Dalzell used every effort to restore order, and at last succeeded in
doing so. The Indians had taken possession of a house, near the road,
from the windows of which they fired down upon the English; so some
of the rangers broke down the door with an axe, rushed in, and drove
the redskins away. A captain was ordered to drive off some braves
from behind some neighboring fences, and, as he charged them with
his company, he fell, mortally wounded, shouting: "On, on, England
forever!" The Indians ran off, but no sooner had the men turned about
than the savages came running in upon the flank and rear, cutting down
the stragglers with their tomahawks and scalping all who fell. A
Sergeant of the 55th Regiment lay helplessly wounded, and realizing
that he soon would be scalped, he gazed with a look of despair after
his comrades as they made off. This caught the eye of warm-hearted
Dalzell. So--with the true spirit of a hero--he ran over to the wounded
man to pull him away out of danger, where he could be carried to the
fort. But as he leaned over him, a rifle shot sounded through the dense
mist which shrouded the battle field, and he fell dead across the body
of the disabled private. Few saw him struck, and no one dared to turn
back to recover his body, and thus, deserted and alone, the brave
Englishman lay upon the field of battle to be scalped and plundered by
the exultant savages.
This was the last important event attending the remarkable siege of
Detroit. Winter was approaching, the Indians had nothing laid by which
could sustain them through the winter, and so they had to repair into
the forests in order to trap, hunt, and fish. When spring arrived, the
various bands, as they came in to see the great chief Pontiac, told
him that they were tired of the war and that they wished for peace.
The Hurons and Pottawattamies, who had partly been forced into the
war by threats of the followers of Pontiac, withdrew altogether, and
thus completely ruined the ambitions of the great Ottawa chief, who
had been so sure of success that he had already made arrangements with
the French of dividing the conquered territory with them. The garrison
at Detroit still watched his movements with anxiety. "'Tis said that
Pontiac has gone to the Mississippi, but we don't believe it," wrote
one of the soldiers at this time, and so constant watch and guard was
kept up within the palisades which had successfully defied the might of
the cruel leader of the conspiracy. He was still near by; no one dared
to venture far into the wilderness; and there was constant dread of a
fresh assault.
But the reign of terror was drawing to its close, and when, in the
early summer of 1764, General Bradstreet arrived with a force of
three thousand men, all the tribes in the vicinity of Detroit came
in and concluded a peace, with the exception of the fierce Delawares
and Shawnees, who had so unsuccessfully besieged the ramparts of Fort
Pitt. Pontiac, himself, took no part in the council and was no longer
seen. He abandoned both the country and his followers, and, according
to report, went far to the southwest to the territory of the Illinois.
Here, nursing in silence his wrath, resentment, and mortification,
he brooded upon his fate, and contemplated a fresh outbreak against
the English, trusting that the tribes in the vicinity of the Illinois
River--the St. Josephs, the Miamis, the Marcontens, the Pians, and
the Illinois--would be sufficiently strong to cope with the force
and intelligence of the British. His plot against Detroit had been a
complete failure. True--the smaller forts upon the frontier had fallen
before the unexpected assaults of his allies--but the great prize,
Detroit, had slipped his grasp. Now a large garrison was there, his
Indians were starved and awed into submission. Fort Pitt still frowned
down from its height in perpetual menace to his allies, and rumors of
an advance upon the warlike Delawares and Shawnees filled him with
chagrin and mortification. His confederacy was fast breaking.
And the advance came. The brave and hardy Bouquet with an army of
Pennsylvania rangers, Virginia trappers, and regular troops, pushed far
into the country of the warlike Delawares in the valley of the Ohio.
Reaching a spot in the very heart of the Indian country, he erected
a stout palisade, and awaited a deputation from the fierce enemies
of the Pennsylvania frontier. All the villages of the Shawnees were
within a few days' march, so no choice was left to the Indian warriors
but to sue for peace or else battle with a man, who, at the desperate
encounter of Bushy Run, had routed their entire force of fighting
braves, with an army one-third the size of that which he now had with
him. Bouquet meant business, and the Indians knew it. The frontiersmen
were tired of scalpings, burnings, and robberies on the border. They
had marched out to conclude a treaty of perpetual peace, or to give
these wild rangers of the forest such a beating that they would
remember it forever. Confident in their strength and the justice of
their cause, they awaited the advent of the Indian Chiefs, with rifles
loaded, bullet pouches well filled, and spirits fired with hatred for
the cruel savages.
When the Indian Chiefs arrived next day, they found a small-sized army
of over fifteen hundred fighting men drawn up in battle array. The
soldiers were silent, their bright red coats of the Royal Americans
shone brightly against the green of the forest, the bayonets flashed;
the flags fluttered; and the even ranks of backwoodsmen in fringed
hunting-frocks and moccasins had stern determination written upon
their weather-beaten countenances. The Highlanders, with bare legs and
kilts, leaned carelessly upon their rifles and gazed with indifference
at the painted chieftains of the forest, who, seating themselves with
sullen dignity, appointed one of their number to deliver a speech.
In this the orator promised to give up all the white captives which
the Indians held and to make peace. "I am come among you to force you
to make atonement for the injuries you have done us," answered the
martial Bouquet. "I have brought with me the relatives of those you
have murdered. They are eager for vengeance, and nothing restrains them
from taking it but my assurance that this army shall not leave your
country until you have given them ample satisfaction. You are all in
our power, and, if we choose, we can exterminate you from the earth,
but the English are a merciful and generous people, adverse to shed the
blood even of their greatest enemies; and if it were possible that you
could convince us that you sincerely repent of your past perfidy, and
that we could depend on your good behavior for the future, you might
yet hope for mercy and peace. If I find that you faithfully execute
the conditions which I shall prescribe, I will not treat you with the
severity which you deserve. I give you twelve days from this date to
deliver into my hands all the prisoners in your possession, without
exception--Englishmen, Frenchmen, women, and children--whether adopted
into your tribes, married, or living among you under any denomination
or pretense whatsoever. And you are to furnish these prisoners with
clothing, provisions, and horses, to carry them to Fort Pitt. When
you have fully complied with these conditions, you shall then know on
what terms you may obtain the peace you sue for." This speech had the
desired effect; prisoners by the hundreds were soon brought in, and,
after forcing the Indians to give him hostages to insure the keeping of
peace, Bouquet went back to the settlements with his army, threatening
that if the Indians again went upon the war path he would return with a
larger force and completely annihilate the warring tribes.
News of this was reported to Pontiac, as he sullenly meditated further
plans for revenge in his wigwam among the Illinois. Daily he saw his
followers dropping off from him. To hold out longer against the whites
was folly. He was surrounded by enemies. In the West were unfriendly
Indian tribes; to the South were the hereditary enemies of his people,
the Cherokees; in the East were the whites, and to the North a strong
and vigorous garrison held the fortress of Detroit. Foiled, defeated,
dismayed, he determined to accept that peace which he knew that the
English would give, to smoke the calumet (or peace pipe) with his
white conquerors, and to wait for some favorable opportunity for
revenge. Consequently he attended a council between his tribesmen--the
Ottawas--and the English at Detroit, promised allegiance to the British
flag, and, requesting that the past be forgotten, threw down a wampum
belt upon the floor, saying: "By this belt I remove all evil thoughts
from my heart. Let us live together as brothers." In the spring he
attended a council at Oswego, New York, presided over by Sir William
Johnson, and, being requested for a speech, rose to say: "Father, when
our great father of France was in this country, I held him fast by
the hand. Now that he is gone, I take you, my English father, by the
hand, in the name of all nations, and promise to keep this covenant
as long as I live." Here he delivered a belt of wampum. "Father, when
you address me, it is the same as if you addressed all the nations of
the West. Father, this belt is to cover and strengthen our chain of
friendship, and to show you that if any nation shall lift the hatchet
against our English brethren we shall be the first to feel and resent
it."
True to his promise, the Great War Chief remained at peace with the
whites from now on. Who can reckon what bitter thoughts must have
assailed this red Napoleon when he considered the humiliating close of
his campaign? Proud, ambitious, savage, he saw the oncoming rush of
the men of a different race with revengeful apprehension. His great
plan of extermination of the British had completely failed. The Indian
lack of order, well-defined plan, and knowledge of warfare, had failed
to make but a temporary impression upon the garrison of the frontier.
Their non-providence of provisions and forethought in gathering them,
had caused the abandonment of the siege of Detroit. Their inability
to successfully approach a well-built stockade had made it impossible
for them to damage the walls of Fort Pitt. Pontiac had plead with
his white Canadian allies--during the attack on Detroit--and had
requested them to show his Indians how to make tunnels of approach as
the English did in their own warfare. But the French said that they
did not, themselves, know how to dig these trenches--which was an
untruth--and so he had to give up this proper method of attack. Had his
followers been taught in the civilized schools of military discipline,
they would, by mere numbers, have annihilated the brave defenders
of Detroit; but they were children of the forest--rude, untutored
huntsmen--and as such only could they make war.
Across from the present city of St. Louis, Missouri, is an old hamlet
called Cahokia, and here were gathered several Illinois Indians one
pleasant day of the early spring of 1769. Pontiac had wandered to St.
Louis to see an old acquaintance called St. Ange, and, hearing that
some drinking bout, or social gathering was in progress, told his
white acquaintance that he was going to cross the river to see what
the warriors of Illinois were doing. St. Ange besought him not to join
them, for he was not popular with this tribe. "I am a match for the
English; I am a match for twenty red men," answered the Ottawa Chief,
boastfully, "and I have no fear for my life." So saying, he entered a
canoe and crossed to the other shore of the river.
A feast was in progress, and to it the mighty Pontiac was invited as
soon as his presence among the Illinois was known. There were songs,
boasts, speeches, and the whiskey bottle was passed freely about.
There is no doubt that the red Emperor drank deeply, and, when the
affair was over, he walked majestically down the village street to the
adjacent woods, where he was heard to chant his medicine songs in the
dark and silent wood. An English trader who had an intense dislike
for the mighty war chief was then in the village, and, seeing that
the moment was propitious for an assault upon him, bribed a strolling
warrior of the Kaskaskia tribe of the Illinois with a barrel of liquor
to kill the fierce leader of the Ottawas. Fired, perhaps, by an equal
hatred for Pontiac, the red assassin soon consented to do the deed,
for he was promised still further reward if he should be successful.
As the dark figure of the leader of the great Indian conspiracy loomed
strangely erect in the shadow of the forest, a silent form crept--like
a wildcat--close to where he stood. A twig snapped. Pontiac turned
to see what disturbed the quiet of the forest, and, as he did so, a
tomahawk was buried in his brain. He fell prostrate upon the green
carpet of moss. A shrill wail of triumph startled the night birds from
the branches, and thus, foully and brutally assaulted, died the mighty
Sachem of the Ottawas.
LOGAN: THE MIGHTY ORATOR
AND WARRIOR OF THE MINGOES
A frontiersman in the Ohio country, named Brown, was looking about for
good land upon which to settle, and, finding some excellent territory
in the Kishacognillas Valley, was wandering around in search of
springs. About a mile from the edge of the valley he discovered a bear,
and as he travelled along--hoping to get a shot at him--he suddenly
came upon a spring. Being very thirsty, he set his rifle against a
small tree, and, rushing down the bank near the water, laid down to
drink.
"Upon putting my head down," says the pioneer, "I saw reflected in the
water, on the opposite side, the shadow of a tall Indian. I sprang
to my rifle, when the savage gave a yell, whether for peace or war I
was not just then sufficiently master of my faculties to determine;
but upon my seizing my rifle and facing him, he knocked up the pan of
his gun, threw out the priming, and extended his open palm to me in
token of friendship. After putting down our guns, we again met at the
spring and shook hands. This was Logan--the best specimen of humanity
I ever met with, either white or red. He could speak a little English,
and told me that there was another white hunter a little way down the
stream, and offered to guide me to his camp. There I met another
white man named Maclay. We remained together in the valley a week,
looking for springs and selecting lands, and laid the foundation of a
friendship which never had the slightest interruption.
"We visited the camp at Logan's Spring, and Maclay and he shot at
a mark for a dollar a shot. Logan lost four of five rounds, and
acknowledged himself beaten. When we were about to leave him, he
brought out as many deerskins as he had lost dollars, and handed them
to Mr. Maclay, who refused to take them, alleging that we had been his
guests, and did not come to rob him; that the shooting had only been a
trial of skill, and the bet merely nominal.
"Logan drew himself up with great dignity, and said: 'Me bet to make
you shoot your best--me a gentleman, and me take your dollar if me
beat.'
"So he was obliged to take the skins, or affront our friend, whose nice
sense of honor would not permit him to receive even a horn of powder in
return."
This incident well illustrates the character of Logan: a Chief of the
Mingoes, one of the bravest of men, one of the greatest of orators,
and a redskin who preferred peace to war. He was the second son
of Shikellimus--a wealthy Sachem--but, although he inherited the
talents of his father, he did not inherit his prosperity. He took no
part--except that of peace-making--in the French and English war of
1760, and was always considered a friend of the white man, as he was at
heart, although circumstances made him rebel against the aggressions
of the frontiersmen. His residence was at a western settlement near
Sandusky, Ohio, and near by were about three hundred red warriors.
This eminent Indian supported his family by killing deer, dressing the
skins, and selling them to the whites. He also traded in the land,
which he had inherited from his forebears, and sold quite a piece
to a tailor named De Yong, who lived in Ferguson's Valley, near the
Scioto River. According to the stipulation in this particular trade,
he received his pay in wheat, and, taking it to the mill, found it so
worthless that the miller refused to grind it, saying: "It is good
for nothing. Take it away." Much chagrined at this turn of fortune,
the Indian Chief took the matter before a Judge, named Brown, who
questioned him about the character of the wheat, asking him what was in
it that so much resembled the wheat itself, and yet was not wheat.
"I do not know what to call it," said Logan.
"It must have been _cheat_," said the Judge.
"Yah," answered the Indian, "that very good name for him. It was cheat."
"I will give you redress," cried the man of law, handing him a writ to
give to the constable. "This will bring you in money for your skins.
Take it to the constable and he will see that you have justice."
But the uncivilized, yet honest, Indian could not understand how this
little piece of paper could force a rogue to pay him what he really
owed. "I no understand," said he.
Judge Brown took down his own commission, with the arms of the King
upon it, and explained to the Mingo Chief the first principles and
operations of the civil law.
"Law good," said Logan, after a while. "Make rogues pay up. White man's
law good. But my law better--Do to other man as you wish him to do to
you."
Another incident well exhibits the goodness of heart possessed by this
noted warrior, until cruel injustice made him turn against the whites
with hatred and revenge in his soul.
When a child of a certain Mrs. Norris was just beginning to learn to
walk, her mother remarked--in the presence of Logan--that she was sorry
that she did not have a pair of moccasins for her daughter, so that
her feet could be more firmly supported as she endeavored to stand
upright. The Indian said nothing, at the time, but soon afterwards
asked Mrs. Norris if she would not allow the little girl to go with
him to his cabin and spend the day. To this request the mother gave a
reluctant consent, for she feared treachery, but knowing the delicacy
of an Indian's feelings--and particularly those of Logan--she finally
permitted her little girl to accompany the celebrated red man to his
home. The hours of the day wore slowly away--only too slowly for the
anxious mother. It was soon dusk, and still her little one had not
returned. Mrs. Norris was in a paroxysm of fear, but just as the
sun began to sink in the West, the trusty chieftain was seen coming
down the path before the house, holding the little girl in his arms,
and upon her feet were two beaded moccasins--the product of Logan's
skillful handiwork.
This well illustrates the kindly spirit of Logan. He lived quietly and
peacefully, until events occurred which changed the whole course of
his life. In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder occurred in the
Ohio country, among some of the white settlers, and the crime was laid
to the door of the Mingoes. It is probable that the Indians did not
commit the crime, for numerous white adventurers were traversing the
frontier at this time, some of whom disguised themselves as Indians,
and thought no more of murder than of sleep. In spite of this a cry
went up from all sides, "Revenge upon the red dogs who have stolen our
horses and killed our friends! Revenge!"
It was not long before other events occurred which soon led to a
serious war. Among the backwoodsmen on the Maryland border was a
settler named Michael Cresap--a good, sturdy woodsman, but when his
blood was heated and his savage instincts were aroused, he was a
relentless hater, and a determined, vindictive enemy. He feared no man
and would as readily kill a redskin as a deer. Collecting a party of
armed huntsmen, he paddled down the Kanawha River in quest of vengeance
upon the Indians, and soon perpetrated a foul and ignoble deed. As
he and his followers rounded a bend in the stream near Yellow Creek,
a canoe filled with Indian women and children--and one man only--was
seen coming towards them. The savages were unarmed, unprepared, and
did not expect an attack from the whites, who now concealed themselves
on the bank of the river and awaited the approach of the redskins. The
canoe soon touched the shore, a murderous fire was opened upon the
inoffensive occupants, and before many moments, every Indian had been
slaughtered. Three of these people were relatives of Logan: the man of
peace and friend of the white man.
The great Mingo Chief had just been present at an Indian council and
had persuaded the Mingoes, who feared war, that peace was far better.
With a majestic look he had declared that the "Long Knives," or
Virginians, would soon come like trees in the woods, and would drive
them from their lands, unless the hatchet were laid down. His counsel
had prevailed, the redskins had decided to make no resistance to the
whites, but when they heard of the massacre their whole demeanor was
changed. Logan had been paid for his kindly spirit of forbearance by
the murder of his family. The tiger was aroused in him. His proud
spirit was fired with intense anger, and, swearing that his tomahawk
should drink the blood of the white man till its vengeance should be
appeased with a tenfold expiation, he prepared for a bloody struggle.
On all sides the savages made ready for a long and serious campaign.
Skirmishing had already taken place between bands of Indians and
whites, but no great battle was to occur for some time. Logan--with a
band of eight chosen warriors--boldly penetrated the white settlements
at the headwaters of the Monongahela River, took many prisoners, killed
many whites, and defied every attempt at capture. The Shawnees, the
Mingoes (or Senecas) and a few Delawares and Cherokees were also in
the field, pillaging, burning and murdering on the frontier; while the
white settlers crowded into the large towns for protection.
An incident now occurred which well exhibits the kindly spirit of
Logan, even when in the heat of battle, when blood was being freely
spilled on every side, and when the savages were taking every possible
advantage of the whites. A white prisoner named William Robinson fell
into the hands of Logan's band, and, being tried by the council, the
great Mingo Chief endeavored for nearly an hour to persuade his men
to let the captive go. But his eloquence was of no avail, and it was
decided that the trembling paleface should be tortured at the stake.
While bound to a post, Logan suddenly leaped into the circle of howling
redskins, cut the thongs which held the prisoner, threw a belt of
wampum around him, led him in safety to his wigwam, and shouted in a
loud voice to the clamoring braves, "I have adopted him in place of my
brother killed at Yellow Creek."
A few days later the Chief of the warring red men dictated a letter
to his adopted brother, who wrote it upon birch bark with ink made of
gun powder and water. It was completed, tied to a war club, and stuck
into the logs of a house near Helston Creek, where the entire family
which had formerly resided there had been massacred. Some days later
it was found by a party of riflemen, who were decidedly surprised and
chagrined to read the following:
"Captain Cresap:--What did you kill my people on Yellow Creek for?
The white people killed my kin at Conestoga, a great while ago, and
I thought nothing of that. But you killed my kin again on Yellow
Creek, and took my cousin prisoner. Then I thought I must kill, too,
and I have been three times to war since; but the Indians are not
angry--only myself.
CAPTAIN JOHN LOGAN."
The soldiers who found this note were upon a foray into the Ohio
territory, led by a Colonel McDonald, who was a brave and resolute
Indian fighter. They were much impressed by the dignity of this
missive, but did not stop upon their errand of death, and, pushing to
the mouth of Captina Creek, moved upon the Mingo village of Wapitomica,
on the Muskingum, destroying several villages on the way, and returning
safely with several chiefs as prisoners. But they were pursued by the
savages in force, and realizing that to insure peace upon the border,
it would be necessary to send a good-sized army against the allied
tribes, the Governor of Virginia (Lord Dunmore) decided to send a
small army of backwoodsmen, soldiers, and trappers into the country
of the redskins. Three thousand men were ordered to advance against
the Indians. One half of the force under the command of General Andrew
Lewis was to march to the mouth of the Kanawha River in Ohio; while
Governor Dunmore, himself, was to lead the other half from Pittsburg
to Point Pleasant, Ohio, where the two bodies were to meet and fight a
decisive battle with the Indian warriors under Logan and Cornstalk; the
latter a great Chief of the Shawnees, and an excellent fighter.