Part 16

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.

"Did I not tell you that the Long Knives would move against us?" said Logan to his followers. "They must be defeated. I wished to live at peace with my white brothers, and I bore them no ill will, until they murdered my relatives. I fear that we shall not have strength enough to beat off these palefaces, but have courage, ye red men, and we shall have many a scalp of these fringed shirts to hang in our wigwams."

"We will be ready," shouted his followers, and soon their wild war cries echoed through the forests as they leaped about in a circle and prepared their spirits for the coming battles.

Meanwhile the sturdy pioneers were collecting on the frontier and preparing for the advance into the wilderness. General Andrew Lewis was a stout backwoodsman who little feared the savages and had a contempt for danger that was extraordinary. His army soon gathered in the western mountains of Virginia, and a hardier, more energetic body of fighters it would have been difficult to find. With droves of pack-horses to carry their light equipment, and numbers of beef cattle to feed upon, the men in buckskin and fringed hunting shirts finally moved off in the direction of Ohio and the Great Kanawha. There were one hundred and sixty miles of wilderness to pass through before the objective point would be reached, and deep forests lay in the path of the little army. But in the front was a veteran scout, who knew the dense wilderness like a book, and piloted the soldiers surely and directly to the river which they searched for.

As the small force moved through the forest, the men presented a most picturesque appearance. The straggling sunbeams glistened upon their long rifles and sheath knives, while their powder horns swung jauntily from long cords across their bodies and tapped against the wooden butts of their guns, as they were held carelessly under the right shoulders. The twigs and branches crashed as the pack train pushed its way through the unbroken forest, the horses snorting and whinnying, the oxen and cows lowing and grunting, while the baaing of a few sheep added to the general disturbance. The men marched silently, without singing or laughing, for they were on gruesome business, and they knew that many of their numbers would not return. In the front was Colonel Charles Lewis--a brother of the General in charge. He was resplendent in a scarlet coat, and this one bit of color was the only bright spot among the yellow buckskin hunting shirts and the dark coonskin caps of the Rangers. Surely, carefully, and courageously they moved onward upon their mission of death, while the startled deer sped from their path like the shadows of those departed.

Upon the last day of September the army of invasion reached its destination and speedily formed an intrenched camp. Lewis waited for a week for the arrival of Lord Dunmore and his men. "Egad," said he at length, "I believe that the old fox has deserted us, and we Virginians must fight the redskins on our own hook."

Hardly had he made the remark when a scout came running into the camp with news that startled the vigilant commander.

"While hunting deer with Tom Briscoe," said he, "we suddenly came upon a camp of Cornstalk's men, all of them in war paint. They fired upon us before we could get away and killed my companion. Now I am come to tell you that they are advancing upon you, and you will be attacked before another sun."

"Is that so?" drawled General Lewis, lighting his pipe. "Then we must get ready for the varmints and fight them without Lord Dunmore and his men."

Not long after this he rose from the stump upon which he was seated and gave orders that his brother Charles Lewis should take two regiments and march in the direction of the Indians to reconnoitre next morning, while he made a proper disposition of the rest of the army, in order to support them. The two regiments had barely advanced a quarter of a mile from the camp, when loud war whoops sounded from their front and flanks, and they were suddenly set upon by a howling, yelping mob of redskins. It was just about daylight, and, dropping immediately behind stumps and fallen logs, the soldiers awaited the attack of the Indians with calm determination. Remembering past battles with the children of the forest, the Rangers did not heedlessly expose themselves, and fired only when they saw the head or portion of the body of a warrior. The firing grew hot. The yelling and screeching of the savages was discordant and fierce, while the steady "crack, crack" from their rifles soon began to tell upon the crouching ranks of the Virginian volunteers. Colonel Charles Lewis was most conspicuous in his red coat and so became an easy target for the guns of the savages. Soon, pierced by several balls, he was obliged to leave the firing line, and, staggering back to the camp, he perished with his face towards the foe, still urging on the Rangers with his dying breath.

At this moment it seemed as if the redskins would triumph. Above the din of battle Cornstalk's voice could be heard, calling, "Be strong! Be strong!" And when a savage showed symptoms of flight, he is said to have immediately struck him down with his tomahawk. A warrior named Red Hawk, too, was conspicuous among his own men, urging them on to resistance with stern voice and determined gestures. The right wing of the Americans began to give way, the Rangers began to fall back from the murderous bullets, but at this time reinforcements rushed to the threatened point, and, with a yell as fierce as that of the savages, the fresh troops crept up to the oncoming foe. The two lines were more than a mile in length, the combatants were so close together that they often grappled in a hand-to-hand combat, using their knives and tomahawks freely. The crack of the rifles was mingled with the groans of the wounded, the jeers of the Indians, the shouts of the backwoodsmen, and the wild yells of the chiefs and commanding officers.

It was now about twelve o'clock, and the savages began to give way before the assaults of the entire army of Virginians, who had just come up. But, instead of retreating to a great distance, the Indians hid behind a breastwork of fallen logs and branches which extended clean across a neck of land which ran between the Ohio and Kanawha Rivers. Not only had they had forethought enough to prepare this, but they had placed men on both sides of the stream, in the rear of the Virginians, so that if they had been defeated not one would have been able to escape. The warriors retreated stubbornly, contesting each inch of the way, and soon--from the protection of the stout breastwork--easily held at bay the victorious white men. Colonel Fleming, who commanded the left wing, was twice hit, but kept his command and continually cheered on his men with words of confidence. When the reinforcements had arrived at the critical moment, he was again shot--this time through the lungs--but he still refused to give way to any other officer, and led his men right up to the breastwork, behind which fifteen hundred Shawanoe, Delaware, Mingo, Wyandot, and Cayuga warriors poured a rain of bullets at the oncoming Virginians. The Rangers lay down behind the trees and boulders of the forest and eagerly waited further orders.

General Lewis saw that he had to cripple the enemy or they would be claiming a victory and would thus get aid from other tribes. Seventy-five of his men had been either killed or mortally wounded, and over one hundred were slightly disabled. It was time for action, so, sending three companies to the rear of the breastwork, he ordered the backwoodsmen to dash into the Indians from that direction, while the rest of the army would swarm over the front of the fortification. Unseen by the savages, the soldiers were soon in the forest behind the supposedly impregnable position of the red warriors, but scouts brought news of their advance to Cornstalk, and, believing them to be reinforcements from Lord Dunmore, and not part of the very troops which he had been just engaged with, the Indian War Chief ordered a retreat. As the sun sank upon the field of battle, the Indian fighting men fell back across the river in the direction of their towns along the Ohio River, while cheer after cheer went up from the Virginians, as they realized that the day of bloodshed had been ended.

The battle was over, at last, and it had been a severe struggle. Fifty-two graves had to be dug for the dead backwoodsmen of the forest, while half the commissioned officers were lifeless upon that bloody field. The Indians' loss is unknown--thirty-three were found dead on the ground which had been contended for, but, as many of their stricken had been thrown into the river, it was impossible to ascertain exactly how many had fallen. The probabilities are that they lost about as many as did the whites, and thus the battle of Point Pleasant or the Great Kanawha, in the autumn of 1774, seems to justify the assertion that it was the most severe Indian battle that had taken place upon the soil of America up to that time. The whites were eager for another fight, as they wished to revenge the death of their comrades, and so, as soon as burial services were over for those who had fallen, they again took up the march in the direction in which the Indians had disappeared. There were many curses against Lord Dunmore for not having joined them, as he had promised, and several of the Virginian Rangers called him "coward" and "traitor."