the savages from their lurking-places, Black Hawk began to retreat.
Abandoning a camp which he had formed at the Four Lakes, he moved
towards the Mississippi, having been assured by the tribes who lived
in this quarter that they would not only join his party, but would
also furnish him with plentiful supplies and provisions. He was to
be grievously disappointed. No allies joined him, no provisions were
brought to his camp, and scouts told him that the Americans were close
upon his trail. As he was about to cross the Wisconsin River, about
forty miles from a frontier fortress, called Fort Winnebago, he was
attacked by an advanced body of the Americans, under General Dodge.
The fight began just at dusk, and, although sixteen of the red men
were slain, the rest escaped across the stream. Many of the women and
children were captured by the white soldiers as they attempted to run
down the river in canoes, and many of them were drowned, as their frail
barques were sunk by the fire of the frontiersmen.
The once boastful Indian chief was now terrified by the advance of his
despised enemies, and his vaunted courage had ebbed with the decay of
his fortunes. Had he been a Tecumseh, or a King Philip, he would have
made one last desperate stand against the whites, and would have died
at the head of his rebellious warriors. He had suffered no wrong from
the white settlers beyond that of personal insult, and, although he had
been driven from the home of his forefathers, it had been only after
a treaty with members of his tribe. Yet, it is hard to restrain our
sympathy for him and his people, for now, surrounded on three sides,
his one thought was of safety, and he was bent solely on the means of
escape for the remnant of his fighting force.
On August 1st, as he was attempting to cross the Mississippi, he was
interrupted by an armed steamboat, called the _Warrior_, the Captain of
which has written the following account of the engagement which then
took place:
"I was dispatched with the _Warrior_ alone to Wapashaw's village, one
hundred and twenty miles above Prairie du Chien, to inform them of the
approach of Black Hawk, and to order down all the friendly Indians to
Prairie du Chien. On the way down we met one of the Sioux band, who
informed us that the Indians (under Black Hawk) were on Bad Axe River,
to the number of four hundred. We stopped to cut some wood and prepare
for action. About four o'clock on Wednesday afternoon (August 1st),
we found the _Gentlemen_ where he stated that he had left them. As we
neared them, they raised a white flag and endeavored to decoy us, but
we were a little too old for them, and, instead of landing, ordered
them to send a boat on board, which they declined. After some fifteen
minutes' delay, giving them time to remove a few of their women and
children, we let slip a six-pounder, loaded with canister, followed
by a severe fire of musketry, and if ever you saw straight blankets
(Indians running) you would have seen them there. I fought them at
anchor most of the time, and we were all very much exposed. I have a
ball which came in close by where I was standing and passed through the
bulkhead of the wheel-room. We fought them for about an hour or more,
until our wood began to fail, and, night coming on, we left and went on
to the Prairie. This little fight cost them twenty-three killed, and,
of course, a great many wounded. We never lost a man, and had but one
wounded--shot through the leg. The next morning, before we could get
back again, they had the whole of General Atkinson's army upon them. We
found them at it, walked in and took a hand ourselves. The first shot
from the _Warrior_ laid out three. I can hardly tell you anything about
it, for I am in great haste, as I am now on my way to the field again.
The army lost eight or nine killed, and seventeen wounded, whom we
brought down. One died on deck, last night. We brought down thirty-six
prisoners, women and children. There is no fun in fighting Indians,
particularly at this season, when the grass is bright."
What he says of Atkinson's arrival is only too true. Atkinson arrived
with a vengeance, and, after a three hours' action, totally defeated
the Indians; great numbers of them being driven into the Mississippi
and drowned, or captured, by the American sharpshooters. Black Hawk
stole away and got safely off, during the action, leaving all his
baggage behind him, and certificates signed by British officers,
testifying to his good character and excellent services rendered by him
to the British cause in the war of 1812. With a small party, he reached
the Winnebago village of Prairie du Chien, and, despairing of eluding
his persevering pursuers, told the chiefs of this settlement that he
wished to surrender himself to the whites, and that, if they wished,
they might put him to death. But the Winnebago warriors did him no
harm. Their women presented him with a suit of white tanned deerhide,
as a testimonial to his bravery and gallantry; made much of him, and
crowded about the renowned chieftain in wonder and delight. After a
few days of rest he was accompanied by two Winnebago chiefs to the
headquarters of General Street, where he was delivered into the hands
of the American General.
The soldier was seated at a table, when the famous warrior entered,
and, greeting him cordially, he asked him if he had anything to say
for himself. The captured chieftain drew himself up to his full height,
and then spoke in a slow and majestic manner. Although renowned only as
a warrior, his oratory is quite equal to that of Red Jacket and other
famous speakers of the Indian race; and had he not been noted as a war
chieftain, his speeches would have given him distinction among those of
his own color.
"You have taken me prisoner with all my warriors," said he. "I am much
grieved, for I expected, if I did not defeat you, to hold out much
longer and give you more trouble before I surrendered. I tried hard
to bring you into ambush, but your last general understands Indian
fighting. The first one was not so wise. When I saw that I could not
beat you by Indian fighting, I determined to rush on you and fight
you face to face. I fought hard. But your guns were well aimed. The
bullets flew like birds in the air, and whizzed by our ears like the
wind through the trees in winter. My warriors fell around me; it began
to look dismal. I saw my evil day at hand. The sun rose dim on us in
the morning, and at night it sunk in a dark cloud, and looked like a
ball of fire. That was the last sun that shone on Black Hawk. His heart
is dead and no longer beats quick in his bosom. He is now a prisoner
to the white man; they will do with him as they wish. But he can stand
torture, and is not afraid of death. He is no coward. Black Hawk is an
Indian.
"He has done nothing for which an Indian has been ashamed. He has
fought for his countrymen, the squaws, and pappooses, against white
men, who came year after year to cheat him and take away their lands.
You know the cause of our making war. It is known to all white men.
They ought to be ashamed of it. The white men despise the Indians and
drive them from their homes. But the Indians are not deceitful. The
white men speak bad of the Indian and look at him spitefully. But the
Indian does not tell his. Indians do not steal.
"Black Hawk is a true Indian and disdains to cry like a woman. He feels
for his wife, his children, and friends. But he does not care for
himself. He cares for his nation and the Indians. They will suffer. He
laments their fate. The white men do not scalp the head; but they do
worse, they poison the heart; it is not pure with them. His countrymen
will not be scalped, but they will, in a few years, become like the
white men, so that you can't trust them, and there must be, as in the
white settlements, nearly as many officers as men, to take care of them
and keep them in order.
"Farewell, my nation! Black Hawk tried to save you and avenge your
wrongs. He drank the blood of some of the whites. He has been taken
prisoner, and his plans are stopped. He can do no more. He is near his
end. His sun is setting, and he will rise no more. Farewell to Black
Hawk."
Although much impressed by this oration, the General ordered the
noted chief to be made a prisoner, and sent to Washington to confer
with Andrew Jackson, who was the President. Arriving at the seat of
government, the celebrated warrior was soon ushered into the presence
of the chief magistrate, whom he greeted with the words: "I am a man
and you are another. Do with me as you will. I know that you will give
me fair treatment."
Later on, he said: "We did not expect to conquer the whites, no. They
had too many houses; too many men. I took up the hatchet, for my part,
to revenge the injuries which my people could no longer endure. Had I
borne them longer without striking, my people would have said, 'Black
Hawk is a woman; he is too old to be a chief; he is a Sac.' These
reflections caused me to raise the warwhoop. I say no more of it; it is
known to you. Keokuk once was here; you took him by the hand, and, when
he wished to return to his home, you were willing. Black Hawk expects
that, like Keokuk, we shall be permitted to return, too."
"You must feel no uneasiness about your women and children," said the
President. "They will be looked after and will be protected from their
Indian enemies. You must promise me never to lift the hatchet again
against the white man, and then you can return to your own race."
Having secured the necessary promise, Black Hawk, with some companions,
was sent to Norfolk, Baltimore, Philadelphia and New York, where he
was amazed and much flattered by the immense crowds of spectators who
flocked from all quarters to obtain a view of him. The sight of the
navy yards, arsenals, and ships of war made him realize the weakness
and insignificance of his own nation compared with the Americans, and,
upon viewing some troops in New York, he exclaimed: "I once thought
that I could conquer the whites, my heart grew bitter and my hands grew
strong. But the white men were mighty. I and my people failed. I see
the strength of the white men. I will be the white man's friend. I will
go to my people and speak good of the white men. I will tell them that
they are like the leaves of the forest, very many, very strong, and
that I will fight no more against them."
From New York the Indians returned by way of Albany and the Great Lakes
to the Upper Mississippi, where they were set at liberty. No incident
worthy of record took place for three years after his liberation,
until the summer of 1837, when a battle occurred between the Sacs and
Foxes, on one hand, and the Sioux upon the other, in which this noted
chieftain participated. The remainder of his life was peaceful enough,
as he was honored by both reds and whites. Invited to a dinner at a
Fourth of July celebration at Fort Madison, Wisconsin, he was seated
to the right of the toastmaster, who spoke of him as follows, when his
health was proposed:
"Our illustrious guest. May his declining years be as calm as his
previous life has been boisterous and filled with warlike events. His
present friendship to the whites fully entitles him to a seat at our
board."
To which the now aged warrior responded:
"It has pleased the Great Spirit that I am here today. The earth is
our mother, and we are now permitted to look upon it. A few snows ago
I was fighting against the white people; perhaps I was wrong; let it
be forgotten. I love my towns and cornfields on the Rock River; it is
a beautiful country. I fought for it, but it is now yours. Keep it as
the Sacs did. I was once a warrior, but I am now poor. I love to look
upon the Mississippi. I have looked upon it from a child. I love the
beautiful river. My home has always been upon its banks. I thank you
for your friendship. I will say no more."
Black Hawk--the orator, and defeated, though not crestfallen
chieftain--died October 3rd, 1838. Many whites, as well as Indians,
assembled at his tepee to pay their last respects to the noted red man,
and buried him as the Sac chieftains had always been interred. This was
according to his wish. Instead of covering his body with earth, it was
placed upon the ground in a sitting posture, with a cane between the
knees, supporting the hands. Slabs and rails were then piled around
the remains, and the bones of Black Hawk were left to the care of the
elements. During the following winter the body was stolen, and a year
later was found in the possession of a surgeon of Quincy, Illinois. But
the Governor of Iowa, learning of this outrage, compelled the thieving
medical man to restore the skeleton of the noted warrior to his
friends. These interred the bones of the chief beneath the ground, with
a simple headstone to mark the last resting place of the once powerful
warrior of the Sacs and Foxes.
OSCEOLA:
THE SNAKE OF THE FLORIDA EVERGLADES
In a rude stockade in Florida, an officer of the United States
Government sat before a rough-hewn table, upon which was laid the
papers of an Indian treaty. It was the year 1832. Before him stood
several Seminole chieftains, one of whom was nearly white and had a
sharp, intelligent and crafty-looking countenance.
"You see," said the American soldier, pointing to the paper, "by
the terms of this agreement, you Seminoles are to give up all your
possessions in Florida, are to receive $15,400 upon arriving at your
new home, and shall each have a blanket. Your women will each have a
new homespun frock. Seven of your chiefs must consent to this agreement
before it becomes a law. That is the will of our great father,
President Jackson."
"I will sign your paper," said one of the gaudily-attired Seminoles,
stepping forward.
"And I, also," said another.
But he of the sharp features jumped quickly between them and the
parchment. It was Osceola, half Indian and half white, a redskin of
treacherous courage and implacable hatred for the whites.
"I shall never sign these lies," said he with violence, "you whites are
all cowards and cheats!" and, seizing his long knife in his right hand,
he plunged it through the paper with such force that it went clean
through the table upon which it lay. Then turning haughtily, he left
the room, and disappeared.
[Illustration:
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute
OSCEOLA.]
The officer wrote to Washington that, in spite of the opposition of
some of the chiefs, the treaty would be ratified by the Indians and
they would leave their homes in the Everglades and swamps to the
possession of the whites. But, in this, he was mistaken. It became
apparent that the Seminoles intended to fight rather than to give up
their lands to the white pioneers. A General Thompson called the real
leaders of these Southern redskins to another conference, in October,
1834, and said:
"I have told you that you must stand to your bargain; my talk is the
same. Your father, the President, who is your friend, will compel you
to go. Therefore, be not deluded by any hope or expectation that you
will be permitted to remain here."
"We will remain and will fight," answered the spokesman of the chiefs.
Six months later, they were again called together to hear the
message of their father, President Jackson, the great white chief
in Washington. General Thompson read them the message of this wise
statesman, which ran:
"My children, I am sorry to have heard that you have been listening to
bad counsel. You know me, and you know that I would not deceive you,
nor advise you to do anything that was unjust or injurious. Open your
ears and attend now to what I am going to say to you. They are the
words of a friend, and the words of truth.
"The white people are settling round you. The game has disappeared
from your country. Your people are poor and hungry. All this you
have perceived for some time. And nearly three years ago you made an
agreement with your friend, Colonel Gadsen, acting on the part of the
United States, by which you agreed to cede your lands in Florida, and
to remove and join your brothers, the Creeks, in the country west of
the Mississippi."
After going into the terms of the treaty, the message concluded with:
"I now learn that you refuse to carry into effect the solemn promises
thus made by you, and that you have stated to the officers of the
United States that you will not remove to the Western country. My
children, I have never deceived you, nor will I ever deceive any of
the red people. I tell you that you must go, and you will go.... But
lest some of your rash men should forcibly oppose your arrangements for
removal, I have ordered a large military force to be sent among you....
Should you listen to the bad birds that are always flying about you,
and refuse to go, I have directed the commanding officer to remove you
by force. This will be done. I pray the Great Spirit, therefore, to
incline you to do what is right."
This strong appeal divided the Seminoles, a considerable number
consenting to their removal; but Osceola would not hear of such a
step, and, when protesting against the matter in the presence of
General Thompson, grew so angry that he drew a knife. "Arrest this man,
immediately!" cried the now irate soldier, "and put him in irons until
further orders."
Maddened and outraged by this treatment, Osceola secretly swore
revenge. The devil rose in the soul of this mongrel of the Florida
canebrakes, and he made an oath to never rest until he had the life
blood of General Thompson. But, simulating a spirit of peace, he agreed
to sign the treaty, and to do all in his power to persuade his people
to follow his example. He was playing a part, and his true nature soon
asserted itself, after seventy-nine of his people (men, women, and
children) signed the compact with the Government of the United States
at Fort King. Osceola, himself, put his name to the deed, but two
weeks later shot down a white interloper who had penetrated the dense
jungle of the Everglades, where he had made his home. Soon all of the
Seminoles were in arms, and the Government of the United States was
plunged into a desperate conflict, which was to last for seven long and
tedious years.
There were three important and crucial events in this bitter struggle.
One was the annihilation of Major Dade and his men; another the
shooting of General Thompson, and a third the capture and death of the
crafty and treacherous Osceola.
Only five hundred regular troops of the United States army were in
Florida in the fall of 1836. One company was at St. Augustine; six were
in the centre of the state at Fort King, and three were near what is
now the town of Tampa, at Fort Brooke on Hillsboro Bay. "Two companies
will leave Fort Brooke on December 16th, to meet an equal number from
Fort King near the forks of the Ouithlacoochee River, in order to make
an active campaign against the Seminoles," wrote General Clinch, the
director of the Southern army at that time, to the commander at Fort
Brooke. So, collecting the necessary men, that part of the expedition
which was to come from Fort Brooke was soon made up, placed under the
charge of Major Francis L. Dade, who had fought gallantly at Tippecanoe
twenty-five years before, and, with one hundred and nine effectives,
and a guide (half negro and half Spanish) started towards the place of
rendezvous. One six-pound cannon, drawn by four oxen, brought up the
rear.
The troops were not able to make speedy progress, for tangled weeds,
branches, and vines grew across the roadway in dense confusion. In four
days they only went sixty-five miles into the jungle, in whose dank
and soggy depths the keen eyes of Osceola's men watched like ferrets.
Lean-bodied warriors crept like snakes through the undergrowth, by
paths known to themselves alone, and kept their cruel chieftain
continually advised of the advance of the little army. Even the
half-breed guide was a spy and a traitor; he had told the Seminoles
by what route the whites were to advance, and had hinted to them that
it would be an excellent opportunity to annihilate the entire band.
Osceola prepared to do so, and, in a place favorable for attack,
collected a strong body of half-naked and well-armed redskins.
On December the 28th, Major Dade's little battalion crossed the waters
of the Ouithlacoochee and marched slowly along the sandy trail which
was the only road. The ground was rather open and covered with a
sparse growth of tropical palmettos. On the right was a small pond,
surrounded by a swampy marsh, overgrown with rank grass, five feet
high, and scrubby bushes and trees. On the left it was open and without
much grass. The troops pushed on unsuspectingly, but behind the rank
growth of weeds several hundred Seminoles, under Micanopy, lay in
ambush. Osceola was away upon a mission of death, and had left strict
orders that not a savage was to fire his piece until the signal was
given.
The Americans were strung out in a long line, and were totally
unsuspicious of any attack. Two Lieutenants were in the advance, and
after them marched Major Dade with the main force, the six-pounder in
the midst of the light-hearted soldiers. They trudged along singing,
but Micanopy had his eye upon the leader of the expedition, and, as he
passed by, the Indian took careful aim at his head. _Crack!_ a rifle
shot rang out upon the clear air, the gallant Major fell prostrate to
the ground, and, with a wild, blood-curdling warwhoop, the Seminole
warriors discharged a gruelling volley into the advancing column. The
two Lieutenants in front immediately went down. The suddenness of the
attack appalled and staggered the Americans.
But, although staggered, there was no panic, and the whites were not
disorganized. With immediate promptitude the soldiers fell back from
the road into the trees, and returned the rifle fire of their savage
enemies. Crouching behind fallen logs and palmetto stumps, they only
discharged their muskets when they saw a redskin show himself, and so
accurate was their fire that the attackers finally withdrew. For forty
minutes the battle had raged with fury.
About fifty Americans were now left, and, with a knowledge of Indian
tactics that is commendable, they instantly began to fell trees for a
breastwork in the form of a triangle. The wounded were carried to the
centre, and the six-pounder was placed where it could rake the oncoming
foe. Working with desperation, the whites had succeeded in raising a
protecting barrier, three tree trunks high, when a terrible yell from
the forest of palmettos announced another Indian attack. The Seminoles
poured a destructive fire into the little fort. Men fell upon every
side, but with stolid and grim determination, the soldiers fought on in
silence.
Unfortunately for the soldiers, their palisade was in a slight hollow,
so the Indians commanded it from all sides. Lieutenant Keais lay
helpless against the breastwork with both arms broken, until killed
by a bullet through the head. Another officer, Henderson, continued
to load and fire his musket with a broken arm, until dispatched by
a leaden missile in the chest. A Doctor did great damage with two
double-barreled shotguns, until finally knocked over by the accurate
fire of some Seminoles who had crawled into the trees. Captain Gardiner
was seen by one of the survivors to fall, crying out: "I can give no
more orders, my brave boys. Do your best!" But soon there was no more
fire from the log breastworks; the Indians swarmed into the rude fort,
and it was all over with Major Dade's battalion.
Although the Seminoles took many scalps, they left three men alive, who
feigned death, and, as they were bodily wounded, looked as if they had
suffered the fate of all. One of them was shot by a lurking warrior
when he tried to get away. The other two, however, crawled off towards
Fort Brooke, sixty-five miles through the Everglades, and one of them
reached this haven of refuge. The third was shot by a Seminole. When
news of the annihilation of Dade's men reached civilization, it sent a
thrill of horror through the entire country, and made the whites more
determined than ever to annihilate the followers of Osceola.
This chief, it will be remembered, had sworn vengeance against General
Thompson for throwing him in irons, and now was to have his oath
fulfilled. The General was, on December 28th, dining with nine other
gentlemen at the storehouse of Mr. Rogers, two hundred and fifty yards
from Fort King. As the weather was mild, doors and windows were thrown
open wide. The repast was a good one, wine was upon the table, and it
is said that one officer had proposed a toast: "To the speedy capture
of that knave Osceola and a termination of the war." No sooner had
the words left him than a volley rang out. The officer dropped to the
ground, mortally wounded; a wild yell sounded in the ears of those who
survived this sudden and unexpected assault, and Osceola bounded into
the room, followed by a dozen warriors.