THE END OF THE "BLACK HAWK" WAR
Some allowance ought surely to be made for a man who is condemned to
go through life with such a name as Muckkertamesheckkerkerk; and, to
do the United States Government justice, the gentleman so styled seems
to have been treated with a good deal of patience and lenity.
"Black Hawk" (to give him at once the name by which he is better
known in American history) was an Indian chief who contrived to be
as much a thorn in the flesh of the white rulers of his country
as--let us say--some of the Welsh princes were in that of our
Plantagenet kings. He was born in 1767, and by the time he was
fifteen had so distinguished himself in war and in hunting that he
became a recognised brave of his tribe--the Sac and Fox. Up till
the year 1804 the new republic could afford to ignore the deeds and
misdeeds of this renowned patriot, for he confined most of his
energies to warfare with the Cherokees and Osages--sub-tribes of
the Iroquois; but, as white civilisation continued to push westward,
it became necessary either to conciliate or to subdue those who
stood in the way of its progress.
At first conciliation did not appear difficult. General Harrison
invited Black Hawk--now a man of four-and-thirty, and the recognised
champion of all the Algonquin Indian tribes--to appear at St. Louis,
in order to discuss the question of boundaries, and to enter into a
treaty which would be of mutual benefit. Black Hawk came, and with him
a host of tributary chiefs--Shawnees, Blackfeet, Sacs and Foxes, etc.
The American General's proposals were fair and to the point. The
redskins were to renounce all claim to about seven hundred miles of
land east of the Mississippi, in return for an annual payment of a
thousand dollars. A couple of hundred pounds as rental for a strip of
land some eight hundred miles long sounds ridiculous enough to us,
unless we bear in mind that the Indians were merely asked to keep to
the other side of the river; they were not giving up towns or houses
or cultivated lands; they were receiving what--to them--meant a very
substantial income, in return for their migrating to far better
hunting-grounds in Iowa and Minnesota. Black Hawk solemnly agreed to
the contract, with--we must believe--every intention of keeping his
word.
Unluckily, General Harrison and his officers had rather lavish notions
of hospitality; and when Black Hawk's decision was made known to the
other chiefs, most of them were a great deal too drunk to know what
they were agreeing to. The money was paid regularly enough, and, for
some few years, whatever breaches of the treaty there were, were so
trifling that the Government could easily wink at them. Black Hawk
went about his hunting and his civil warfare and conducted himself as
a respectable savage should.
Then he got into bad hands. As the troubles of our own armies in India
and the Soudan have shown, it is no uncommon thing to find peaceable
men stirred to fighting frenzy by some maniac who makes it his
business to cause as much strife as possible in the name of religion.
A great prophet had arisen among the Indians--a Shawnee, in whose
hands poor Black Hawk was wax; and who gave the redskins no rest till
they crossed the river in a body, and swept eastwards as far as
Michigan, driving the handful of white settlers back and back to the
towns from which they had come. This was in 1811. In the following
year, now thoroughly persuaded that he and all the chiefs and all the
white subscribers to the treaty were drunk when it was signed, and
that it was no longer binding, Black Hawk pressed on into Michigan as
far as Detroit. This was more than human patience could stand; the
white citizens turned out, and drove away the Indians with such
slaughter that their leader was only too glad to draw off. For four
years he confined his attacks to petty farm raids, and, in 1816,
signed another treaty, which was followed by fourteen years of
comparative peace, though Black Hawk and a few of his supporters
refused to retire across the river again.
By 1830 the States Government, realising its folly in having allowed
any deviation from the strict terms of the agreement, obliged Black
Hawk to sign another, by which every acre of land east of the river
became white property. It was now that the real trouble began. The
Indian chief was growing old, losing his former promptness of action,
and becoming more and more a slave to the Shawnee prophet's counsels.
During the fourteen years that he had been practically defying the
Government, he and his immediate adherents had begun to farm a little;
and just now their crops were ripening, and harvest-time was almost
due. When the order came for him to leave the neighbourhood he lost
his head or his temper, refused to stir, and threatened with death
anyone who dared to interfere with him. A week later he returned from
his hunting to find some white labourers calmly ploughing up his crops
and parcelling out his land. There was a brief scuffle, and the whites
were obliged to flee, and thus opened the last period of the war.
Knowing that vengeance would be taken, Black Hawk sent across the
river for more warriors, and prepared to make a decided stand. But
instead of the half-dozen shopkeepers and labourers he had been
prepared to meet, he found himself attacked by a body of men several
hundred strong, well armed, and many of them mounted. These were the
Illinois militia under General Gaines--hardy trappers, farmers, and
timber-rafters, whose fathers had fought with and defeated British
regiments. The Indians' nerve failed them, and, after a single deadly
volley from the militia, they fled. But, instead of crossing the
river, they went north, into Wisconsin, where they looked to find
remnants of their tribe who would ally themselves with them.
During the whole of the next year, and until the summer of 1832, a
very clever guerrilla warfare was carried on by the savages; hundreds
of white men were killed, and scarcely one Indian; nor was there much
in the shape of a pitched battle. It was then that General Atkinson,
an old and experienced fighter of Indians, was sent to put an end to
the whole matter. Dispatching a small force of light cavalry, under
General Scott, to search the woods, he marched the bulk of his little
army towards the Wisconsin River, in the hope of eventually
surrounding the Indians and capturing Black Hawk.
His march proved more tedious than he had bargained for. Nowadays
tired New Yorkers and Chicagoites, with a taste for sport, devote
their summer holidays to shooting over the beautiful Wisconsin
highlands; but in 1832 there were no railways or palace-like hotels
there. Even a farm was a rarity, and every hill or ravine might
conceal a score of Indian sharpshooters. The whole aspect of the
country was savage, dreary, and forbidding. It had been the duty of
the advance guard to see that there were no redskins lying in ambush;
but General Atkinson soon began to think that that duty had been very
much neglected, for at almost every mile an arrow or a bullet came
from nowhere, wounding some man or horse, and in one case killing a
Sioux guide. This kind of thing continued for a couple of days or
more; and Atkinson had begun to say somewhat hard things of his
colleague when one of the scouts rode up to report a mound of earth
which, he said, looked very much like a grave. Before the day was out,
six more such mounds had been seen by the wayside, and as most of them
were marked by a cross, hastily made with a couple of sticks, it was
all too probable that these were the graves of white men.
The old soldier's mind was soon made up.
"We must get double work out of our horses, boys," he said; "there'll
be no camping to-night; I'm going to overtake General Scott."
All sorts of possibilities suggested themselves, the most prominent of
which was that they were coming to a district more thickly populated
by Indians, who had been picking off Scott's men with increasing
rapidity; for the last four graves were ominously close together.
Scouts were doubled and, so far from making any pretence of a stealthy
march, lanterns and torches were lit, and every hiding-place hurriedly
examined. The night passed without any sign of Indians; but, soon
after daybreak, three or four columns of smoke were seen rising from
behind a hill that lay in the line of march. Half a dozen scouts
galloped forward and soon disappeared. Atkinson's men closed up,
baggage-waggons were dragged to the centre, and in a moment everyone
was prepared either to charge or to repel a charge.
In less than five minutes a single horseman appeared on the top of the
hill and clattered down the slope. Atkinson spurred his horse and
hurried to meet the messenger--one of the six scouts.
"Well?" he shouted when he was within earshot.
"General Scott--cholera--had to give up!" was the cheering intelligence.
"Forward!" shouted Atkinson, and the company hastened over the hill,
at the foot of which a pitiable state of things awaited them. Soon
after the start of Scott's troops, cholera, in its most malignant
form, had broken out among the party. In less than two days seven men
were dead, and now the remainder had been obliged to abandon their
march, for there was scarcely a trooper of them who was not more or
less afflicted by the horrible malady. As some little consolation
for these tidings, General Scott reported that he had dislodged a
party of Sac and Fox Indians from a ravine, and that these had
fled collectively towards Bad Axe River.
Leaving behind the few men that he could spare to guard and nurse the
sick, Atkinson hastily drew his force to a safe distance from the
cholera camp, and, after a few hours' rest, marched for the nearest
reach of the river, and along the bank, northwards.
Indian chasing does not permit of lengthy rest; the cavalry did not
stop again till long after nightfall, and were off again before dawn.
That afternoon, as they came to a wider strip of river, the General
realised--and not for the first time--that it is the unexpected that
usually happens. Barely a mile ahead, a schooner, towed by three
cutters, was moving slowly northward. Atkinson galloped ahead, but
before he had overtaken the vessel the men in the boats had long
ceased rowing, and she was heading more towards the opposite bank.
"Who are _you_?" was suddenly shouted from her after-deck.
"General Atkinson. Who are you, and what are you about here? Seen any
Injuns?"
"The _Warrior_--Captain Throckmorton.--All right, sir; I'm sending a
boat ashore for you."
This was the first that Atkinson had heard of a river expedition
having been sent. He knew Captain Throckmorton as a very distinguished
young officer, and a clever linguist, master of several native
dialects. While he was speculating as to what had brought the schooner
here, and, further, as to the meaning of a white, flag-like object
which--as he looked past the vessel's stern--he could see waving on
the opposite bank, one of the cutters had pulled ashore and was
waiting for him. A lieutenant met him at the gangway.
"Cap'n's talking to the redskins. Come aft, sir, please."
Then the waving white thing was explained; there were Indians on the
far bank, seeking, under cover of the white flag, to parley with the
Captain. Atkinson joined him and, as well as he was able, followed the
dialogue.
"If you want to speak to me, you must send at least ten of your men
aboard."
"I have not so many with me."
"Liar. I saw over a hundred of you a few minutes ago. Where's your
hopeful leader? Where's Black Hawk?"
"They were but women and children whom you saw."
"Where's Black Hawk?"
"Are those General Atkinson's warriors on the other bank?"
"Yes," interrupted the old soldier explosively; "and I reckon you'll
find that out purty soon."
"Where is Black Hawk?" once more demanded the Captain.
"He is--he is--oh, across the river."
"Will you come aboard if I send you a boat?"
"No."
"Then I give you fifteen minutes in which to send away your women. You
know what that--_Heads oh!_"
A flight of arrows had greeted the Captain's last remark. Happily no
one was struck, and the schooner immediately put into mid-stream
again.
Through the thick foliage on the bank, a redskin or a white feather
could be seen every now and then; the muffled sound of voices could
also be heard. Then another volley of arrows came; and another, and
exclamations from the direction of the boats showed that two men were
wounded. The captain motioned to the crews to shelter behind the
vessel, but still he gave no order. He had promised a quarter of an
hour's grace, and only five minutes of that time had gone by.
"Hear that?" said Atkinson suddenly; and Throckmorton nodded. Every
man on deck had heard the click-click of a score or more of
gun-hammers being pulled back.
The crew looked questioningly, but not impatiently, at their captain;
they knew that he would not go back from his word. There were still
seven minutes to wait.
"Lie low, all hands," said Throckmorton very quietly; and as he spoke
twenty or more sparks and flashes showed through the leaves and a
shower of lead flew over their heads. The man at the wheel was shot in
the shoulder; but the Captain sprang back and had taken the spokes
almost before the sailor fell.
"Let them go on," he said, looking at his watch again. "Your turn will
come, my lads."
Perhaps no other men on the face of the earth, save those of British
extraction, would have stood by uncomplainingly during those next five
minutes without returning a shot. Every man had a loaded musket in his
hand, except the two or three who were in attendance on the howitzer,
ready at a second's notice to fire. Another flight of arrows came;
then one more, and the schooner's spars and bulwarks were bristling
with them.
"Two more minutes!" said Throckmorton. "Look out; they're firing
again."
The volley came. One man fell dead, and another had his hat carried
away; but still no one spoke. Captain Throckmorton beckoned a sailor
to him and bade him take the wheel; and again expectant eyes were
turned on him. Suddenly he returned his watch to his pocket, and
everyone gave a little gasp of relief. The Captain nodded to the men
at the howitzer, and instantly a shell flew among the trees; and,
before the echo of the report had died away, the sailors' muskets
began an incessant fire. Indians appeared from everywhere--from
tree-branches, grass, sedge, in many cases only to fall before the
steady rain of bullets. Some ran north, others south, and these latter
suddenly found their retreat cut off by a heavy fire from the other
bank; for Colonel Dodge, whom Atkinson had left in charge, had only
waited for the men on the schooner to begin firing to get his own
carabineers to work.
"Where can my waggons ford it?" asked Atkinson significantly.
Captain Throckmorton soon produced a soundings-chart and showed that,
at about a mile higher up, the waggons could easily cross, now that
the tide was running down.
"Put me ashore, then."
In a very few minutes the old fighting-man was in the saddle again;
and, while the baggage was moved on to the ford, he and a hundred
light-armed cowboys were swimming their horses across the river. The
shelter from which the Indians had fired proved to be a narrow,
copse-like strip which separated the river from an undulating
prairie.
"There they go, General!" cried a young fellow, Captain Dixon, who
rode behind the leader.
"Ay; making for the hills. _I_ know; the same old plant. We must
pretend to be taken in.--Go on, Dixon; after 'em with twenty men."
The General knew well enough, from bygone experience, that the spot
from which the score or so of redskins were fleeing was probably that
at which the bulk of their army lay _perdu_, and that they were merely
trying their old trick of getting a pursuing force between the two
halves of their own. He rode steadily on, and, before he reached the
hills, saw that he had not been mistaken. The fleeing Indians had
suddenly wheeled and were bearing down furiously on Captain Dixon's
few men.
"Forward!" shouted Atkinson. "He can take good care of himself. We
want Black Hawk.... And here he is, by the living Jingo!"
As he spoke, sixty or seventy Indians appeared at the top of the hill,
four of them beautifully mounted; the rest on wrecks of animals that
could scarcely be matched in a Belfast job-yard.
"Fire! A hundred dollars to the man who gets Black Hawk--alive or
dead," shouted Atkinson as he drew his horse to one side.
Without drawing bridle, the troop fired and reloaded, as only men
born, reared, and nourished in the saddle as these were could have
done. Three of the well-mounted Indians, ignoring the volley, rode
straight at the white men, and were followed more hesitatingly by the
rest, with the exception of those killed, and of the fourth man,
evidently--from his fantastic garb--the aged Shawnee prophet.
"Black Hawk! Black Hawk! Over with him!" roared the excited Yankees,
as a splendid-looking old man, six feet four inches in height, rode
fearlessly at them. Pistol-bullets whizzed round his head, but he
appeared to ignore them and, swinging his war-hatchet, began to cut a
way through the cowboys. His two well-horsed companions--his
sons--followed closely, and in a couple of minutes six of Atkinson's
men were dead. But one glance behind him showed the chief that he was
playing a losing game. General Atkinson seemed to have surrounded all
the rest of the Indians with his troop, who were hewing them down
right and left. Captain Dixon's men, too, had put to flight or killed
those who had turned on them, and were now coming to reinforce their
comrades.
With a passionate yell of disappointment and hatred, the chief turned
his horse's head in the direction whither the prophet was already
fleeing; and, with his sons, rode for some distant bluffs. It was all
very well for Atkinson to spur in pursuit, shouting, "After him!" The
white men's horses had been almost dead-beat before the flight began,
and now could scarcely move at all; and the General was obliged to
await his baggage-vans for the pitching of his camp, for at least a
few hours.
But, before those few hours were ended, another party of Indians came
riding into view, and, as the men sprang to their arms, one of
Atkinson's Sioux guides cried jubilantly: "They are our brothers! They
are the white chief's brothers also."
The strangers galloped up and showed a goodly supply of fresh scalps.
They had pursued and slaughtered those of Black Hawk's warriors who
could not escape with him.
"Why didn't you catch Black Hawk?" asked Atkinson disgustedly.
"We know where he has gone to hide. What will the white chief give us
for Black Hawk and his sons?"
The old man named a price, and the troop rode off again. Soon after
sunrise they returned, and in their midst were Black Hawk and his
sons. The old chief was sullenly silent--a broken man, in fact--and
one is glad to know that these rough cowboys had it in them to treat
the poor old fellow with the courtesy becoming his standing among the
natives.
With his two sons and seven other braves he was taken to Fort Monroe
and there imprisoned for a short time; but when the country was once
more quieted, the Government appointed a fresh chief in his place and
he was set at liberty. He died among his own people six years later.