early
morning attacks, so that about four o'clock on the 7th of November he
rose to call the men to parade. He had barely pulled on his boots when
the forest stillness was broken by the crack of a rifle at the farthest
angle of the camp, and instantly the Indian yell, followed by a
fusillade, told that a general attack had begun. Before the militiamen
could emerge in force from their tents, the sentinel line was broken and
the red warriors were pouring into the enclosure. Desperate fighting
ensued, and when time for reloading failed, it was rifle butt and
bayonet against tomahawk and scalping knife in hand-to-hand combat. For
two hours the battle raged in the darkness, and only when daylight came
were the troops able to charge the redskins, dislodge them from behind
the trees, and drive them to a safe distance in the neighboring swamp.
Sixty-one of Harrison's officers and men were killed or mortally
wounded; one hundred and twenty-seven others suffered serious injury.
The Governor himself probably owed his life to the circumstance that in
the confusion he mounted a bay horse instead of his own white stallion,
whose rider was shot early in the contest.
The Indian losses were small, and for twenty-four hours Harrison's
forces kept their places, hourly expecting another assault. "Night,"
wrote one of the men subsequently, "found every man mounting guard,
without food, fire, or light and in a drizzling rain. The Indian dogs,
during the dark hours, produced frequent alarms by prowling in search of
carrion about the sentinels." There being no further sign of
hostilities, early on the 8th of November a body of mounted riflemen set
out for the Prophet's village, which they found deserted. The place had
evidently been abandoned in haste, for nothing--not even a fresh stock
of English guns and powder--had been destroyed or carried off. After
confiscating much-needed provisions and other valuables, Harrison
ordered the village to be burned. Then, abandoning camp furniture and
private baggage to make room in the wagons for the wounded, he set out
on the return trip to Vincennes. A company was left at Fort Harrison,
and the main force reached the capital on the 18th of November.
Throughout the western country the news of the battle was received with
delight, and it was fondly believed that the backbone of Tecumseh's
conspiracy was broken. It was even supposed that the indomitable
chieftain and his brother would be forthwith surrendered by the Indians
to the authorities of the United States. Harrison was acclaimed as a
deliverer. The legislatures of Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois formally
thanked him for his services; and if, as his Federalist enemies charged,
he had planned the whole undertaking with a view to promoting his
personal fortunes, he ought to have been satisfied with the result. It
was the glamour of Tippecanoe that three decades afterwards carried him
into the President's chair.
In precipitating a clash while Tecumseh, the master-mind of the
fast-growing confederacy, was absent, the Prophet committed a capital
blunder. When reproached by his warriors, he declared that all would
have gone well but for the fact that on the night before the battle his
squaw had profanely touched the pot in which his magic charms were
brewed, so that the spell had been broken! The explanation was not very
convincing, and ominous murmurings were heard. Before the end of the
year, however, word came to Vincennes that the crafty magician was back
at Tippecanoe, that the village had been rebuilt, and that the lives of
the white settlers who were pouring into the new purchase were again
endangered.
Still more alarming was the news of Tecumseh's return in January, 1812,
from a very successful visit to the Creeks, Choctaws, and Cherokees. He
began by asking leave to make his long-projected visit to Washington to
obtain peace from the President, and he professed deep regret for "the
unfortunate transaction that took place between the white people and a
few of our young men at our village." To the British agent at
Amherstburg he declared that had he been on the spot there would have
been no fighting at Tippecanoe. It is reasonable to suppose that in this
case there would have been, at all events, no Indian attack; for
Tecumseh was thoroughly in sympathy with the British plan, which was to
unite and arm the natives, but to prevent a premature outbreak. The
chieftain's presence, however, would hardly have deterred Harrison from
carrying out his decision to break up the Tippecanoe stronghold.
The spring of 1812 brought an ominous renewal of depredations. Two
settlers were murdered within three miles of Fort Dearborn; an entire
family was massacred but five miles from Vincennes; from all directions
came reports of other bloody deeds. The frontier was thrown into panic.
A general uprising was felt to be impending; even Vincennes was thought
to be in danger. "Most of the citizens of this country," reported
Harrison, on the 6th of May, "have abandoned their farms, and taken
refuge in such temporary forts as they have been able to construct.
Scores fled to Kentucky and to even more distant regions."
Tecumseh continued to assert his friendship for his "white brothers" and
to treat the battle at Tippecanoe as a matter of no moment. The murders
on the frontier he declared to be the work of the Potawatomi, who were
not under his control, and for whose conduct he had no excuse. But it
was noted that he made no move to follow up his professed purpose to
visit Washington in quest of peace, and that he put forth no effort to
restrain his over-zealous allies. It was plain enough that he was simply
awaiting a signal from Canada, and that, as the commandant at Fort Wayne
tersely reported, if the country should have a war with Great Britain,
it must be prepared for an Indian war as well.