CONCLUSION
John Mason had wished for Black Hawk’s capture. His wish was fulfilled
and as fortune would have it, he, Deerfoot and both Joseph and Robert
were present when the great chief was delivered into the hands of his
enemies.
After the battle of Bad Axe the volunteers were mustered out of service
and the fighting came to an end. All resistance on the part of the
Indians had been broken, and out of a thousand Sacs who had crossed the
Mississippi and invaded the settlements in April, only a hundred and
fifty now remained. Black Hawk had escaped, but Indians of hostile
tribes were put on his trail and at length succeeded in capturing him.
On the twenty-seventh day of August, 1832, John Mason, Deerfoot, Joseph
and Robert were at Prairie du Chien. This was not far from the scene of
the last battle and the four friends were still in that vicinity,
chiefly because they had no other place to which they might go. At least
the two brothers had no home, and Deerfoot would leave them under no
conditions. John Mason remained with his young friends, thinking he
might still be of service to them, and could offer them advice as to
starting life afresh.
They were all talking to the Indian Agent, a man named Street, and were
seeking his knowledge of the country in the hope he might be able to
help them in the selection of a new home. Suddenly a commotion started
outside and everyone rushed to see what the cause of the excitement was.
Into the streets of the town marched two Winnebagos, Chaetar and
One-eyed Decorah by name. Between them and with head held high, walked
Black Hawk.
“Black Hawk is captured!” cried Mason. “There he is now!”
Everyone in the crowd surged forward to obtain a glimpse of the famous
redman and Joseph and Robert were in the very first row. Straight to the
office of the Indian Agent the old warrior was led and then Agent Street
came forward to meet him.
Black Hawk was indeed an imposing figure. He was clad in a suit of white
doeskin. His hair was all plucked out with the exception of the
scalp-lock and in that were fastened some eagle’s feathers. He was short
in stature, as he was only about five feet four or five inches tall. His
face was thin, with the high cheek bones characteristic of his race. His
mouth was large and when in repose his lips remained slightly parted. He
had a prominent nose of what is called the Roman type. His eyes were
bright and piercing, but with a thoughtful expression in them. He had no
eyebrows and his forehead was high and broad. His head he kept thrown
back and his pose gave the impression of dignity and of one accustomed
to command.
“He’s not very beautiful,” whispered Robert. “He looks smart, though.”
“He is smart,” exclaimed John Mason. “He certainly led us a dance.”
“You know I feel sort of sorry for him,” said Joseph. “I never had any
pity for him when we were fighting him but he looks sort of pitiful
now.”
“Not to me,” cried Robert. “I can’t forget what he did to us.”
Speeches were now made by the different men in the assembly. Black
Hawk’s two captors related how they had captured the prisoner at the
Wisconsin River Dells, and Agent Street congratulated, them on their
good work. Finally Black Hawk’s turn came and he arose slowly and
proudly from his seat. In a steady and clear voice he faced the crowd
and spoke as follows:
“You have taken me prisoner with all my warriors. 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 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 sank 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 of the white men; 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 ought to be ashamed. He has
fought for his countrymen, the squaws and the papooses, 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 lies; Indians do not steal.
“An Indian who is as bad as the white men could not live in our nation;
he would be put to death and eaten up by the wolves. The white men are
bad schoolmasters; they carry false books. They smile in the face of the
poor Indian to cheat him; they shake him by the hand to gain his
confidence, to make him drunk, to deceive and ruin him. We told them to
let us alone and keep away from us, but they followed on and beset our
paths, and they coiled themselves among us like the snake. They poisoned
us by their touch. We were not safe. We lived in danger. We were
becoming like them, hypocrites and liars, all talkers and no workers.
“We looked up to the Great Spirit. We went to our great father. We were
encouraged. His great council gave us fair words and big promises; but
we got no satisfaction. Things were growing worse. There were no deer in
the forest. The opossum and beaver were fled; the springs were drying
up, and our squaws and papooses were without victuals to keep them from
starving. We called a great council and built a large fire. The spirit
of our fathers arose and spoke to us to avenge our wrongs or die. We all
spoke before the council fire. It was warm and pleasant. We set up the
war whoop and dug up the tomahawk; our knives were ready and the heart
of Black Hawk swelled high in his bosom when he led his warriors to
battle. He is satisfied. He will go to the world of spirits contented.
He has done his duty. His father will meet him there and commend him.
“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 poison the heart. My countrymen will
in a few years become like the white men, so that you cannot 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.”
He finished speaking and a silence fell upon the crowd gathered to hear
him. He had made a profound impression and his hearers were deeply
affected.
“I certainly feel sorry for that man,” exclaimed Joseph at length.
“So do I,” agreed Mason. “He tried to do right as he saw it and now he
is broken-hearted and discouraged.”
“His spirit is not broken, though,” said Robert warmly.
“I should think not,” exclaimed Joseph. “It never will be either. As he
says himself, ‘he is an Indian’.”
“He doesn’t think much of the white men, does he?” said Robert.
“Not much,” agreed John Mason. “I don’t blame him, for they have given
the Indians a pretty rough treatment as a rule.”
“There are bad Indians, just as there are bad white men,” said Joseph.
“I guess the bad white men are more numerous, though.”
“Ugh,” grunted Deerfoot.
“Did you agree with that remark?” cried Robert, advancing toward
Deerfoot with a threatening air. “You know what will happen to you if
you did.”
Deerfoot smiled grimly at his young friend’s remarks. He was gradually
becoming used to the teasing he was constantly subjected to and he was
learning how to take it in good spirits.
“Me no afraid,” he exclaimed and almost laughed as he spoke.
“You’re improving, Deerfoot. You’ll be all right soon,” laughed Robert
as he slapped his Pottowattomie friend heartily on the back.
“Come on, Bob,” urged Joseph. “It’s time for us to be leaving. There
goes Black Hawk.”
The four friends turned to look and saw Black Hawk being led away down
the street. Two soldiers walked on each side of him, while with head
still held proudly erect the aged warrior marched silently on and thus
passed from the sight of John Mason, Deerfoot, Robert and Joseph
forever.
THE END
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.