prostrate to the ground. Leaping to his bleeding form, Osceola scalped
him, held his hand aloft, and uttered a yell of triumph which was long
remembered by all who heard it. Five others lay dead upon the ground.
Those who were not killed leaped from the windows and fled. Five of
them, who were fortunate enough to start towards the fort, escaped;
but the others, who dashed towards a sheltering hill of sand, near by,
were shot down by the skillful Seminoles. The cook, who was a negro
woman, crouched behind a barrel in a dark corner, and was so thoroughly
protected by her color that she was not seen by Osceola, who, pausing
for a moment to take another scalp, darted out again, uttering a
peculiarly shrill and piercing yell, so that those in the fort might
know who was the leader of this bloody attack. His vengeance had been
complete.
After this tragic affair the war continued as before. The Seminoles
increased in numbers, through additions of runaway negroes and
criminals from the Creeks and other tribes adjoining. Their strength
seemed to be greater than usual, and, when driven into a corner, they
fought like wildcats, without any thought of surrender. All Florida
was in a panic of fear. The fugitives from Seminole wrath were reduced
to such sore straits that Congress passed a bill to send them food and
clothing until peace could be declared. To such extremities was the
Government driven, that a force of one thousand Southern and Western
Indians was enlisted to help subjugate the dreaded Seminoles.
In the last days of October, 1837, a solitary Indian was one day seen
in the edge of the timber before Fort Peyton. He held up his hand in
token of peace, and, being allowed to approach nearer, said: "I have a
talk from Osceola to Big Chief."
"What does he want?" asked the sentry who had challenged him.
"He not far off. Wish to speak with Big Chief Jessup" (the commander of
this stockade).
"I will give him Osceola's message," said the sentry.
When General Jessup heard that the savage Seminole was near by, he
immediately devised a scheme for capturing him. Finding that he could
not entice him into the fort, he ordered one of his officers, with over
a hundred soldiers, to seize the Seminole chief, under cloak of a flag
of truce. This sharp trick was successfully operated, and, although it
was a piece of the most flagrant treachery, the wily enemy to white
government was at last secured. The affair is a perpetual stain upon
the honor of the United States.
In spite of his vigorous protests, Osceola was sent to St. Augustine
and afterwards confined in the dungeon at Fort Moultrie, Charleston,
South Carolina. Crushed by the humiliating position to which he had
sunk, and brooding over the misfortunes of his race, he pined away and
died within a year. The war kept on as vigorously as before, and did
not terminate until 1842. Then the great bulk of the Seminoles was sent
beyond the Mississippi, and a few, who were harmless, were allowed to
remain in Florida.
The skeletons of the unfortunate soldiers who fell with the gallant
Major Dade were collected, and buried in St. Augustine with appropriate
ceremonies. A monument was erected to the memory of these courageous
men. At West Point is also another monument, the inscription upon which
reads:
"To commemorate the Battle of the 28th of December, Between a
Detachment of 108 U. S. Troops and the Seminole Indians, of Florida,
In which all the Detachment Save Three Fell Without an Attempt to
Retreat."
All honor to these brave men who, dying with their face to the foe,
nobly upheld the finest traditions of the army of the United States!
ROMAN NOSE:
THE CUSTER OF THE CHEYENNES
All the world admires a brave man, whether he be of red, black, or
yellow complexion. All the world respects the leader of a gallant
cavalry charge, whether it be successful or not. The British leader
of the heroic 600 has been celebrated in both prose and poetry. The
gallant Von Bredow of the Franco-Prussian War; the fearless Custer; the
impetuous Farnsworth of Gettysburg fame, have all had their stories
told by scores of writers; but here is the story of an Indian who led
as fierce a gallop as that of the courageous British squadrons at
Balaklava, and it is a tale which should live as long as that of any
of the other heroes of sabre, spur, and cuirass, whose names adorn
the most exciting pages of history. All honor to Roman Nose, the
intrepid leader of the Cheyennes, whose mad gallop across the alkali
wastes of the Arikaree Valley in the spring of 1868 has had but little
recognition by writers of stirring deeds and desperate attacks!
Two years before the conflict between the followers of Roman Nose and
the soldiers of the United States Government, a council was held near
Fort Ellsworth. Kansas, between General Palmer and the head men of the
Cheyenne tribe of Indians. The conquest of the American continent had
begun. The steel rails of the Pacific Railway were being laid across
the hunting grounds of the red men, and they, considering and believing
the ground to be their own, had come to protest against this invasion
of their soil.
As the General in command of the post listened to the words of the
chiefs, suddenly a noble-looking Indian stood up and advanced in a
solemn and majestic manner to the centre of the chamber in which the
council was held. It was Roman Nose: one of the finest specimens
of the untamed savage. His physique was superb. A large head, with
strongly marked features, lighted by a pair of fierce black eyes, a
large mouth with thin lips, through which gleamed rows of strong,
white teeth; a Roman nose, with delicate nostrils like those of a
thoroughbred race-horse, first attracted attention; while a broad
chest, with symmetrical limbs, on which the muscles on the bronze
of the skin stood out like twisted wire, were some of the marked
characteristics of this splendid American savage. Clad in buckskin
leggins and moccasins, elaborately embroidered with beads and feathers,
with a single eagle feather in his scalp-lock, and a rare robe of white
buffalo, beautifully tanned and as soft as cashmere, thrown over his
shoulders--he stood forth--the mighty war chief of the Cheyennes--and
said in measured tones:
"We will not have the wagons which make a noise (steam engines) in the
hunting grounds of the buffalo. If the palefaces come farther into
our land, there will be scalps of your brethren in the wigwams of the
Cheyennes. I have spoken."
[Illustration:
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute.
ROMAN NOSE.]
But, in spite of what the noble-looking chieftain had said, the white
settlers continued to push into the sacred precincts of the Cheyennes,
to take up homes there, and to treat the red men as if they had neither
right nor title to the soil. The Indians were soon upon the warpath.
Under Roman Nose and Black Kettle, they swept through western Kansas
like a whirlwind of vindictive ferocity. They fought the gangs of
workmen engaged in the duty of laying the rails for the hated Kansas
Pacific Railroad; attacked the isolated homesteads of the adventurous
squatters; ruthlessly slaughtered men, women and children, and ran
off cattle, sheep, and horses. From June to December, 1868, they
murdered one hundred and fifty-four white settlers and freighters;
captured between thirty and forty women and children; burned and
sacked twenty-four farmhouses; and attacked several stagecoaches and
wagon trains. Great excitement existed along the border settlements
of Kansas and Colorado. Appeals were made to the authorities of the
general government to give protection against the terrible Cheyennes,
or else allow the people to take matters into their own hands and
revenge themselves against their hereditary enemies. General Sheridan,
then in command of that military department, was fully alive to the
responsibilities of his position, and, in his usual decisive manner,
set about the task of crippling the wild riders of the plains.
In order to punish these bloodthirsty Cheyennes, the celebrated
Sheridan had not the necessary number of troops. Congress, however,
had authorized the employment of detachments of frontier scouts to
be recruited from the daring spirits always to be met with upon the
border. So the General was only too ready to listen to the request of
one of his young officers, Major George A. Forsyth, who asked him to
grant him permission to raise a body of scouts, independent of the
regular army. After listening quietly to what Forsyth had to say,
Sheridan remarked:
"I have determined to organize a scouting party of fifty men from among
the frontiersmen living here on the border. There is no law that will
permit me to enlist them, and I can only employ them as scouts through
the quartermaster's department. I will offer them a dollar a day, and
thirty-five cents a day for the use of their horses, which will, I
think, bring good material. Of course, the government will equip them,
and they will draw soldier's rations. If you care for the command, you
can have it, and I will give you Lieutenant Fred Beecher, of the Third
Infantry, for your second in command."
"Thank you, General," was Forsyth's answer. "I accept the command with
pleasure."
"I thought you would," said Sheridan, smiling. "And yet I hesitated to
offer it. Understand if I had anything better, you should have it."
"I am glad to get this," was the reply of the gallant Major.
There was little difficulty in obtaining capable men for the new
command. There were hundreds of Civil War veterans upon the frontier,
while many a plainsman was only too ready to have an opportunity of
getting even with the wild riders of the West. In fact, men had to
be turned away, so eagerly did recruits flock to the standard of the
Original Rough Rider. In two days, Forsyth--who had been with Sheridan
in his famous ride from Winchester to Cedar Creek--had enrolled thirty
men at Fort Harker. Sixty miles westward was Fort Hayes, where twenty
more were obtained two days later, so that in five days from the time
that Forsyth had been given the command, he was marching into the
Indian country at the head of as brave a body of plainsmen as ever
swung a rifle across their shoulders. They were looking for trouble,
and they found it.
Roman Nose and his Cheyennes were known to be somewhere near the
Republican River, northwest of Fort Hayes, and, as the little troop
scouted northwards, there were frequent indications of large camps of
Indians which had been abandoned only a few days before the arrival
of the command. On the morning of September 10th., a small war party
of savages attacked a train near Sheridan, a tiny railroad town some
eighty miles beyond Fort Wallace, another fort where Forsyth had
stopped to rest his men. They had killed two teamsters and had run off
a few cattle.
Immediately Forsyth's Rough Riders were upon the trail of these
Indians, and followed it until darkness put an end to all pursuit. Next
morning the chase was continued, the trail grew continually larger,
and finally developed into a broad, well-beaten road, leading up the
Arickaree fork of the Republican River. It was evident that a large
number of Indians was ahead, but Forsyth had come out to fight, not to
run away, so he pressed hard after the retreating band. As darkness
fell on the evening of the eighth day from Fort Wallace, the command
was halted and went into camp near a little sandy island in the river:
a mere sandspit of earth formed by the shallow stream as it divided
and then came together again about a hundred yards from the place of
parting. The water was only about eight feet wide and two or three
inches deep.
During the last three days of the march, game had been very scarce,
which convinced the soldiers that the Indians, whose trail they were
following, had scoured the country with their hunting parties, and had
driven off every kind of wild animal. Provisions were getting low.
The day following would see the command nearly out of supplies of all
kinds. But Forsyth was called "Sandy," because of his grit and nerve,
and he determined to push on after the redskins until he found them,
and to fight them even if he could not whip them, in order that they
might realize that the Government was in earnest when it said that the
marauders of the peaceful settlements were to be punished.
The first flush of dawn was reddening the sky next morning, when
Forsyth, who was awake, suddenly caught sight of something moving
stealthily by upon the horizon. At the same moment the sentry saw it,
and cocking their rifles, the two soldiers gazed intently into the dim
distance. Suddenly the soft thud of galloping hoofs came to their ears,
and, peering just above the crest of rising ground between themselves
and the horizon, they caught sight of the waving feathers upon the
scalp-locks of three mounted warriors. In an instant their rifles
spoke in unison, and with the cry of "Indians! Turn out! Indians!" they
ran back to the camp. In a second it was in confusion. Men jumped to
their feet and seized their rifles, as with a loud shouting, beating
of Indian drums, and rattling of dried hides, about a dozen redskins
galloped down upon the camp in the apparent endeavor to stampede the
horses. Crack! crack! sounded the well-aimed rifles of the scouts, and,
as the Indians sheered off, carrying with them three of the pack mules,
one of their number dropped to the turf.
"Saddle up! Saddle up, quickly, men!" was the next order, and, in a
very few moments, the horses were saddled and bridled, while every man
stood ready to mount. Daylight had begun to appear by now, so that one
could see objects within a few hundred yards; when suddenly an old-time
scout, who stood next to Forsyth, put his hand upon his shoulder, and
cried: "Oh, heavens, General! Look at the Indians!"
Forsyth's heart sank to his boots as his eye followed the direction
of the scout's outstretched hand. For the ground seemed literally to
sprout Indians. They apparently jumped from the sod itself, and over
the rolling hills, out of the thickets, from the bed of the stream,
along the opposite bank, and out of the long grass upon every side,
hundreds of redskins--with shrill cries of vindictive hatred--rushed
down upon the fifty scouts, standing immobile at their horses' heads.
"Fire!" shouted Forsyth, when a few of the red men came quite close,
and, as the sharp crack of the rifles spat at the yelping braves,
several ponies went down. The Indians fell back, out of range, and
a few moments were given to the cool-headed United States officer to
perfect plans for a retreat.
After a moment's hesitation he shouted his orders: "Lead your horses to
the little island. Form a circle fronting outwards! Throw yourselves
upon the ground and intrench yourselves as rapidly as you can!"
No sooner had he ceased speaking than, in almost a solid mass, the
scouts retreated to the island, keeping up a vigorous fusillade upon
the surrounding Indians. On the left, down the stream, a way to escape
lay open through the little gorge up which the command had marched,
but Forsyth knew enough of Indian tactics to realize that the savages
would line these bluffs with warriors. Once upon the island, and they
would have to attack over open ground. Intrenched in this position,
the soldiers had an even chance of standing off this overwhelming mass
of Indians, who, realizing that they had the white men in their power,
rode around the brave little army with yells of derision, and shot at
them repeatedly as they broke into a run in order to get to the chosen
position. A steady and galling fire poured in upon the scouts from the
reeds and long grass. Horses fell to the earth on all sides. One man
was killed, several were badly wounded. Enfuriated at their blunder in
not seizing the island before the whites had a chance to reach it, the
various chiefs rode rapidly around, just out of rifle range, and yelled
to their dismounted warriors to close in on all sides. The steady crack
of rifles sounded everywhere; the horses reared and plunged at their
tethers; men cursed and groaned; the Indians howled savagely, and
above the frightful mêlée could be heard the calm commands of Forsyth:
"Steady, men! Steady, now! Aim low. Don't throw away a shot!"
At this thrilling moment, and as the men with tin-cups, pocketknives,
and tin dishes, were shovelling up enough of the gravelly soil to form
a rude protection, one of the plainsmen shouted:
"Don't let's stay here and be shot down like dogs! Will any man try for
the opposite bank with me?"
"I will," cried out a man upon the other side of the circle.
"Stay where you are, men. It's your only chance!" called Forsyth, as he
stood in the centre of the command, revolver in hand. "I'll shoot down
any man who attempts to leave the island."
"And so will I," shouted McCall, the first sergeant.
"Get down to your work, men! Don't shoot unless you can see something
to hit. Don't throw away your ammunition, for your lives may depend on
how we husband it!" again cried Forsyth. And, as there was a temporary
lull in the fight--many Indians having fallen to the rear of their
line, badly wounded--the scouts grew cool and determined, vigorously
dug into the sand with their knives and plates, and soon had a
good-sized barricade thrown up. Indian women and children now covered
the bluffs back of the valley, on the north side of the stream, and
their shouts and wailing showed that many a redskin warrior had been
sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds.
Meanwhile one stalwart warrior of magnificent physique and noble
countenance carefully watched the circle of scouts from a hillock down
the winding course of the Arickaree. It was Roman Nose--head chief of
the Cheyennes--his face painted in alternate lines of red and black;
his body naked, save for a red scarf about his waist; his head crowned
with a magnificent war bonnet, from which, just above the temples and
curving slightly forward, stood up two short, black buffalo horns. A
long tail of eagles' feathers and herons' plumes waved gracefully from
the back of his head, while a beautiful chestnut pony, held by a single
deer thong, pawed the earth beneath the supple frame of the chieftain.
For days this intelligent war chief had seen and watched Forsyth's
scouts as they followed the trail of his warriors. A few miles beyond,
he had prepared an ambuscade for them, so, if they had not camped where
they were, they would all have been undoubtedly annihilated. There were
Northern Cheyennes, Oglala and Brulé Sioux, a few Arapahoes, and a
number of dog, or renegade soldiers composing this savage army. In all
there were almost one thousand warriors, accompanied by their squaws
and children, who were eager to see the annihilation of the white men
and the triumph of their brothers, husbands, and fathers. Just think
of it! One thousand to fifty, and those fifty without food, without
horses, and hemmed in upon a tiny island which could be easily reached,
across only a few inches of water! But such a fifty had not been seen
since the time of the Greeks who held the pass at Thermopylae. Listen,
and hear how they made one of the most desperate stands of history!
Roman Nose was furious with anger, because he had told his men to
occupy the island, and they had not done so. But he was confident that
he could soon crush the white men, even as members of his tribe had
annihilated Fetterman's command, a few years before, near Fort Phil
Kearney, in Wyoming. Summoning his leading chiefs to him, he pointed
out to them the proper position to place the warriors in, so as to
get the best possible line of fire upon the entrenched camp; and,
explaining to them that, while a number of them kept the whites at bay,
fully five hundred should assemble around the bend in the river and
prepare for a cavalry charge, he himself trotted his horse down the
bed of the stream, well beyond the view of the defenders of the little
island.
The clear atmosphere of a bright September day gave just the proper
light for accurate rifle fire. A steady rain of bullets fell against
the sides of the little mounds which the Rough Riders of '68 had
erected, but the scouts only returned the shots when they saw an
opportunity to effectively use their cartridges. Many a badly wounded
brave could be seen crawling over the plain to a place of safety,
while the wails and shrieks of the women on the bluffs sounded harshly
discordant above the rattle of small arms. The horses were groaning
in the agonies of death, and, as the last animal fell to the ground,
one of the savages cried out in English: "There goes the last horse
anyhow!" which proved that some white renegade was in the ranks of the
Sioux, Arapahoes, and Cheyennes. Forsyth, who had been walking about
among his men giving directions and commands, now lay down behind a
gravel mound, and, as he did so, a shot hit him in the fore part of the
thigh, and ranging upward, made it impossible for him to stand upon
his feet. "Are you alive!" shouted several of the men, knowing that
he was dangerously injured. "Yes, I'm all right," called out their
commander cheerfully, but, as he spoke, the fire from several Indians
who had crawled up upon the lower end of the island made him lie down
close to the gravelly soil. Three of the plainsmen saw the flash of one
of the rifles from the centre of a little bush, and, taking accurate
aim, sent a bullet crashing into the skull of the Indian brave. A
wild, half-smothered shriek welled up from the sagebrush, showing that
another redskin had gone to the land of the hereafter.
But Forsyth was now struck again, the bullet shattering his leg bone
about midway between the knee and the ankle. A few moments later he
rashly exposed his head, and one of the Sioux riflemen immediately
drew a bead upon it and sent a bullet through the top of his soft felt
hat, which fortunately had a high crown, so it glanced off, ripped
through the skin of his head and fractured his skull. In spite of these
grievous wounds, the brave soldier kept both his nerve and his courage,
and, seizing a rifle, took a shot at some Indians who dashed up on
horseback within rifle range. The Doctor, who had been closely watching
them, took a quick shot at the foremost, and, as he dropped from his
pony's back, cried out: "That rascally redskin will not trouble us
again." Immediately afterwards a dull thud told Forsyth that someone
near by had been hit, and, turning around, he saw the Doctor fall upon
the sand, saying: "I'm done for this time." A bullet had entered his
forehead just above the eye, and the wound was a mortal one. He never
spoke another rational word, and lingered for three days before dying.
At this moment, trotting up the bed of the river, appeared the wild
cavalry of Roman Nose, five hundred in all, and in about eight ranks
of sixty front, extended order. Before them all, upon a magnificent
chestnut horse, rode Roman Nose himself; his Springfield rifle grasped
in his right hand, and naked, save for his war-bonnet, silken scarf,
moccasins and cartridge belt. A bugle rang out from somewhere in their
midst, a bugle which had been either captured or stolen from the
whites, and which some renegade, or half-breed, knew how to use; and to
the shrilling note of this instrument, the savage horde came on.