The spot where Oloompa left Rolfe and his party, and which they still occupied, was a small glade or opening in the forest about half a mile from Tippecanoe, and nearly the same distance from the American camp. It commanded a tolerable view of each, yet they were now rendered rather indistinct by the continual passing of dense heavy clouds over the face of the moon, and by a thin mist which also seemed settling over the land. For some time after he left them, they gazed in silence on the scene. In one direction, lay the Indian town, faintly discernible through the “struggling moon beams' misty light,” and apparently as quiet as though it were the abode of peace and contentment; for from it there came not a sound, and nothing indicated life therein, save the occasional gleam of a torch which suddenly burst upon the view, and then flitted away before you could mark its place. In another, lay the camp of the whites, equally quiet, yet wearing a less gloomy appearance, for their fires burned brightly, and imparted a degree of cheerfulness to the scene.
When the flow of feeling consequent upon Oloompa's departure had somewhat subsided, “Come, Rolfe,” said Earth, “let us do something; and first let me advise that we go a little within the forest, for were any one now to pass here, we should be discovered.”
“For Heaven's sake then, let us go;” said Gay, “and oh! Richard, let us escape quickly, for should they find that I have left the camp, they will come in pursuit.”
“Fear not, lady,” said Earth, “they are now thinking of other things;—you will not be pursued to-night.”
“Then say, Earth,” said Rolfe, “what shall we do? shall we take Oloompa's advice, and hurry away, or seek safety within the American camp.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “I can't hurry away, that is out of the question; I don't believe I could leave a chance like this, to save my life; and yet I hardly know what to do. Oloompa has behaved nobly; I didn't think it was in a red skin.”
“Oh! that he has,” cried Gay, “and so has Miskwa and Netnokwa; who could have been kinder?”
“Well,” continued Earth, “as I was going to say, he has told us what he thinks best, and he has his reasons for telling us what he did. Now, you can see from the fact that the whites are encamped so near to their town, that the Prophet is amusing them with professions of peace. If that was not the case, you know, that as they came all the way here to punish the Ingens for their late doings, they would have attacked them at once. From Oloompa's hint, the Ingens may intend to strike a blow to-night, but they can't do any thing; the whites must beat 'em if they have a fight, for, you may be certain, General Harrison would never have come so far upon their lands without men enough to answer his purpose. My notion, therefore, is, that if we could once get within the camp, we should be safe. But, Rolfe, I don't like their large fires, we can see every thing that's going on in the camp. Look in the Ingen town; they are too keen for that.”
“Then, Earth,” said Rolfe, “if there is a doubt, had we not better seek safety in flight?”
“Rolfe,” answered Earth, “that will not do. If I was to run off now, and the Ingens and whites were to take a brush, I don't think I should ever git over it, as long as I lived.”
“Well, Earth, you may take a brush or not, as you please, but I am determined to adopt some plan for our safety.”
“Rolfe,” replied Earth, “you are getting mighty independent all at once; I didn't say that I was so run mad for a fight, as you seem to think, that I would take a brush whether any body else did or not. I merely meant that if they went at it, I should like to go snacks;—and, I say agin, if they were to do it, and I didn't have a hand, it would go with me to my grave. I don't believe I should ever hold my head up agin as long as I lived. But I am just as much determined to see this lady safe as you are.”
“Then, good sir,” said Gay, addressing Earth, “please let us fly, and you go with us; then we shall all be safe.”
“Lady,” answered Earth, “we cannot fly, for old Juno is as stiff as if he had the rheumatics, and all we could do, would be to move on in a short trot.”
His remark was perfectly unintelligible to Gay, and turning to Rolfe, she said, “tell me, what does he mean, Richard?”
Rolfe smiled at the artless manner in which she asked it, and replied, “He means, my love, that his horse is foundered from pursuing the party who brought you here captive;” then turning to Earth, said, “I did not think of that, Earth; our horses are surely in no condition to travel.”
“No,” answered Earth, “I said old Juno might move in a short trot, but I don't believe one of 'em could move a peg, if you were to place a dozen ears of corn in their sight, and just so far that they couldn't reach it; and you know, if any thing could jerk 'em out of their places, that would be the thing to do it. They were stiff when we got off of them, and the thing is worse now; for they have been standing some six or eight hours, or perhaps longer,—for it is so cloudy that I can't exactly see what is the hour. No, Rolfe, 'taint worth while to talk about running away; as I said before, the best thing we can do, is to enter the camp. Let us get as near to it as we can to-night, and when morning comes, go in;—we shall then be safe.”
“Would it not be better for us to go in to-night?” inquired Rolfe.
“No,” answered Earth, “that would be rather dangerous; you can see from here, that in the camp they all seem to be asleep; the sentries are, no doubt, keeping a bright watch, and if we were to go poking about there to-night, we might be used up as so many Ingens, before we could make them know who we were.”
“That we should,” said Gay; “Richard, you know they would take me for an Indian; and indeed, I should feel ashamed to go into the camp in the morning disguised as I am. Will you not let me try and get off some of the paint first?”
“My love,” answered Rolfe, “that is a matter of no moment, they will only compliment you for your heroism, and respect you the more for the dangers you have escaped.”
“A woman will be a woman,” said Earth; “she cares more now about the paint on her face, than she does about the fear of being scalped.”
“Oh! how can you say so,” said Gay.
“Come, Rolfe,” said Earth, “I think we had better be moving; it must be getting towards day, and every thing is so quiet now, that we cannot have a better time. We must leave the horses to take their chance, and I will return and see about them to-morrow.”
“Then move on,” said Rolfe, “we will follow,” and starting off, Earth led the way, saying, “step lightly, and let no one speak until we stop.”
The ground over which they were now to pass, was somewhat broken, and covered in many places with thick dwarf bushes; through these, they had with the utmost caution made their way, and were now nearing an open prairie, covered with tall grass, which lay immediately in front of the camp, and between it and the Indian town. Earth halted a moment when he beheld it, and seemed to hesitate as if doubting whether it were prudent to proceed or not. But gazing around, and seeing nothing to excite his fears, he whispered to his companions, “stoop low, and move on.” He had now continued his way some short distance further, and until a small cluster of bushes indicated that there the land was rather drier than that over which they had just been passing, and thither he bent his steps. But no sooner had he reached the little knoll upon which they grew, than stopping suddenly, he beckoned to his companions, and when they had approached him, crouched down and motioned to them to do the same.
“What see you?” said Rolfe.
Earth made no reply, but pressed his finger to his lips, and then raised his hand to his ear, as if endeavouring to catch some passing sound. Not a moment elapsed, before there was heard the light step of coming feet. “Lay closer down,” said Earth. The sound increased, and then died away, as though it proceeded from persons who were passing. When all seemed quiet, Earth gently raised his head, and scarcely did he do so, before he heard persons moving in another direction, and through the dim moonlight, saw a party of Indian warriors treading their way with hurried, though cautious steps, toward the camp of the whites. Then listening a moment,—“by gum, Rolfe, the prairie is nat'ally alive with them; I can hear them in every direction; we did run a great risk; they must have seen us when we crossed that piece of grass, and taken us for Ingens, I reckon.”
“Oh! then I fear we shall yet be discovered,” cried Gay.
“Oh, hush! Rolfe, I wish you would make her be quiet. There will be all sorts of work presently; the Ingens are moving on to attack the whites.”
“Oh, God!” said Rolfe, “is it possible? may they not be reconnoitring?”
“No,” answered Earth; “in a night attack they generally go off in small parties; hardly ever more than three or four at a time.”
“Oh!” cried Gay, “is there no way in which we can give our friends notice? Should the Indians enter the camp while they sleep, they will all be massacred.”
“This is what Oloompa meant,” said Rolfe, “when he told us to hurry away.”
“Yes,” said Earth, “and we may wish we had taken his advice. I do wish those fires were out,—hush!” and at that moment, two Indians were seen to glide by, within rifle shot:—“Look at them,” continued Earth, “there can be no mistake, and I am not sure but that the camp is surrounded before this.”
“Is there no way,” repeated Gay, “in which we can warn the whites of their danger?”
“Lady, you are the real genuine,” said Earth; “most people would think of themselves first; but you are right; if the Ingens get into the camp before the whites have notice, they will use 'em all up. I think a single life is nobly disposed of, when given for the preservation of many, so I will slip away and risk it;—hush!”—then listening,—“I hear some more passing along on the edge of the prairie. I will try and get into the camp if I can; if not, I will fire my gun and give the alarm. But oh! Rolfe, if I can only get inside, and tell them what the Ingens are about, we will have as much fun as if we were shooting turkies at a bait.” Then rising,—“good bye, may God bless you both.”
“Stop, stop!” said Gay, addressing him, “I did not mean that you should go.”
“Lady, I intended it from the first minute;—I was only waiting for them to stop passing a little, that I might at least have a chance to do some good.”
“Earth,” said Rolfe, quickly, “what is to become of us, if you leave?”
“Oh! I can do no good by remaining now,” said Earth; “you had better conceal yourselves as well as you can, and remain where you are;—keep a sharp look out, and if an Ingen comes near you, shoot him down. You will hardly be in danger, unless they stumble over you, for you see they have something else to think of. Watch how the battle goes, and if you find it going against us, why do the best you can; take the woods, and try and reach the settlements. The Ingens are now passing in every direction:—it will not do for you to stir yet; so, hide awhile longer; keep close, until the rifles begin to talk pretty pert, then, if you choose, get as far as you can from the town, and wait the result. If the Ingens are beaten, come to the camp, and if every thing goes well, we shall again meet; if not, why, as I said before, do the best you can; and as in that event, I shall probably be used up, we had as well, before we part, shake hands; for it may be for the last time.” Taking Gay's hand, he grasped it cordially, saying,—“lady, these little fingers tell that the forest should not have been thy home.—Good bye! may heaven bless you.”—then, turning to Rolfe,—“well, Rolfe, we have seen some strange things in our time. I wish I had told you, before we parted, of the last fight that old Jupe had; but I hav'nt time now. If I should happen to quit to night, why sometimes think of Earth when you take a glass, and recollect, that though a rough fellow, his intentions were always to do what he believed right. Farewell!”
Gay and Rolfe made no reply, but were much affected, and moving off, Earth turned and said,—“there is one thing I forgot, which I had as well tell you: you are both young, and likely to travel the same path; so, try and go along in a spirit of compromise; we all have our quirks, and it is no use to get cross about small things;” and still talking, he glided away through the grass, and his last words which were heard by Rolfe, were,—“take a brush.”
Continuing to approach the camp, Earth moved on as cautiously as though he were one of the party of Indians now attempting to surprise it; thinking that, even should he be seen, he would not be recognized, but regarded merely as one of the assailing band. Leaving him to continue his exertions to enter the camp, we must return for a moment to the Prophet.
As Oloompa expected when he left Tippecanoe, the warriors succeeded in forcing the Prophet to give them immediate battle, and in accordance with that resolve, they all left the town, and at the moment that Earth was endeavouring to enter the American camp, they were creeping stealthily around it, or rather, lying down, were cautiously drawing their bodies through the grass and bushes. When Elkswatawa determined to fight, he again resumed the character of Prophet, which for a few moments he had laid aside, in his great anxiety to preserve peace, and calling his warriors around him previous to their setting out, he reiterated to them his predictions of success beyond a doubt, and renewed the promise of the Great Spirit, that the balls of the whites should fall harmless among them, and that they should have light, while their enemies would be involved in darkness. The fiat of Heaven itself could not have inspired them with more confidence, and scarcely were the words uttered, before stealing away in small parties, they began to surround the American camp, with a hope of realizing its truth.
When the plan of attack was determined on, at the Prophet's suggestion it was also agreed, that he himself was not to mingle in the fight; his person was too sacred; but, remaining in the rear, he was to direct by his counsel, and hold intercourse with the Great Spirit. The object of the Indians in surrounding the camp, and approaching it so cautiously, was at a given signal to despatch all the sentries, and rushing forward before the whites could be organized, commence the massacre. At the time that Earth left Rolfe, they had already approached so near to the American lines, that even the guards as they moved on their posts were heard by them, and still all went well. Not a whisper, not a sound, save the heavy tread of the sentinel as he walked his path, broke upon the ear. Leaving them for a moment, let us enter within the camp of the whites.
It now wanted a quarter of four o'clock, and General Harrison had already risen, and was conversing with his aids, who, wrapped in their blankets, were reclining around him.
“How long before we shall turn out, general?” was asked by one of them.
“Ten minutes;”—was the reply.
The mist, which for some hours had been gathering over the land, was now condensed into a cold drizzling rain; thick clouds swept by ever and anon, obscuring the moon, and all was hushed in silence, when the report of a gun rang through the camp, and with it came the war-whoop of five or six hundred Indians. Then, in an instant, was heard the long roll of the drum, and there was hurrying to and fro, “and mounting in hot haste,” and swift winged messengers of death were flying in every direction. From one end of the camp to the other, there was heard the crash of arms, and the whites fired against an unseen enemy, and yet they saw themselves falling, fast and thick. It was now discovered that their camp fires only served to render them visible, while they tended more effectually to conceal the Indians. They were, therefore, hurriedly covered over, and then the doings of death were done in darkness, or by faint glimpses caught from the red glare of the discharging guns. On each side might be seen the impetuous onset, and the deadly struggle; and men fell grappling hand to hand, yet saw not the face of him who dealt the blow.
While thus the battle raged, the Prophet was stationed on an eminence at a comfortable distance, and though he fought not, he sang loud and long, and howled his war song until it reached the ears of his warriors. But now a messenger came from them with the tidings that, counter to his predictions, the balls of the whites came straight, and that his men were falling. “Fight on! fight on!” cried the Prophet, “it will soon be as I said;” and when his answer was borne to his warriors, they again rushed upon their enemies, and the tomahawk struggled for life or death with the musket. The bayonet was pushed aside and the soldier brained with the war-club, and hand to hand they fought, and yielded not. On each side would the combatants, with a recklessness of life scarcely ever before witnessed, approach the fires and mend them up, for the purpose of adjusting their firelocks. They then afforded a fair mark, and rarely, if ever, returned to their ranks. Thus they fought until morning dawned; but now that discipline and tactics were brought into play, valour could do no more. The half-armed Indians could no longer contend with deep lines of well armed soldiery. There was no longer hope, and they left the field, and were beaten; yet for the red men who had fallen many times their number of whites had found a sad and speedy death; and among them were several officers—noble spirits—who embodied in their own characters all that was ennobling in human nature, and during the short time of that struggle, won for themselves fame, which will perish only when the battle itself shall be forgotten.
The details of this battle prove it, on the part of the Indians, to have been the best contested engagement ever fought by them; and when we take into consideration the many disadvantages under which they laboured, when we reflect that they were fewer in number than their opponents, that they were badly armed, and not knowing the use of cartridges, were obliged to load by guess in the dark, while the whites possessed all the advantages belonging to a well disciplined and well equipped corps, we cannot but commend the bravery with which they commenced and sustained the attack. They fought with a desperation never before witnessed, and yielded only, when farther resistance was absolute madness. This was no doubt owing to the faith which they had in the declarations of the Prophet, who had often told them that success was certain; and likewise to the high state of excitement generated by the continual performance of his mysterious rites. When the Indians retreated, they re-entered their town, and the whites, content with their advantage, did not pursue them, but passed the day in burying their dead, taking care of the wounded, and fortifying their camp, lest the attack should be renewed. To them, the seventh of November was a sad day, for very many of their companions who had arrived the evening before, flushed with hope, were numbered among the slain.
The firing had long ceased, and morning was several hours advanced, when two persons were seen to emerge from the forest, and approach the American lines. Earthquake, who had reached the camp too late to warn the whites of their danger, but who had nevertheless succeeded in entering it and had borne himself gallantly in the conflict, was the first to discover them, and rushing forward he heartily congratulated them upon their safety.
“Well, Rolfe, what became of you?”
“Why, we took your advice, Earth; escaped to the woods and concealed ourselves until we discovered that the Indians were beaten. And pray what became of you after leaving us?”
“Ah! that will make half a dozen good yarns,” said Earth, “I'll spin 'em some of these times, when we have less to do. I had right smart fun, though I didn't get there quite soon enough. One of the sentinels saw an Ingen in the grass, crawling along, and cracked it into him, just as I was looking about to see where I could best get into the camp. Rolfe, I thought of you both when they all whooped. I tell you what, it was almost enough to turn a man gray:”—then, turning to Gay, “I suppose you were badly frightened.”
“Not so much at the whooping as I was at the firing,” she replied. “I have been so long with the Indians, that I have become familiarized to all their customs. They often whoop in their games and amusements, and therefore, to me it was not so startling as it was to Richard. He was most frightened, and wished often for you. But tell me, and I almost fear to ask, how many have fallen?”
“Ah!” said Earth, “we had better not talk about that; it is mighty bad; we can't yet tell how many?”
“How many Indians?” said Rolfe.
“That we can't tell either,” said Earth.
“Did Oloompa fall?” inquired Gay.
“I don't know,” said Earth, “I saw him last night, after I left you; but we will talk of that another time. We are now just going within the camp.”
“Earth, I wish you would try and get permission for us to enter a tent; for Gay is tired to death, and would not like to be gazed at and harassed with questions now.”
“Do, for Heaven's sake,” she added, “for, indeed, I am worn with fatigue, and now, if I only knew that Miskwa and her mother were safe, I should be happy.”
“Happy! Gay;”—said Rolfe, “see there, they are burying the dead.”
“Richard, I only mean as happy as one can be, situated as I am,” she replied.
While thus conversing, Earth had hurried away to obtain the use of a tent, and Rolfe and Gay, having entered the camp, their appearance was hailed with much pleasure, and every comfort which it afforded was readily extended to them. Her story was soon known, and even there excited much attention. Her escape was regarded as little less than miraculous, and the many difficulties which she had already encountered won for her the regard of many who cheered her with the hope that all dangers were now passed, and that she would soon reach the settlements in safety. At this time Earthquake rejoined them, saying that one of the officers had kindly begged that the lady would occupy his tent, and Gay complaining much of fatigue, was by Rolfe conducted thither, and left to repose.
Throughout the whole of the day, the army lay within their entrenchments, fearing to venture out; for they had suffered very heavy loss, and now knew neither the number of the Indians, nor whither they had gone. Night came, and still no enemy appeared. Every precaution was taken to prevent another surprise, and they awaited the return of morning with the most anxious solicitude. It came:—beautiful and cheering was the breaking day, and with its first light, was heard the morning drum, calling the soldiers to arms; and, soon after, the whole army was in motion, and on parade.—The dragoons and mounted riflemen were then detailed,—ordered to reconnoitre the town, and report the number and position of the Indians. They performed their task, and returned quickly, saying, that the town was deserted,—not an Indian to be seen.
Orders were then given that the town should be burned, and the soldiers set out for that purpose. Rolfe and Earth, leaving Gay protected by the detachment stationed at the camp, proceeded with them. Moving forward, they had, at every step, examined the features of the Indians who were slain, fearing lest they should find Oloompa among the number. He was not with those who lay around the camp, where only the battle had raged; and now they continued on to the deserted town, for the purpose of prosecuting their search, knowing that thither had been carried the wounded.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “you told us when we met you yesterday, that you saw him during the action:—tell me where?”
“It was not long,” said Earth, “after I got into the camp. I'll tell you all about it some of these times. It was a mighty nice thing, that, before;—I think I had just used up a fellow, who slipped in and squatted by the fire to fix his flint;—well, as I was saying, it was at that time; I was loading, and mighty fast too, about as fast as if a neighbour had had his fingers in my eyes, and I was anxious to shoot him, when I saw a fellow with his rifle up, taking deliberate sight at me. It was too late to get out of the way, and I made up my mind to give up the ghost, when I saw his rifle drop. As he put it down, he cried, ‘hah!’ and instantly disappeared in the darkness. It was just before we covered up the fires, and I only got a glimpse of his face as he turned off; but, Rolfe, I never saw him look as he did then.”
“Then, Earth, he spared you even in battle.”
“He did so, Rolfe, and I don't believe he would have raised his rifle agin me at first, if he had known me.”
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “if he is wounded, I hope we shall find him, for he behaved so nobly I should be pleased to have it in my power to extend to him any assistance.”
“So would I,” answered Earth, “for I set him down as an exception to all I ever knowed. I wonder what has become of the old woman, and the Ingen gal; he had a mighty strong liking for her.”
“Oh! I trust,” said Rolfe, “that they escaped, and are safe. Gay told me last night how kind they had been to her. Earth, no mother or sister could have been more so, and then, in conniving at her escape, they risked their lives, and may for ought we know, have already suffered death on that account.”
“I reckon the Prophet's hands were too full for any thing of that sort,” answered Earth.
Thus conversing, they entered the Indian town. It bore marks of having been deserted in great haste, for large quantities of corn and other provisions were left, together with all their household utensils. Some guns, which had not as yet been divested of the coverings in which they were imported, with a small quantity of the best double glazed rifle powder, were also found, affording convincing proof, if proof were wanting, that the Indians were aided and abetted by the English, before hostilities were declared between them and the Americans.
While the soldiers, in pursuance of orders, were burning the town, Rolfe and Earth continued their search, with the hope of finding some trace by which they might satisfy themselves of the safety of those in whose fate they were interested. They discovered in the town several warriors, who, brought from the scene of battle, had there died of their wounds; but they could recognise in neither the ill-fated Oloompa. Proceeding on, and searching cabin after cabin, they reached the one in which had been confined Netnokwa and her daughter.—Upon entering it, Rolfe started back, and cried out, “Oh! God! Earth, look!”—
Would that we could, in the due course of our narrative, draw a veil over that which follows:—Netnokwa and her lovely daughter had fallen victims to the Prophet's cruelty. Irritated by the failure in his attempt upon the American camp, he had, upon his return, discovered the escape of the white maiden, which he could account for only through their agency, and attributing to it his defeat, he harked on against them, his infuriated followers.—The ‘old oak of the forest’ was laid low, and the ‘loveliest flower which ever had its birth on the prairie,’ was cut down in its bloom! They lay in death as they had lived in life,—together.
A crowd soon collected to view the spectacle.—Rolfe told their story, and dwelt upon the kindness they had shown to the maiden now in the American camp, and their agency in her escape. Their characters won the respect, and their fate excited the sympathy of all. There now only remained the sad duty of interring their remains. Rolfe told Earth, that it was better not to tell Gay, until the last offices were over;—that she was now worn down with fatigue, and to witness them would only add to her distress, without imparting any consolation. Earth accorded with him in opinion, and making such preparations as circumstances permitted, they, assisted by a few friends, bore them away to a quiet part of the town, and deeply deploring their sad fate, consigned them in silence to the grave. The ceremony was sadly contrasted with the scene around it. Rolfe saw the soldiers setting fire to the houses, and eagerly bent on destroying what remained of Indian property. He thought of the fortune which had made him acquainted with several members of that ill-starred race; he reflected upon the many fruitless attempts they had so often made to stay the advance of the whites;—then passed before him the conduct of those who had so nobly served him, and leaving Earth to mingle with the crowd, he returned to the American camp, and seeking her for whose sake he had encountered so many dangers, he said:—“Gay, my love! I must still add another pang to your misfortunes.”
“Oh! what! what!” she cried, “does danger threaten you?”
“No;—Netnokwa and her daughter”——
“Are killed?”
“Yes,” said Rolfe.
“Oh! Richard!”—and covering her face, she was silent for a few moments,—“what have I done! all who love me, seem fated to death! Oh! Miskwa; Miskwa! could not all thy virtues save thee!”
“Come, love,” said Rolfe, “rather rejoice that you escaped; for the same fate awaited you.”
“Oh! Richard! rejoice in the death of one who knew not wrong, and who ever loved her friends more dearly than herself! but for you, I had rather have suffered with her than live and know that I may have brought misfortune on herself and mother. Oh! kind, dear Miskwa!”
Rolfe used all his exertions to console her,—assured her that the death of Miskwa and her mother had been caused solely by the cruel orders of the Prophet; and saying every thing that he could to sooth her, left her for a time to her own meditations.
The town had been burned, the smoke was still rising from its ruins, the soldiers had all returned to their camp, and it was evening when Rolfe and Gay stood alone over the fresh grave of Netnokwa and her daughter. Upon arriving there, Gay wept bitterly, and vented her grief in passionate exclamations. “Oh! Richard!” she cried, “only a short time since, and she was planning my safety, regardless of her own! and now”—her utterance was choked with grief.
“Come, Gay,” said Rolfe, “let us return.”
She spoke not, but continued moistening the earth with her tears. Rolfe then entreated her to leave, saying, that the army would set out on the next morning, for the settlements, and that it was necessary that they should at once return to the camp. Twilight was shedding its influence over the scene, when bidding a long, last farewell to the spot where now remained those who had so nobly served her, she permitted him to lead her away.
On the morning of the 9th the troops were early in motion. The Indians were no where to be seen, and fearing lest they should get reinforcements, and return to the attack, they determined to move forward on their march to Vincennes. Forming in the same order in which they had arrived, their loss was more apparent than it had been; and served to shed a gloom over the whole army. All the wagons, with the exception of one, were filled with the wounded, and in that were carried the arms of those who had fallen. There being now no means of transporting their baggage, they resolved to destroy it, and General Harrison setting the example, it was cheerfully followed.
The army then took up its line of march, and Gay, mounted on horseback, and escorted by Rolfe and Earth, proceeded under its protection as far as Vincennes, where they rested a few days, and then continued their journey to Kentucky.
“Last of a noble race,To a lonely bed they bore him,'Twas a green, still, solemn place,Where the mountain pine waves o'er him;Woods aloneSeem to moan,Wild streams to deplore him.”MRS. HEMANS.
“Last of a noble race,To a lonely bed they bore him,'Twas a green, still, solemn place,Where the mountain pine waves o'er him;Woods aloneSeem to moan,Wild streams to deplore him.”MRS. HEMANS.
We have now traced to a close, the main incidents in our story, and still it is unfinished as far as regards the fate of several characters who have played a conspicuous part in the foregoing narrative. To give a brief sketch of their subsequent history is now our purpose.
With the loss of the battle of Tippecanoe at once sunk the character of Elkswatawa as a Prophet. He had prophesied success to those who should be engaged in the battle, and with it an exemption from all injury. His prophecies were proved false; for the battle was lost, and many of his warriors killed. His power was now gone; those who had lost relatives in the late action, reviled and abused him as a bad man, and public opinion among the Indians was also very strong against him on account of his having embroiled them with the whites, and plunged them into difficulties from which they now saw no hope of escape. In this state of things, he retired with a small party, to one of the Huron villages, where he determined to remain until the opposition against him had in some measure spent its force, when he would again endeavour to regain that influence which he before possessed. The immediate consequence of the defeat of the Indians at Tippecanoe was a disposition on their part to sue for peace. The chiefs of all the tribes which were in the late action, the Shawanees alone excepted, repaired to Vincennes, and delivered up their arms; and the Prophet's band having dwindled down to a mere handful of men, circumstances seemed to promise a speedy and amicable adjustment of the Indian affairs.
When the battle of Tippecanoe was fought, Tecumseh was absent at the south, having avowed to General Harrison, previous to his departure, that his object in visiting the Indians in that quarter, was to endeavour to unite them in the confederacy he had already formed. But no sooner had the battle taken placed and the Indians delivered up their arms and sued for peace, than he returned to his lands on the Wabash. When he found that all the plans which he had so long been maturing, had been frustrated by the rashness of Elkswatawa and his followers, his soul was wrung with anguish:—he vented his wrath against him, and wept over the derangement of his schemes.—He had now with him but eight followers, and the band of the Prophet amounted to but few more;—and this was the result of their joint labours for so many years. When Tecumseh saw this, he repined no longer, but reconciling all differences with Elkswatawa, went at once to work to endeavour to regain what he had lost.
Previous to Tecumseh's visit to the south, Mr. Madison, who was then President of the United States, had expressed a wish, that those chiefs who were dissatisfied with the late treaties, should visit Washington, for the purpose of stating their grievances; at the same time, promising them that they should be redressed if practicable. Tecumseh had consented to do so, upon his return; and now, for the purpose of gaining time, and also quieting still further the apprehensions of the whites, he sent a messenger to General Harrison, avowing that he was ready to set out with the deputation which had been invited to proceed to Washington, to treat for peace; but that his wish was to go as its chief.
He was answered, that he might visit Washington with the deputation, but not in the capacity he desired. This wounded his pride, for he thought himself entitled to the rank to which he aspired, and with the refusal he relinquished all thoughts of peace. He saw that the battle was to be fought, and he nerved himself for the contest. His exertions were now more unremitting than ever:—again he visited every neighbouring tribe; called its warriors together, depicted the wrongs they suffered, dwelt upon the ruinous consequences of such a peace as the whites would dictate, and urged them on to battle for their rights. He spoke of the invasion of the whites, and the battle of Tippecanoe, and in fine, left no topic untouched, which was calculated to excite the Indians against the United States. The Prophet also was again seen wandering far and wide, and preaching the words of the Great Spirit. His failure at Tippecanoe, he rationally accounted for, by saying that some woman had, by touching his sacred utensils on the evening of the battle, destroyed their charm, and so specious were the devices he used, and so ignorant the multitude upon which he operated, that we find him again playing quite a conspicuous part. But he was never destined to regain the power which but a short time before he had wielded. Tecumseh now avowed himself the master spirit of the projected enterprise, and rose as rapidly in favour with the Indians, as the Prophet had declined. The result of his exertions will be seen, when, notwithstanding the deranged state in which he found his affairs upon his return, two months after this time, we find him at the head of a roving band, spreading terror and devastation along the whole range of our north-western frontier. Nothing could equal the fear he inspired, for so extensive was the confederation he had formed, that incursions would be made by members of his band, and families murdered at a distance of one and two hundred miles apart. When pursuit was made, the Indians were gone, and the occurrence of these things at so many different points, tended so much to distract and divide public attention, that it was found impossible to embody the militia at any one place, in sufficient numbers to be of service. No one knew when he was safe, for murders were committed in places deemed hitherto secure, and very often the attack was directed where least expected. There was no guarding against it, for no one could tell where the blow was to fall, and the result was, that entire families were seen deserting their homes, and flying they knew not where for protection. Many sought Vincennes, but scarcely would they reach it, before rumour represented that the Prophet, with a numerous band was coming down upon the town, and the fugitives left it, to continue their flight. In every quarter, was terror, consternation, and fear exhibited.
To counteract this, all the troops under General Harrison were called out, and so disposed as to protect as much of the frontier as possible, and a special messenger was likewise despatched, for the purpose of calling together a council of the tribes, and either settling upon the terms of peace, or else securing their neutrality. This was essential, because the chiefs of many of the tribes had delivered up their arms, after the battle of Tippecanoe, and expressed a willingness to treat for peace; and it was also highly necessary, because the attitude assumed by England at this time, warranted the belief that war would soon be declared between the two countries; and as in case of such an event, the contest would lay in a great measure along the lakes, it became a matter of great moment, to conciliate as many of the tribes as practicable.
The special messenger appointed by General Harrison, so far succeeded in his mission, that, in May, 1812, a grand council of twelve tribes was held at Mississinniway, on the Wabash. Each tribe had its orator, who addressed the council, and all were for peace, with the exception of Tecumseh. Even he, seeing that all were against him, dissembled, and said he was willing to treat for peace; but in his speeches, he never lost sight of the injuries which had been inflicted by the whites, nor did he fail to advert to the causes of complaint which he considered most irritating. He deemed it unwise there to avow that his intentions were for war, yet at the close of one of his speeches, in allusion to the whites, he said, “should they come again and make an unprovoked attack on us at our village, we will die like men, but we will never strike the first blow.” During the discussion, the Prophet was spoken of by several of the tribes, as a bad man, and their present difficulties were attributed to him. They protested that they would no longer listen to his doctrines, nor have any connexion with him; and the council adjourned, leaving an impression on the whites, that peace would be adhered to by most of the tribes which were present.
Although Tecumseh had expressed a willingness to be at peace, and a disposition to remain so, no sooner was the council broken up than we find him going among the very tribes whose chiefs had just pledged themselves to preserve peace, strengthening the confederacy which he had already formed, and urging the Indians in the most exciting language, to prepare for battle. With the breaking up of the council at Mississinniway, he drew off all reserve, and no longer pretended to conceal his designs. He proclaimed that his voice was for battle, and battle he would have until he and his warriors should be no more, or until the Ohio river should be acknowledged as the northern boundary of the United States, and a promise on the part of the whites be given, never more to purchase lands of the Indians, without the consent of every tribe on the continent.
The breach between England and the United States, was now every day widening, and all foresaw that war was inevitable. In consequence of this, extensive preparations were made:—forts were built and garrisoned, and the whole northern frontier placed in the best possible state of defence. Tecumseh, who when he first projected the scheme which he had been so long maturing, was as bitter in his feelings against the English as the Americans, now saw that he could do nothing by opposing both, and that he must at once take part with one or the other. The injuries inflicted by the Americans, were fresh in his mind; he saw them in possession of lands to which he thought his tribe entitled, and he saw them grasping at the small portion of territory yet left to the red men. He had received overtures before this, from English agents, and he now bent his steps toward the Canada lines.
On the 18th of June, of the year 1812, war was declared against England, and affairs in the west wearing a more alarming aspect, greater preparations became necessary. To General Harrison was assigned the command of the western army, and all his exertions were devoted to making preparations for the opening campaign. Tecumseh had, in the meantime, formed an alliance with the English; for soon after his return to the Wabash, he was heard to state to the commander at Fort Wayne, while on his way to the Malden council, that he had orders from the English, to receive twelve horse loads of ammunition, for the use of his people at Tippecanoe. He was also placed at the head of the Anglo-Indian Department, and to him was assigned the rank of a general officer in the English army.
The council at Malden, to which allusion has been made above, was called by the English for the purpose of counteracting the effect of that which had been held at Mississinniway, and with a hope of gaining over to their side, the few tribes which still adhered to the American cause. It was numerously attended; Tecumseh and the prophet, Elliot, a British Indian agent, and the commanding English officer, were all present. The few tribes which had resisted the influence of Tecumseh and the Prophet, and still adhered to the American cause, were threatened and persuaded, but in vain; they remained firm; and after a warm and animated discussion, all the chiefs who were favourable to the English cause, seized the hatchet of their English father.—Tecumseh was the first to do so,—as emblematical of their determination,—saying, “we now come forward and take hold of your war hatchet, and will assist you to fight against the Americans.” The council then adjourned. Tecumseh now redoubled his exertions,—journeying by night and day, he again visited the tribes of his confederacy, and to each applied that stimulus which was most likely to excite them to immediate action. Some he persuaded, others he threatened; no labour fatigued him; no exertion was too great; and, while he himself was thus engaged, his emissaries were likewise travelling in every direction for the purpose of assembling the Indians.1
1See note E.
Such were the exertions of Tecumseh, and although they were so far crowned with success, that by his means a greater number of Indians were embodied than were ever before known to have assembled at any former time, still he failed in the accomplishment of those great ends for which he had so long been labouring. He failed in establishing the Ohio River as the north-western boundary of the United States, which he often asserted to be a favourite measure, and his determination to effect. Yet, his endeavours to do so, have won for him a reputation which will last until the aborigines of our country shall be forgotten. He also failed to unite in one confederacy, as was his purpose, all the tribes in the great Mississippi valley. Still his visit to the south has generally been regarded as the exciting cause of the subsequent hostility of the Indians in that quarter.
When Tecumseh and Elkswatawa commenced their operations, no improper motive influenced them. They contended for the possession of a waste and unimproved territory. They fought to establish the principle, that all the lands held by the Indians, belonged to the whole collectively, and not to particular tribes. Believing that the United States had grievously wronged them in purchasing large tracts from a single tribe, they thenceforth resolved, that it should be regarded as common property, never to be disposed of without the consent of all. They also united, heart and soul, endeavouring to fix a limit to the growing power of the United States. For they saw the stream of population fast pouring upon their lands, and knew that, unless stayed, it would soon sweep from them the few possessions they still held.
These, with them, were praiseworthy objects, and by them for a long time, were they solely influenced. But, circumstances changed in a measure, the current of their thoughts, and thenceforward personal vengeance urged them on in all their operations. At first, their resentment was against the whites, whether as English or Americans, they knew no difference; it was the whites who had wrested from them their lands. But when they saw that hostilities were about to commence between England and America, and reflected upon the growing power of the latter, they began to waver in their original purpose. They gave their ears to the soft persuasions of the English agents, who flattered their pride, courted their assistance, sympathized with them in all their sufferings, and attributed their misfortunes to the grasping power of the Americans. When the brothers heard these things, and remembered that those oft told tales were not the date of yesterday, but had been reiterated for years, they yielded, and in lending their assistance to the English, changed in a great degree the holy nature of the war they were waging.
It is not our purpose to enter minutely into the details of all the campaigns in which Tecumseh was conspicuous, and therefore we must condense the events of his latter days into a few brief pages. We do this unwillingly, for every incident connected with him is interesting, and proves him to have possessed a great mind, imbued with chivalry of character which would have shed lustre over any person, in any age. Throughout the whole of the contest, his conduct was bold, frank, and manly, and though a savage, no act of inhumanity ever stained his fair fame. The cause which called forth his exertions was an holy one; it was to stay the encroachments of the whites, to render the rights of his countrymen respected, and secure to them the quiet possession of the lands which they still retained. In his own beautiful language, he compared the continual advancement of the white settlements to a “mighty wave overspreading the land,” and the confederacy he was forming, to “a dam made to resist it.”
The history of the Prophet is so blended with that of Tecumseh, that we cannot well separate them, even did we wish it. Cowardly, cruel, and treacherous, he possessed but few redeeming virtues. Yet all the incidents which marked his career as a Prophet, prove him to have been a most extraordinary man. In the first place, the assuming of a character which was founded in deception, and the many petty artifices which he was called on daily to practise for so long a time, in order to sustain that character, prove that he must have had a mind both singularly constituted and of great power. And this is still more apparent, when, also, we reflect that, notwithstanding the most violent opposition from the chiefs of all the tribes upon which he operated, and also from the whites, long before his designs were regarded as hostile, he succeeded in creating in his own person a power which was felt throughout the remotest tribes, and in wielding an influence not less fatal and mysterious in its effects, than was that of the inquisition, in the plentitude of its power. That power must have been great, and a great mind alone could have created it, which enabled him to lead as he pleased, the lawless band of Indians who generally accompanied him; which enabled him, like Prospero, who, by the wave of his wand, called up tempests from the vasty deep, at his bidding, to lash his followers into the fury of a raging storm, or hush them when excited, into quiet deep as that of a sleeping child. But, luckily for the whites, with the battle of Tippecanoe, was lost the influence of the Prophet. Had he won that battle, or had the Indians, throughout the north-western war, fought with the same desperation which marked their conduct at Tippecanoe, the result, though in all probability the same, would, by the whites, have been far more dearly purchased. Yet, although he there failed, he relaxed not in his exertions; for, after this, we often find him associated with Tecumseh, though always playing a subordinate part.
But, as regards Tecumseh, if there be one trait in his character more attractive than another, it is the clemency and humanity which ever marked his conduct; and this is the more remarkable, when we regard the many irritating circumstances which urged him on in his hostility to the United States. Had he, in the many contests in which he engaged, acted according to the general rule of Indian warfare, he would still have been great, then how much brighter appears his fame, when we recollect, that, during the north-western war, atrocities were perpetrated without a parallel in the annals of civilized warfare, and that against Tecumseh not a single act of wanton cruelty was ever charged. When the battle, or rather the massacre of the River Raisin took place, Tecumseh was collecting his warriors on the Wabash, and his after conduct proves that, had he been present, the scene that there occurred, would not now remain a blot upon the fame of England. In one of the sorties from Fort Meigs, many Americans were captured, and when confined and disarmed, the Indians proceeded inhumanly to butcher them. Tecumseh having heard what was going on, rushed to the spot, reproached them with their cruelty, and stopped the massacre. He is said to have stipulated with General Proctor for the delivery of General Harrison into his hands, in the event of his being captured. What disposition he would have made of him, had it so happened, we can never know, and can only conjecture from what is known of his character. In all probability his pleasure would have been to have extended to him the hospitality of his wigwam, and like Roderick Dhu, have guided him safely beyond the confines of his lands, and then set him free.
Tecumseh succeeded in bringing more men into the field than were ever before embodied by any other chieftain. From a single excursion on the Wabash, he returned at one time, with six hundred warriors, and from the commencement of hostilities, up to the period of the battle of the Thames, was hovering along our frontiers, with a force of from two to three thousand. At the head of two thousand warriors, he aided General Proctor, in the two attempts which he made on Fort Meigs, and was likewise engaged in many other skirmishes along our line of posts.
But distinguished as Tecumseh was for his deeds as a warrior, we have ever regarded him as still more conspicuous, from the convincing proofs he has left, that he was an orator, in the highest sense of the term. That he was fearless, see his declarations in council, when surrounded by his enemies. What apophthegm, though uttered in Rome, in her happiest days, surpasses his reply to the interpreter, when, fatigued from speaking in council, at Vincennes, he saw that no chair had been provided for him. “Your father,” (alluding to General Harrison,) said the interpreter, “requests you to take a chair,”—at the same moment handing one. “My father!”—replied Tecumseh, “the sun is my father, the earth my mother; upon her bosom I will repose;”—and, suiting the action to his words, he laid himself on the ground. What more striking than his reply to General Harrison, when discussing in his own tent, the probability of war. Alluding to the situation which the President of the United States would occupy in such an event, he replied,—“True, he is so far off, that the war will not injure him; he may sit still in his town, and drink his wine, while you and I will have to fight it out;” or the words of Tecumseh, when, in one of his speeches, alluding to the earthquake which overwhelmed New Madrid, he says:—“The Great Spirit is angry with our enemies; he speaks in thunder, and the earth swallows up villages, and drinks up the Mississippi; the wide waters will cover their low lands, and the Great Spirit will sweep from the earth, with his terrible breath, those who escape to the hills.” Of all his speeches which have been preserved, the one which we here extract, gives perhaps the best idea of his manner and mode of expression. In judging of it, as of all other Indian productions, we should make allowance for the loss they must necessarily sustain in being translated, and secondly, for the fact that, as a general remark, all the persons who have been employed as interpreters among them, have generally been uneducated men. Tecumseh, being at Malden, with General Proctor, when the latter began to make preparations for retreating, in consequence of Perry's victory, and not knowing why he was hurrying away, demanded a council in the name of all the Indians, and spoke as follows:—
“Father—Listen to your children! You have them all now before you.
“The war before this, our British father gave the hatchet to his red children, when our old chiefs were alive. They are now dead! In the war, our father was thrown on his back, by the Americans, and our father took them by the hand without our knowledge. We are afraid our father will do so again at this time.
“Summer before last, when I came forward with my red brethren, and was ready to take up the hatchet in favour of our British father, we were told not to be in a hurry, that he had not yet determined to fight the Americans.
“Listen! When war was declared, our father stood up and gave us the tomahawk, and told us that he was then ready to strike the Americans; that he wanted our assistance; and that he would certainly get us our lands back, which the Americans had taken from us.
“Listen!—You told us at that time to bring our families to this place, and we did so; and you promised to take care of them; that they should want for nothing, while the men would go and fight the enemy; that we need not trouble ourselves about the enemy's garrisons; that we knew nothing about them, and that our father would attend to that part of the business. You also told your red children that you would take good care of your garrison here, which made our hearts glad.
“Listen!—When we were last at the Rapids, it is true, we gave you little assistance. It is hard to fight people who live like ground-hogs.2
2Alluding to the Americans in their forts.
“Father, listen!—Our fleet has gone out; we know they have fought; we have heard the great guns; but we know nothing of what has happened to our father with one3arm. Our ships have gone one way, and we are much astonished to see our father tying up every thing and preparing to run away the other, without letting his red children know what his intentions are. You always told us to remain here and take care of our lands; it made our hearts glad to hear that was your wish. Our great father, the king, is the head, and you represent him. You always told us you would never draw your foot off British ground; but now, father, we see you are drawing back, and we are sorry to see our father doing so, without seeing the enemy. We must compare our father's conduct to a fat dog, that carries its tail upon its back, but when affrighted, it drops it between its legs, and runs off.
3Commodore Barclay.
“Father, listen!—The Americans have not yet defeated us by land; neither are we sure that they have done so by water; we therefore wish to remain here, and fight our enemy, should they make their appearance. If they defeat us, we will then retreat with our father. At the battle of the Rapids, last war, the Americans certainly defeated us; and when we returned to our father's fort at that place, the gates were shut against us. We were afraid that it would now be the case; but instead of that, we now see our British father preparing to march out of the garrison.
“Father!—You have got the arms and ammunition which our great father sent for his red children. If you have an idea of going away, give them to us, and you may go and welcome. Our lives are in the hands of the Great Spirit. We are determined to defend our lands, and if it be his will, we wish to leave our bones upon them.”
During the retreat of General Proctor, which finally ended in his discomfiture, he returned with Tecumseh and a small guard to view the ground at a place called Chatham, where a large unfordable creek falls into the Thames. Having thoroughly examined the place, it was approved of, and Proctor told Tecumseh, as they rode in the same gig, that upon that spot they would either defeat General Harrison or there lay their bones. Tecumseh seemed much pleased at this determination, and said, that “it was a good place, and when he should look at the two streams, they would remind him of the Wabash and Tippecanoe.” It was here that a skirmish took place but a short time previous to the general battle, Proctor having left Tecumseh to defend the pass, with about twelve hundred Indians. He was unsuccessful, and rejoining Proctor they formed in order of battle, near the Moravian towns. Tecumseh commanded the right wing of the allied army, and was himself posted on the left of that wing. It is said, he entertained fears that Proctor would retreat, and that some few minutes before the battle commenced, he rode up to him, and told him that the British wing was not far enough up to be in line with his.
This incident in the history of Tecumseh, is narrated on the authority of an English officer who was taken prisoner, and Tecumseh was surely authorized in making the assertion, from Proctor's failing to assist him in defending the pass at Chatham. An examination of that place will show, as stated by historians, that had the ground been occupied by the Indians and English conjointly, and had they defended it with even tolerable bravery, it would have been utterly impossible for the American army to have crossed over. Great as were the exertions of Tecumseh, and untiring as were his efforts for so long a time, it was his misfortune to be connected with, and in a great degree governed by one to whom he was in every point of view superior. In forming an alliance with the English, he necessarily placed himself under the guidance of Proctor, who was at the head of the English forces. From the time of their first connexion, Tecumseh was ever urging him on to battle. Upon the first tidings of Perry's victory, Proctor, notwithstanding Tecumseh's remonstrances, hurried away from Malden, where he was then encamped. “If,” says the historian of the western war, “he had taken Tecumseh's advice, and fought the Americans before retreating, the result must have been more glorious at least, if not entirely favourable to the British arms.” And throughout all his subsequent retreats we always find Tecumseh stationed in the rear, and guarding the passes, while the English army continued its flight in safety; and to such an extent was this cowardly policy carried, that even when they had resolved to fight, and all their forces were arranged, we see Tecumseh just on the eve of the battle, going up to the English general, and telling him that his wing was not sufficiently advanced. How must Tecumseh's soul have glowed with indignation when he saw this conduct in one whom he had so faithfully served, and who, instead of attempting to withdraw himself from the contest, and thrust forward his allies, ought rather by his example, to have incited them to deeds of noble daring. Leaving Proctor, and no doubt deploring the hard fate which had made them acquainted, he returned to his warriors, and with his return, the battle commenced. Here was Tecumseh's last struggle. With the first onset of the Americans, the British lines were broken, and their troops either surrendered or fled precipitately.—The only resistance, then, to our victorious arms was found in the right wing, where stood Tecumseh, with his swarthy band. Conspicuous among his warriors, by a plume of white feathers, which he wore in his cap, he was seen dealing destruction around him, and in the most exciting language, was heard to urge his followers to the onset. Although the regular troops of the allied army were routed, and Tecumseh saw them flying from the field, still he, with his trusty band, quailed not. They yet breasted the storm of war, fighting hand to hand for the position which they first occupied. But now, when charge followed charge, and mounted infantry, flushed with success, came rushing impetuous on, and bearing down all before them, the Indians began to waver, and yielded to the shock. But no sooner did they turn to fly, than the voice of Tecumseh, who still stood firm as a mountain rock, was heard rising far above the crash of arms and din of battle, rallying them, and again cheering them on to the attack;—again they returned,—but to be beaten back; and again and again they braved the battle's fiercest shock.—Then fled; but, hark! no rallying voice recalls them now. The chief with the ostrich plume, lies low! Tecumseh had fallen! But not alone; for many of his best and bravest followers lay close around him.
The sequel is soon told. The allied army being routed, the Indians immediately after, sued for peace, and the spirit of opposition which had so long been manifested to the measures of the government, was effectually quelled.
As to the individual who killed Tecumseh, public opinion ever has been, and still remains divided. Sometime previously to the battle of the Moravian towns, Colonel Richard M. Johnson, than whom no one bore himself more gallantly in the north-western war, joined the army, with a corps of mounted volunteers, from Kentucky. He was present at the battle of the Thames, and commanded that part of the American army which was opposed to Tecumseh and his immediate followers. To him has generally been assigned this honour.4
4See note F.
“The grave in which Tecumseh's remains were deposited by the Indians, after the return of the American army, is still to be seen near the borders of a willow marsh, on the north line of the battleground, with a large fallen oak tree lying by its side. The willow and wild rose, are thick around it, but the mound itself is cleared of shrubbery, and is said to owe its good condition to the occasional visits of his countrymen.”
A brief mention of the remaining characters of our story, and we have done.
Oloompa! yes, noble, generous Oloompa! all thy virtues could not save thee! ill-fated wert thou as the noble chief whom it was thy destiny to follow. Escaping from the battle of Tippecanoe, he united himself with Tecumseh immediately upon his return from the south, continued one of his firmest adherents, and fell fighting by his side, in the battle which closed his career.
A word of the Prophet.—Tecumseh having forgiven him for his agency in the ill-timed explosion of their schemes, they again became united, and the Prophet continued for some time unremitting in his exertions to unite the Indians. In the records of that period, we frequently find mention of his wandering about and preaching even up to within a short time of the battle of the Thames. We can find no evidence of his having been present in any engagement; yet it would perhaps be unfair to presume that therefore he was absent, inasmuch as even though present, he himself would have been overshadowed by the greater fame of Tecumseh. When, subsequent to the battle of the Thames, the Indians sued for peace, and began to form treaties with the United States, the Prophet retired to the neighbourhood of Fort Malden, on the Canada side of Detroit River, where, without exercising the least influence, and even despised by the Indians, he continued to reside, a pensioner on the bounty of the British government, until the time of his death, not many years since. The general contempt with which he was treated during his latter days, must in his mind, have been sadly contrasted with the vast power which he once wielded, and formed a good commentary on the cruel and treacherous policy which characterized him. Had he, in his exertions for his countrymen, pursued a different course, he might have left a more enviable reputation, yet he could never have equalled Tecumseh; nor could Tecumseh, by possibility, have played the part assigned to Elkswatawa. Had the brothers succeeded in the accomplishment of their wishes, volumes would have told the story of their praise. They failed, their joint endeavours have been almost forgotten, and even of their history, though so intimately blended, in the recollection of the public, scarcely any remains save the proud name of Tecumseh.
We have now to dispose of the hunters and Gay Foreman; and first in place, comes our old friend Earth, whom to forget would be a crime. Having, as we have seen, returned with Rolfe to Kentucky, he for some time devoted himself to the duties of his office: but the exciting events of the north-western war, calling for the assistance of every patriot, he buckled on his armour anew, and formed one of the regiments of mounted volunteers who accompanied Colonel Richard M. Johnson, to the scene of battle. Upon leaving home, he was still heard to repeat the words, “take a last brush,” and to caution the boys, as he called the citizens of his county, “to settle up, and not hold back merely because he was absent.”
As each one in that gallant corps bore himself bravely, it is needless to pass encomiums on Earth, but let us take it for granted from what we know of his character, that he did his duty, and as he himself would add, “a little extra.” After the close of the campaign, he returned to Kentucky, and though not then very far advanced in years, yet he was a weather-beaten and war-worn soldier. Settling down quietly in life, he also followed Rolfe's good example, and married. But as it often happens in like resolves, he married directly counter to all the promises he had made himself; for, notwithstanding his often avowed predilection for large and fat ladies, he chose for his partner, one who was remarkably thin and delicate. And some time after, upon being rallied by Rolfe on his choice, he answered,—“I did always think, Rolfe, that if by any very singular quirk, I should happen to be married, that it would be to a large woman. But Polly,” for so he called his wife, “was an orphan; her father fell fighting the battles of his country, and her mother dying soon after, she became dependent on the world's charity. I always thought her a good girl, Rolfe, and when left alone, her being thin and delicate, I regarded as a strong reason why she should have a protector, and, therefore, I have sworn to love and cherish her.”
“Pardon me, Earth,” said Rolfe, “thou art a noble soul, and may the choicest blessings of heaven attend thee.”
Rolfe, upon his return to Kentucky, was married to Gay Foreman, and they long lived happy in their domestic relations, beloved by all who knew them. Assiduous in the discharge of its duties, he won for himself the highest place in the profession to which he belonged; and honoured by the confidence of the people, became conspicuous in the councils of his adopted state, and afterward stood among the foremost of the Kentucky delegation to the seat of government, where, during hours of recreation, he was often seen dashing through the streets of Washington, in a handsome curricle, with his forest bride, whose powers of conversation, grace of manner, and singular story, rendered her the idol of every circle she entered, and enabled her to exercise not less influence in the gay and fashionable world, than did her husband in the councils of the nation.