Part 21

Exposed cabins and small settlements of the whites were continually burned by the red men, and the adventurous pioneers were slain whenever there was no assistance near by. Flatboats upon the Ohio River were never safe from Indian attacks, and had to run by hidden redskins on the banks. Frequently they were sunk by the enemy, although they had bullet-proof sides.... Attempts to conciliate the savages were met with insults, and, so in September, 1791, the President of the United States directed an army to march into the country of the Indians and defeat them.

In command of the American troops was General Harmar, an able leader and an aggressive campaigner. At Fort Washington, where Cincinnati now stands, he gathered a force of three hundred and twenty regulars and about twelve hundred militiamen, mostly untrained woodsmen with little experience in border warfare. Little Turtle was the most active leader among those who opposed the invasion of the Ohio territory. He won his position of chief at an early age by his skill and bravery, for he possessed both in a marked degree. His intelligence was very similar to that of his white adversaries. His knowledge of the proper way to fight in the tangled underbrush of the Ohio woodland was supreme. His portrait exhibits a face in which quickness and keenness of intellect are strongly marked. His piercing black eyes look defiantly at the spectator and burn with the fire of ambition and resolution. He possessed every qualification for a leader of the wild denizens of the Ohio country, and indulging in the gloomy apprehension that the whites would overtop and finally uproot his race, he was strong in his denunciation of the Americans, and in his desire to annihilate them.

On September 13, 1791, the troops under General Harmar pushed into the Indian country, and soon reached the villages of the Miamis. These were deserted, so they were burned, the cornfields were cut down, and the army camped upon the ground. On the next day an Indian trail was discovered, so Harmar ordered one hundred and fifty militiamen and thirty regulars, with their officers, to push on ahead and defeat the hostiles.

Captain Armstrong, in charge of this expedition, was a man of experience in border warfare, but he allowed his entire command to walk into an ambush. The troops were hot upon the Indian trail, when a sudden wail from the forest was followed by the loud report of a rifle on the right of the skirmish line. Immediately a chorus of horrible yells arose from every quarter, and before the Americans fully realized it they were surrounded by a ring of spitting rifles. Men fell over each other in confusion, and terrified by the suddenness of the onslaught the militia broke ranks and fled. Armstrong, himself, was knocked into a mire, and sinking up to his neck in the bog was unable to take part in the fighting. He could only see the terrible slaughter among the regulars, all of whom were either killed or disabled. And later on he saw the Indians holding a savage war dance among the bodies of the slain.

Dragging himself out of the swamp at dark, the mud-bespattered leader crept back to Harmar's camp, while the doleful wails of the savages sounded loud in the inky blackness. And when he arrived he found that the American General had enough of Turtle's tactics to suit him, apparently for all time. At any rate he broke camp and retreated towards the settlements, until he arrived near the ruined villages of the Miamis. Here he ordered a halt and sent Colonel Hardin back towards the Indians with only sixty regulars and three hundred militiamen. These last were pretty poor specimens of soldiers, as they had, for the most part, been recruited in the Eastern states from men of no experience whatever in woodland fighting. They were undisciplined, untrained, and unaccustomed to the frontier. Many had gone out to fight in order to escape from legal difficulties at home. Their ability to cope with the watchful enemy was about equal to that of General Braddock's troops at Fort Duquesne, and they met with about the same fate.

Hardin had no sooner arrived at the place he had been directed to go to, when a small body of Miami Indians advanced to meet his troops. These, by yelling and firing, soon attracted the volleys of his own men. As the militiamen advanced, the redskins broke into several bands, and, appearing to be panic-stricken, fled down a long gulley. In a twinkling the militia started in pursuit, and were hurrying after the yelping braves, when suddenly a vast number of warriors beset the sixty regulars on all sides. Little Turtle directed the fighting, and, realizing that his greater number could soon annihilate the entire command, ordered a rush upon the soldiers of the new Republic, who had now formed a hollow square back to back, with bayonets at the ends of their long muskets. But the Indians fought like demons; rushed headlong against the glittering steel; and throwing their tomahawks at the soldiers, struck down those in front, while the others were soon overpowered by the vastly superior forces of the enemy. The militia, meanwhile, came straggling back from their pursuit of the decoy Indians, and for a short while made a fierce attack upon the savages. But now realizing that the regulars were all killed, and being unaccustomed to frontier fighting, they lost heart completely and retreated. Ten regulars got away with the mass of fugitives, and the dead were left as a prey to the wolves and other animals of the wild wood.

Elated by their success, the Indians, under Little Turtle and the other leaders, now continued their depredations upon the frontier with greater audacity than ever. Harmar retreated to Fort Washington, was courtmartialed, and was honorably acquitted, but immediately resigned his commission. His personal conduct in the battles had been brave, and he claimed a victory, because the warriors of Little Turtle had not followed him up after the fight. Certainly he had made the campaign in an extraordinary manner, for never had he met the Indians with his entire force intact. By splitting his command he had weakened it badly, and thus the savages had been able to overpower the separate detachments of his army. To the sagacity of Little Turtle can be laid the Indian victory, for his was the mind that had planned the ambuscade, and he was the one who had given personal direction to the annihilation of the regulars.

George Washington, who was then President of the Republic, was mortified by this series of defeats to his army, and the situation was now so grave that Congress ordered the organization of a new force to punish the savages. The Governor of the Northwest Territory, General Arthur St. Clair, was put in command of fully two thousand men and was directed to wipe out the defeat of Harmar, by administering a crushing blow to the followers of Little Turtle. Before he set out upon his journey into the wilderness, President Washington called him to Philadelphia and warned him to guard against surprise by the Indians. "You have," said he, "your instructions from the Secretary of War. The Indians have a leader of great bravery in Little Turtle, and have proven that they can fight with great strength. You know that they lay many ambuscades. _Beware of a surprise!_ I repeat it. _Beware of a surprise!_" With these words of counsel ringing in his ears, St. Clair left for Fort Washington, arriving there in May, 1791.

The leader of the American forces was a man of considerable age, and was afflicted with gout and rheumatism. In the war of the Revolution he had exhibited no particular talent, but he possessed undoubted courage. He had soon collected two small regiments of regular infantrymen and some six months' levies of militia, whose pay was two dollars and ten cents a month for privates, and thirty dollars for captains. The militiamen were utterly untrained in border warfare, and their officers had had little experience, but the regular troops were well used to Indian campaigns. There were two small batteries of light guns and a few cavalrymen to swell the fighting force, which amounted in all to about two thousand warriors.

The levies of raw troops were gathered together at Fort Hamilton, twenty-five miles north from Fort Washington, and from this place an advance was begun into the Indian country on October 4th. The little army stumbled slowly through the deep woods and across the open places, cutting out its own road and making about five or six miles a day. As the wild beasts of the forest were plentiful, frequently both deer and bear were slaughtered, and venison helped to sustain the strength of the men. Halting to build another fort, christened in honor of Thomas Jefferson, the army again pressed into the country of the hostiles, while the scouts occasionally interchanged shots with parties of skulking braves. Now and again a militiaman would disappear, showing that the savages were closely watching the movements of the column, while numerous desertions cut the force down from its original numbers to fourteen hundred men. Snow was on the ground, the wintry woods surrounded the Americans with a bleak and awful silence, the sickness of St. Clair made it impossible for him to command in person, and had it not been for the efforts of the Adjutant General, Colonel Winthrop Sargent, an old Revolutionary officer, the expedition would have failed ingloriously, even before the Indians had been reached.

But now the army of invasion neared the Miami settlements, where the redskins were making busy preparation to give the Americans a warm reception. They had met in a grand war council, at which the plan of attack had been decided upon, and various tribes had been given positions in the line. Little Turtle was to be Commander-in-Chief, so he made a rousing speech, telling the Indians to fight to the last ditch, to attack the militia in preference to the regular troops, and to rush the enemy in such masses that they would be overwhelmed. An ambuscade was decided upon where the ground was most favorable to the savages, and here Little Turtle pointed out the proper positions which he wished the various warlike bands to assume. The intelligent Miami chief was not to take any position in the line of battle, but was to direct the operations from the rear, like a white general, and thus the Indians displayed more foresight than usual; foresight which was to tell with tremendous effect upon the illy disciplined frontier detachments under St. Clair.

On November 3rd, the army of invasion camped upon the eastern fork of the Wabash River, upon a narrow hillock, where the troops were somewhat crowded together, with the artillery and cavalrymen in the centre. Around them was boggy, swampy ground, while all about the wintry woods in frozen silence gave no warning of the savage foe, lurking beneath the underbrush in vindictive anger.

The militiamen were marched well to the front, nearly a quarter of a mile beyond the rest of the troops, and there went into camp, while several bands of savages seen in the gloomy woods made them fully aware that they were in touch with the foe.

At sunrise, next morning, the soldiers were up and doing, and, as they were dismissed from parade, St. Clair sent orders that some entrenchments should be thrown up before they marched against the Miami towns, which he knew to be not far distant. Just as these orders reached the commander of this advance guard, a blood-curdling yell sounded from the woodland in front. Another and another followed, and then a volley of musketry flashed from the dense underbrush. A second volley followed the first, the militiamen could see no foe, while many of their comrades were soon writhing upon the ground in mortal agony. Some endeavored to fight, but the majority, terrified by the sudden and unexpected onslaught, turned and rushed in a wild panic back to the camp of the regulars. In vain the officers tried to stop the retreat; the men dashed past them like cowards, and precipitating themselves among the regular troops, spread dismay and confusion among them. The veterans sprang to arms, while the drums rolled the call to quarters. As the painted braves came bounding through the underbrush, they were met with a crashing volley from the old campaigners, which halted their mad career. They stopped, crouched down behind the brush and fallen timber, and soon surrounded the camp on all sides. The pickets were either killed or driven in upon the centre; while wild yells, cries of defiance, and savage catcalls issued from the followers of Little Turtle.

But now the battle was on in earnest, and the Indians ceased their cries to creep from log to log, from tree to tree, and closer to the American line. The deep boom of the cannon reverberated through the forest, as the regulars turned their pieces against the foe. The soldiers foolishly stood in close order, and, as they were in the open, they were a shining mark for the balls of the Indians. Men fell dead and wounded upon every side; the lines began to waver and break, while St. Clair and Butler walked behind their men, urging them to be cool, and to hold their own without flinching. St. Clair's blanket, coat and leggins were pierced by eight bullets; a lock of his gray hair was clipped off by a ball; yet he came through the battle unscathed. Butler had less good fortune. His arm was broken by a leaden missile; another struck him in the side, so that he had to be carried to the centre of the line. Here, propped up upon knapsacks, he directed the fighting with grim good humor until, in one of the Indian charges, a painted warrior broke through the American line and buried his tomahawk in his brain.

The cannon kept up their fire, but the savages turned their unerring rifles upon the gunners, and soon had killed nearly every one of them. When they saw the men lying upon the ground, they took courage, and with a wild yelping made a charge from the woodland in the endeavor to capture the pieces. But now the Americans could see the skulking foe, and with bayonets fixed, made a dash into the oncoming horde of painted braves. The Indians did not wait to receive the blow, but, turning about, scurried helter-skelter to the protection of the forest, into which the victorious rangers ran in great enthusiasm. This was shortlived, for the redskins quickly surrounded them in the rear, poured in a galling fire from behind the protection of stumps and logs, and, before they could get back to their own line, had killed one-half of those who had charged them. One detachment rushed across the Wabash in pursuit of the Indians, and, before the men returned to the American line, nearly all had been slaughtered. The dead were lying about in heaps; the tomahawks of the Indians dispatched every man who was breathing; while, as one of the packers has written in his memoirs, "the bleeding heads of the scalped artillerymen and rangers looked like pumpkins in a December cornfield on the farm in Pennsylvania."

The fight had now lasted all day, and the American army had begun to realize that it was impossible to defeat the bloodthirsty followers of Little Turtle, who, emboldened by the disorganization in the ranks of the white men, now pushed in upon them from every quarter. It was five o'clock in the evening when the ranks began to give away. The camp and artillery were abandoned. Most of the militia threw away their arms and accoutrements. St. Clair in vain endeavored to stem the torrent of the rout. Horses, soldiers, and the few camp followers and women who had accompanied the army were all mixed together in a confusion of panic-stricken uselessness. But out of the rabble St. Clair managed to get enough men together to charge the savages, who held the roadway in the rear, to push them aside, and make room for the torrent of fugitives who now ran for their lives towards Fort Jefferson. The troops pressed on like a drove of bullocks. They stampeded; they fled ignominiously; while in their rear the wild wail of jubilation from the victorious red men sounded harshly from the dark background of the frozen forest. St. Clair, like Braddock, had been overwhelmingly repulsed.

From the moment of retreat until sunset the yelping redskins followed the panic-stricken Americans. Thirty-eight officers and five hundred and ninety-three men were slain or missing, while twenty-one officers and two hundred and forty-two men were wounded, many of whom died soon afterwards, so that practically two-thirds of the entire force of fourteen hundred were either lost or disabled. What a terrible defeat! What a humiliating blow! And all through the sagacity and ability of Little Turtle, Chief of the Miamis, the man with a red skin who organized and led an Indian army in a manner equal to the best of white leaders. Fortunate, indeed, was it that the Indians stopped to plunder the camp of the Americans, for, had they kept on, it is probable that only a few stragglers would have lived to tell the tale of the awful butchery. "Five hundred skull bones lay in the space of three hundred and fifty yards," said an American general, who visited the battle ground not many months after the defeat. "From thence, five miles on, the woods were strewn with skeletons, muskets, broken wagons, knapsacks and other debris." The loss to Little Turtle's men has never been ascertained, but it is certain that his dead and missing were not proportionate to those of St. Clair.

At Fort Jefferson the most severely wounded were left, while the rest of the troops, in fear and utter disorganization, hurried forward to Fort Washington and the log huts of Cincinnati. Here they huddled in security, cursing their ill fortune, their losses, and the Indians. An American officer who ran into a party of thirty braves near the battle ground a day or two after the defeat (and who was held by them until he persuaded them that he was an Englishman from Canada), was told that the troops under Little Turtle numbered but fifteen hundred, and that the number of killed was fifty-six. One of these warriors dangled one hundred and twenty-seven American scalps on a pole before his eyes, while they had three pack horses laden with as much wine and kegs of brandy as could be strapped to their backs. The savages were all much emboldened by their great victory, and numerous raids upon the border showed that they were more unfriendly to the whites than ever.

It was six weeks before the Federal authorities and General Washington knew of this catastrophe. Denny, a young Lieutenant, carried word of the defeat by horse to Philadelphia, where was then the seat of Federal Government. Washington was at dinner with company when the news of the disaster reached him, and, with an apology to his guests, left the table to receive it. He shortly returned and resumed his chair without any allusion to the incident. At ten o'clock the guests departed and left the President alone with his secretary, Mr. Lear. The General walked slowly backward and forward for a considerable length of time in silence; then taking a seat on the sofa near the fire, he told Mr. Lear to sit down. The latter had not noticed that the great man was extremely agitated, when he suddenly broke out with: "It's all over! St. Clair is defeated! routed, the officers nearly all killed, the men by wholesale, the rout complete, too shocking to think of, and a surprise into the bargain!" He made these remarks with great vehemence; then pausing and rising from the sofa, he walked up and down the room in silence, violently agitated, but saying nothing. When near the door he stopped short, stood still for a few moments, and then again exploded with wrath:

"Yes," he thundered. "_Here_, on this very spot, I took leave of him; I wished him success and honor. 'You have your instructions from the Secretary of War,' said I, 'I had a strict eye to them, and will add but one word, _Beware of a Surprise!_ You know how the Indians fight us. I repeat it, _Beware of a Surprise!_' He went off with that, my last warning, thrown into his ears. And yet! To suffer that army to be cut to pieces, hacked, butchered, tomahawked by a surprise, the very thing I guarded him against. O God! O God!" exclaimed the agitated President, throwing up his hands, while his very frame shook with emotion. "He's worse than a murderer! How can he answer to his country? The blood of the slain is upon him, the curse of widows and orphans, the curse of heaven!"

Mr. Lear remained speechless; awed into breathless silence by the appalling tone in which the torrent of invective was poured forth. The paroxysm passed by, and Washington sank down upon the sofa, silent, with bowed head, as if conscious of the ungovernable burst of passion which had overcome him. "This must not go beyond this room," said he, at length, in a subdued and altered tone. Then in a quiet, low voice he added: "General St. Clair shall have justice. I looked hastily through the dispatches; saw the whole disaster; but not all the particulars. I will receive him with displeasure; I will hear him without prejudice; he shall have full justice!"

Thus, in due time, St. Clair presented himself before Washington, and, although fearful of the reception which he would receive, he was earnestly and respectfully listened to by the President. The overwhelming nature of his defeat had been due to his incompetence, to his inability to teach the raw troops how to fight, Indian-fashion, before he began his march against the followers of Little Turtle, and to his failure to send out proper scouts.

Although deeply chagrined by the defeat, Congress did not sit idle, and soon made preparations for another army of Indian fighters. The chief command this time was intrusted to "Mad Anthony" Wayne, the hero of Stony Point, and a man to whom the smell of burning powder was as champagne. He not only loved a good fight, but he knew how to handle men, how to gain their confidence, and how to whip raw levies into excellent fighting material. He accepted the command only on condition that he be given plenty of time to drill and equip his troops. The Indians, themselves, appreciated his worth. He was called "The Black Snake" by them, because he was supposed to possess the superior cunning of this reptile, and to be able to creep through the forest like the moccasin. His choice to the chief command of the army was soon to be justified by results. Yet two years elapsed from the time of St. Clair's dreadful defeat before Wayne attempted to press through the wilderness into the land of the Miamis.

During these two years numerous petty forays were made by the Indians against the border settlements. Little Turtle was in some of these, and in November, 1792, made a violent attack upon a detachment of Kentucky volunteers near Fort St. Clair on the frontier. A stubborn battle was waged all day, at the end of which, Major Marshall (who commanded the American rangers) was driven pellmell into the fort (about half a mile) with the loss of six killed, the camp equipage taken, and one hundred and forty pack horses secured by the Miami and Shawnee braves. The Indians lost but two men. Again in June, 1794, this now much-dreaded Little Turtle was in an attack upon Fort Recovery, in which he exhibited masterful strategy, and in which a large detachment of American rangers, under Major McMahon, was cut to pieces and stampeded. Repeated efforts were made by the American Government to secure a treaty of peace with the Miami warrior, but to all overtures he turned a deaf ear. "We will hold our own country for our own people," said he. "Indian land is for the Indian. The white man must go away."