THE FIGHT ON THE PEKATONIKA
Two weeks passed and Joseph was entirely healed of his wound. A slight
limp at times was the only trace that remained and that promised to
disappear soon. He was up and as cheerful as ever. They were still at
Dixon’s Ferry and the inaction did not gall Joseph as much as it did his
impetuous brother.
He spent much of his time with The Swallow, grooming and caring for the
beautiful pony. He had taught the intelligent animal to come at his
whistle and most of the time the horse followed at his heels in much the
same manner a dog would do. Every day Joseph’s pride in his mount grew.
He never ceased to wonder at the easy gait and the wonderful speed The
Swallow exhibited on the frequent rides they took over the prairies.
There had been no organized fighting of late. General Atkinson had
returned to Dixon’s Ferry as soon as he learned of the desertion of
Major Stillman’s corps. He had left General Whiteside to carry on the
pursuit of Black Hawk, while he returned with the regulars to protect
the supplies left at Dixon’s Ferry.
Whiteside’s men soon became tired of soldiering, however. Black Hawk had
crossed the northern border of Illinois and was now in Michigan. He had
gone into the unexplored and almost impenetrable swamps of the north,
the men declared, and could never be captured. At any rate they said
that, being Illinois volunteers, they were not required to serve outside
the state. They also claimed they had enlisted for only a month and that
their time of service had expired.
After two or three days of fruitless skirmishing and before they had
come to the Michigan state line, a council of officers was held and
further search for Black Hawk was abandoned. They had penetrated only as
far as the Kishwaukee River, not many miles north of the place where
Stillman was defeated on Sycamore Creek. However, they turned and
marched south to Ottawa, where, at their own request, they were mustered
out of service by Governor Reynolds on the twenty-seventh and
twenty-eighth of May, 1832.
On their way from the Kishwaukee to Ottawa the militiamen stopped at a
farm on Indian creek where a few days before a terrible massacre of
Whites had taken place. The mutilated bodies of fifteen men, women and
children lay unburied upon the ground. This frightful scene instead of
inspiring the troops to renewed action against the Indians, still
further discouraged them. They were more eager than ever to give up the
fight.
Governor Reynolds was active, however, and at once called for a fresh
levy of “at least two thousand troops.” These men were to assemble at
Beardstown, a place on the Illinois River south of Dixon’s Ferry, and
were to serve through the war. Meanwhile the government at Washington
ordered a thousand regulars under General Winfield Scott to proceed from
their stations on the coast to the seat of war.
General Atkinson had been greatly disturbed by the failure of the first
campaign and the cowardice of the militia shamed him deeply. At his
earnest appeal three hundred mounted volunteer rangers agreed to remain
in the field and protect the line of Illinois settlements until the new
army could be mobilized. Colonel Henry Frye was in command of this
company, and Joseph, Robert and Deerfoot lost no time in enrolling
themselves with this band.
“It sounds as though we’d find something to do with them,” was Robert’s
way of explaining the move. “We’ve been idle long enough and we can’t
get very much revenge if we just sit and do nothing.”
“You’re right, Bob,” agreed Joseph. “My leg is all right now and I’m
just as anxious as you are to be active again.”
“Oh, no you’re not,” remarked Robert. “It isn’t possible for any one to
be as eager about it as I am.”
“Well, we won’t argue it anyway,” laughed Joseph. “We’ll compromise and
say we’re both eager.”
“Does that suit you, Deerfoot?” inquired Robert, at the same time
winking slyly at his brother.
“Ugh,” grunted Deerfoot.
“Does Joseph’s suggestion suit you?” Robert persisted.
“Sure, me suit,” replied the Pottowattomie seriously, and try as he
might Robert was unable to get any other answer from the red man. The
young frontiersman was full of mischief and took special delight in
teasing Deerfoot. The Indian took everything seriously and never seemed
to be able to appreciate the fact that white boys sometimes said things
in fun that they did not mean.
“Oh, you’re hopeless,” exclaimed Robert in mock despair. “Haven’t you
any sense of humor at all, Deerfoot?”
“Huh?” grunted the Indian blankly.
“Never mind,” laughed Robert. “You’re all right, Deerfoot, and if I
meant all I said the way you do I guess I’d be a better citizen than I
am now.”
Deerfoot did not understand what all this talk was about and he looked
in amazement from one to the other of the boys. They were much amused at
his bewilderment, but they soon ceased teasing him. It always made them
feel that they were taking an unfair advantage of their faithful friend,
and like all true sportsmen they derived no pleasure from a contest that
was unequal.
“I wonder if there has been any fighting lately,” said Joseph a few
moments later.
“Of course there has,” exclaimed Robert. “It is going on all the time
and at this very minute I suppose some poor family is being murdered.”
“Where?” demanded Deerfoot innocently.
“I don’t know where,” said Robert. “I just said I supposed some family
somewhere was being murdered.”
“Ugh,” grunted Deerfoot. He asked no more questions and merely shook his
head in token that he did not understand.
The three friends were seated under a large oak tree. The time was
mid-afternoon and they were enjoying the warm sunshine and the fine June
weather. It was a lazy day and the three volunteers felt lazy
themselves. They had done nothing for so long they had acquired the
habit of being idle. At the same time the inaction was not entirely to
their liking, as was evidenced by their conversation.
“I wish something would happen,” yawned Robert. “I must say I’m bored.”
As he finished speaking a man was seen approaching on horseback. This
was not an unusual sight in itself, but when time hangs heavy on one’s
hands almost anything is of interest. The three friends sat up and
watched the horseman as he came near.
“Why, it’s John Mason!” exclaimed Joseph suddenly. “Where do you suppose
he has been?”
“He’ll probably tell us in a couple of minutes,” said Robert, rising to
his feet.
Mason rode straight to the tree where the three men were and quickly
dismounted. He shook hands heartily all around and was accorded a most
enthusiastic welcome. Innumerable questions were asked of him by the two
brothers, but he made no attempt to answer them at that time. “You two
boys are regular interrogation points,” he exclaimed laughingly. “Just
give me a chance to catch my breath and I’ll try to reply to some of
your questions.”
“Have you been in any more fights?” demanded Robert.
“I should say I had.”
“Tell us about it quick,” Robert insisted, but Joseph restrained him.
“Give Mr. Mason a chance, Bob,” he said. “Don’t you see he is tired and
wants to rest? Perhaps he doesn’t want to tell us about it anyway.”
“Yes, I do, too,” exclaimed Mason. “First of all, though, I want to say
we got our dispatches to Fort Armstrong safely and didn’t even seen an
Indian on the way.”
“We didn’t either,” said Joseph. “We came back here without a bit of
trouble.”
“I see you are safe and sound. How is the wounded leg?”
“As good as ever,” replied Joseph and he executed a war dance to prove
the truth of his statement.
“Good for you,” cried John Mason. “Now, are you ready to hear about the
fight?”
“I am,” exclaimed Robert quickly.
“All right then,” said Mason. “Here goes. I had been sent to Fort
Hamilton from Fort Armstrong and was there on the fourteenth of June.
That was just about a week ago. Word came to us on the next day that a
scouting party of Sacs had killed five men the day before at the
Spafford farm. The farm lies on the Pekatonika River, not far from Fort
Hamilton. Colonel Henry Dodge was in command of the brigade stationed at
the fort and at once started in pursuit of the Indians. Never being
willing to be left out of anything I asked to be allowed to go along and
received the desired permission.
“We set out with all possible speed and soon came upon the trail of the
Indians. In fact we were so close to them at one time that we could see
some of the warriors. We had no chance to shoot, however, and the
Indians fled with amazing speed. They crossed and recrossed the
Pekatonika several times, but we pressed them closer and closer, and at
length when they saw that escape was impossible they made a stand. We
immediately dismounted and cautiously picked our way forward. The Sacs
had taken up their position in a dense thicket and were waiting for us.
“Colonel Dodge intended that we should fire a volley and then charge.
The Indians, however, were on the lookout for us and fired first. One of
our soldiers, a man named Apple, was killed, and a man named Jenkins was
wounded. We never let up on them for a moment, however, and several were
shot as they attempted to escape by swimming the river. When the fight
started I think our forces were about equal in strength, but the Indians
had been in the river so much that many of them had got their powder wet
and so their guns were useless.”
“It should have been easy to finish them then,” remarked Robert.
“Don’t you think so!” exclaimed Mason warmly. “Their guns may have been
no good to them, but they still had knives and they tried to close in on
us with those. They fought desperately, but many of them were shot down.
One big, burly brave came plunging directly at me. He had his gun to his
shoulder and when only a few yards distant he pulled the trigger. The
powder was wet, however, and it did not go off. I raised my rifle, but
my powder was also damp and so nothing happened when I tried to fire,
either. Meanwhile, knife in hand, the savage came toward me. My case was
desperate, but I still had my revolver and when he was but a few scant
feet away I drew it and shot him down.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Joseph, “That was pretty close, wasn’t it?”
“Too close to be comfortable,” said Mason grimly. “I can tell you I was
frightened there for a couple of seconds.”
“You had good reason to be,” agreed Robert. “But tell me,” he continued,
“how did the fight finally end?”
“As far as I know every one of the Indians was killed. Of course I can’t
be sure of that, but I don’t think a single one escaped. Our men fought
like demons that day.”
“That’s the way to fight!” exclaimed Robert. “At least that’s the way to
do when you’re fighting demons.”
“All Indians aren’t demons,” laughed Mason. “Just look at Deerfoot
here.”
“No, he isn’t one, I know,” agreed Robert. “You can fight like one just
the same, can’t you, Deerfoot?”
“Ugh,” grunted the Pottowattomie, much embarrassed by the attention
being paid him.
“If you had been as near to him in that fight the other day as I was,”
Robert continued, “you’d have thought he was a demon all right.”
“We’re glad he’s on our side, I guess,” remarked Joseph earnestly.
“We certainly are,” echoed Robert. “How many men did you lose in that
fight on the Pekatonika?” he asked, turning to Mason once more.
“Three men killed and one wounded. That wasn’t so bad considering what
we did to the Indians, was it?”
“I should say not,” exclaimed Robert.
At that moment a messenger came up to the place where they were seated
and handed a note to Joseph. The young volunteer tore it open at once
and eagerly scanned the contents, while the others watched him with deep
interest.