Pursuit of Black Hawk
When Colonel Dodge had been informed by the two scouts of the
surprising result of their nocturnal mission, his rage at the duplicity
of the White Crow was fearful to see. With a mighty effort, however, he
controlled his feelings, and his handsome face was once more bland and
impassive as he summoned the Winnebago chief to his presence.
“Ho, Kaukishkaka,” he said, in a disarming manner, “can you not find us
an easier trail? This one is nothing more than a series of mud-holes,
each one worse than the last. We make poor progress.”
“The trail grows better each day,” promised the Crow, never blinking an
eye.
“That is sweet music to my ears; for we are eager to look down our gun
barrels at the Sacs. How many more days of travel, till we reach the
hiding-place of Black Hawk?”
“It is yet far, oh Big Knife. Nearly three suns.”
“Three days farther! You are sure of that?”
“The Crow does not speak with a forked tongue,” reiterated the
Winnebago, drawing himself stiffly to his fullest height.
“So I have heard you say!” cried Dodge.
His easy, genial tone was suddenly gone, and his words cracked out like
the snap of a whip-lash. A strange light came into the one, gleaming
eye of the wily Winnebago. It was clear that he had a presentment of
what was to come.
“But you do speak with a forked tongue!” continued the officer sternly.
“How so, oh Big Knife?”
“The camp of Black Hawk is not three suns away. It is less than one sun
away.”
“What magic tells you that?”
“No magic at all, Kaukishkaka. Last night I sent out scouts, who
slipped through the swamps and spied out the Sac ambush.”
“I know nothing of ambush,” said the Crow shiftily. “Mayhap the
accursed Hawk has seen fit to move his camp. He does not tell me of his
comings and goings.”
“Faugh!” exclaimed Dodge angrily, “I denounce you as a lying, scheming
rascal. You are in league with Black Hawk. But for the diligence of my
scouts, we might have been caught in your clever snare. Take him away,
guards! When we march again, fasten ropes to his legs under his horse’s
belly. He is a slippery eel, so watch him well.”
The stormy scene between the irate Dodge and the dissembling White Crow
was scarcely over with, when three army couriers rode into the ranger
camp bearing dispatches from General Atkinson. Riding to the northwest
they had luckily cut the rangers’ trail this side of the Four Lakes,
and had then tracked them down.
It was now learned that Atkinson’s army had left Dixon’s Ferry on
June 27, as planned. It consisted of four hundred regulars and nearly
two thousand volunteer troops. On the thirtieth, the force crossed
the Illinois-Wisconsin boundary at the famous turtle village of the
Winnebagoes, whose inhabitants had flown at the approach of the column.
From here, the White Beaver and his men pressed up the Rock River,
following the Sac trail with the vehemence of blood-hounds.
At the close of each day, when possible, the troops selected a camp
in the timber, where they erected a protecting breastwork of logs
and slept on their arms. There was a constant apprehension of a night
attack, and several times prowling Sac spies were fired on by the
watchful sentinels.
On the second of July the army arrived at the southern limits of the
great Koshkonong marshes. Here, a recently deserted Indian camp was
found with white scalps hanging on the poles of the tepees. Scouts made
a quick tour of the vicinity, but beyond a few stragglers nothing of
importance was seen. Three Winnebagoes who were captured gave vague
and contradictory testimony, and one of them was ordered shot for his
treachery. The following day, too, was spent in fruitless scouting.
But, on the next, the three couriers made the contact with the rangers
under Dodge, who brought his men into camp on the sixth.
For the march to the north the army was formed as follows. Dodge’s
Rangers, together with five hundred Illinois volunteers under
Brigadier-General James Henry, comprised the left wing, advancing up
the west side of the swamp-lands; while the regulars, and the balance
of the volunteers, scouted up the east side, across the Rock River,
with Atkinson, himself, in command.
In the meantime, Black Hawk, utterly dismayed at the failure of his
ambuscade, and by the rapid approach of the formidable white army, fled
westward from his swampy covert toward the Four Lakes, unbeknown, of
course, to the advancing soldiers. But these were not long in ignorance
of the Sac’s sudden sally. For, on the second afternoon, when Dodge’s
Rangers had marked some twenty-five miles north of their junction point
with the White Beaver, a startling discovery was made.
Bright Star, the young Pottawattomee, riding well ahead of the
column, was seen to become greatly agitated. He shouted and gestured
frantically.
“What’s got into the young chief?” puzzled Bill Brown.
“Must be something important,” Ben Gordon declared. “An Injun,
ordinarily, isn’t any hand to get worked up like that.”
Now Bright Star turned his horse and dashed back to join the other
scouts.
“Come!” he cried.
“What’s up, red-boy?” yelled Tom.
“Big trail! heap big trail!”
“Is it fresh?” asked Bill, as they jumped their mounts forward.
“Ugh! heap fresh!”
Sure enough! before them lay a broad, fresh trail, trending to the
west. It was, beyond a doubt, the trail of Black Hawk.
The discovery was hailed by the rangers and volunteers with great
joy. The nimble Hawk had so long evaded them that he was coming to be
regarded as a will-o’-the-wisp, an unearthly creature never to be taken
by human hand. But now, with spirits soaring, pursuit was begun on the
fresh scent early the following morning; after riders had been sent
eastward to acquaint Atkinson with the new turn of events.
The first day of the chase was a difficult one. Not a breath of air
stirred over the low-lying swales and gentle rises. Clouds above were
like light balls of cotton; and where the blue sky was visible, it had
a hazy and languid look. The July sun beat down with a sultry and
penetrating heat that was well-nigh past endurance. Sweltering horses
hung their heads as they waded fetlock deep through the mud, and the
men slouched in the easiest position upon the saddle.
At last, toward evening, black heads of thunder-clouds rose fast above
the southern horizon, and the deep muttering of distant thunder began
to roll hoarsely over the wilderness. Soon the whole sky was densely
shrouded, and the clumps of timber took on a purple hue beneath the
inky shadows. Lightning flashed repeatedly. A cool wind, filled with
the smell of rain, arose, leveling the tall marsh grass by the side of
the trail.
“Come on!” yelled Dodge. “Ride for the timber!”
At this, the whole party broke into full gallop. Dashing pell-mell
among the trees, they leaped from their mounts, tore off the saddles,
and knelt down and adjusted the hobbles to the horses’ legs, before
hastily turning them loose. Then they sprang to the pack-horses and
seized their tents, which were put up with the utmost speed. By dint
of great effort, they were ready for the downpour, just as the storm
broke. Blackness, almost as deep as that of night, enveloped them; and
the trees, which were close at hand, were completely hidden by the
heavy curtain of falling rain.
All night the tumult kept on, while the rangers crouched in their
make-shift tents. The rain could not enter bodily, but it beat through
the thin canvas in a fine drizzle that wetted them dismally. Until
early morning hours the terrific crash of thunder and the glare of
lightning continued. Towards sunrise, however, the storm ceased as
suddenly as it had begun. A bright streak of red sky appeared above
the eastern verge of the swamps, the horizontal rays of the rising sun
streamed through it, and bathed the dripping landscape in a flood of
wondrous light.
An hour later, the sky was entirely clear, and the army set out. The
fierce rainfall made travel infinitely more arduous. Deep swamp and
sink-hole were worsened by the downpour. The men had frequently to
dismount and wade in water and muck to their armpits. But two stray
Pottawattomees, who were met with, reported that the Hawk and his
harried band were now only three miles in advance; and the troopers
eagerly hurried on, notwithstanding their empty stomachs and wet
clothes. So intense were their efforts, that by sunset of the second
day, July 20, they reached the lakes, going into camp for the night on
the bank of the Third Lake.
At daybreak of the twenty-first, the troops were up and stirring. After
fording the Catfish River, a small tributary, they swept across the
isthmus between the Third and Fourth Lakes in regular line of battle,
pushing their way through a gloomy forest with dense thickets of
underbrush. The four scouts, along with others, were constantly in the
fore, making sure that the guileful Hawk was not setting up an ambush.
Once through this timber tract, the pursuit waxed even hotter. The
advance was so rapid, and the heat so fearful, that forty horses gave
out during the day. When his mount keeled over, the trooper would
trudge on foot, throwing away his camp-kettle and other pack; thus
following the example of the fugitive redskins, whose path was littered
with Indian mats, pots, kettles, and other camp paraphernalia discarded
in the wild hurry of flight. Then, too, Sac stragglers were now and
then being taken prisoners, chiefly old men, squaws and children who
were worn out by the frenzy of the pursuit and the lack of food in the
Hawk’s camp. Two of the wrinkled warriors, who showed fight, had to be
shot.
About three o’clock in the afternoon, another area of thick hardwoods
was reached. The ranger scouts, as usual, were well in front of the
column. Tom Gordon was crouched behind the trunk of a great oak, his
roving eyes searching every covert before him. He knew that brother
Ben, Bill Brown and the eagle-eyed Bright Star were spread out to right
and left, engaged in the same risky task.
Beyond a narrow forest glade, thirty yards away, lay a thicket of
undergrowth, and Tom surveyed it with great sharpness. He must be
absolutely certain that no red warrior skulked there, waiting to shoot
him down as he crossed the open space. The boy looked so closely that
it seemed to him that he knew every bush and briar and vine. Presently
a bough swayed, and then a bush shook, and the keen eyes of the young
scout saw it. He hugged the protecting trunk of the big oak and the
muzzle of his rifle nudged forward; but he was mighty careful not to
make the slightest sound.
The same bush wiggled again, this time more noticeably. Tom Gordon
sank down a little lower and fairly drilled the thicket with his sharp
glance. Now he saw the shadowy outline of a red face. Then the whole
head and shoulders of an Indian appeared. He was looking across the
glade with the keenest of scrutiny. The muzzle of the rifle that had
been thrust forward was raised now, and taking quick aim, Tom fired.
A wild and terrible cry rang through the forest. The Sac brave plunged
forward from the thicket, spun crazily about, and then fell headlong
among the thick grasses of the glade. The fearsome cry came back in
a score of maniacal echoes, the screams of enraged warriors who knew
now that there was to be no ambush of the oncoming rangers. Their
war-whoops swelled in volume, fierce and menacing, but Tom Gordon
and his fellow scouts were already running back upon the main body,
sounding the alarm; and the troopers, eager for the fray, raised a
great shout of defiance.
“What is it?” cried Colonel Dodge, hurrying to the fore.
“Sac warriors!” answered Tom, half breathlessly.
“Must be the Hawk’s rear guard!” observed Bill Brown. “They aim to
stall us off, till the others git a longer lead.”
“This is only the rear guard!” shouted the commander. “Give them a
volley or two, men, and then charge!”
There was the deafening crash of a hundred rifles and muskets, as the
black barrels spat jets of fire. A hail of lead whistled across the
glade and into the thicket. It seemed incredible that a single Indian
could escape alive, so furious was the gunfire. In answer, however, a
few challenging whoops arose, followed by scattering shots. The troops
swiftly reloaded and sent in another thunderous volley.
“Press on!” bellowed Dodge hoarsely. “Dig out the red knaves!”
The hardy rangers sent up a shout of triumph and dashed into the
thicket, ready for hand-to-hand combat. But not a single redskin,
living or dead, was to be found. The Indian warriors had withdrawn
westward into the forest, carrying their slain fighters with them.
“Fiddle-sticks!” declared Bill Brown. “This delayin’ skirmish ain’t
improved Black Hawk’s sitchiation one jot.”
True words! The Hawk’s harried band had again increased its lead over
the pursuing soldiers to perhaps three miles; but the position of the
Sacs seemed actually worse, due to the fact that immediately ahead
of the fleeing braves lay the wide channel of the Wisconsin River, a
big stream that flowed straight down from the trackless forests of the
north, and then swept eastward in a great bend to join the mighty tide
of the Mississippi, some eighty miles beyond.
It was now mid-afternoon, and the harassed Black Hawk called a hasty
council of his sub-chiefs.
“Our cause is lost,” spoke up Ne-a-pope bluntly.
“We could not fight the Big Knives alone,” snarled the surly Prairie
Wolf. “The accursed Foxes--”
“Cease!” commanded the haggard Black Hawk, his face full of travail.
“Put those things behind us. The Big Knives press us closely. What is
best to be done?”
“Let us take a stand on the bluff by the river, with the strongest of
our warriors,” proposed the fertile-minded Ne-a-pope. “Then--”
“Ugh!” grunted the thick-headed Wolf, failing to perceive the scheme of
the medicine-man. “Why so?”
“Beyond the bluff,” went on Ne-a-pope, “there is a path through the
marsh, leading to a ford where the river can easily be crossed by our
people.”
“Wise words, oh Ne-a-pope,” the Hawk swiftly replied, in tones of high
praise. “By the time the Big Knives come up, it will be late afternoon.
It is cloudy, and darkness will come early. If we can keep the
pale-faces at bay till nightfall, we can slip away across the stream
before morning. The white snakes will not follow us beyond the river,
where lay tangled forests that the pale-face has never trod.”
“Ho, ho!” cried the Wolf, new hope in his savage heart, “We will yet
work loose from the Big-Knife trap!”