36 The Fallen Timbers

The August sun swung clear of the earth and threw a flood of light over the army as it advanced through the deep woods. We had started from Fort Deposit at daybreak, leaving there our heavy baggage, the women, and a small garrison, and at last we were marching to meet the gathered power of the Indian tribes. The fate of the Northwest hung upon the event, yet around us was only the silence of the wilderness, the murmur of the wind through the deep foliage, and the singing of the birds. Even the soldiers, who usually, in the face of death, see the lighter side of things, refrained from jest or other comment and walked solemnly on to meet the elusive and terrible foe, against whom another army had marched only to slaughter.

I felt a thrill alike of pride and apprehension as I looked upon those around me. I knew how the iron hand of their general had moulded them into shape until they were fit to meet the savage tribes, and I knew, too, that it would be a mortal blow to him if he failed. Yet the fate and hopes of one man were but little compared with the desolation that torch and tomahawk would spread along the border behind us if we were beaten. Surely if men ever had a spur to valour it was we.

The sun, a ball of red and gold, crept up the arch of the sky. The army, still silent in speech, gave forth the usual murmur of arms and the tread of men and horses. The sunbeams glanced along the leaves of the trees, not yet burned brown by the summer sun, and shot in long arrows of light over the surface of the Little Miami. But the woods were yet silent. They gave forth no sign of the enemy. We knew that the allied power of the Northwestern tribes lay near us, but the waving of no scalp lock, the glint of no tomahawk, met our eyes. That foe whom we were going to meet was as wary, as elusive, and as terrible as ever. The silence was oppressive, ominous, and I longed to hear the defiant war-whoop.

General Wayne signalled to me. His face was anxious, and he made no effort to disguise it.

“Are you sure that they are before us, Jack?” he asked.

“Osseo says so, and the chief is never mistaken. Moreover, old Joe Grimes and a dozen other scouts bear witness to the truth of his words.”

“I did not doubt them, Jack, but I like not this silence. I hate a hidden foe. ’Twas not this way in the war with the English, as you know, Jack. Then it was hammer and tongs, give and take, and the best man to win, with no ill feeling afterward. But here it is an enemy whom you can not find, and you know not what to expect when you do find him.”

But Mad Anthony Wayne would not allow impatience to defeat caution. Forward we went, hugging the Little Miami on our right, that we might not be flanked there, the scouts swarming on our left and in our front. Near me was Lawless, now my devoted friend, and farther on was Jasper. His face was turned from me, but I knew that his lips were as white as chalk, and that he saw the figure of Hoyoquim in every glade. The footsteps of the army were softened by the deep turf. The wind rose a little and sang a song through the leaves of the trees. But there was no hostile sound. Our eyes saw and our ears heard only the peace that we had learned never to trust.

On we went, still hugging the river as a swordsman hugs a wall, and the wilderness deepened. The trees were denser and the grass grew higher. Before us rose a dark mass of fallen forest thrown down by a tornado, and looking toward it I suddenly saw a spot of faint pink appear against its background and then darken into flame. The crack of the rifle shot, sharp and distinct, came to our ears, and it was followed by another and others. A sputtering fire came too from the high, grass on our right, and then the scouts bounded into view. But we needed no word from them; we knew now that the Indian army lay in the grass and the fallen timber. And we were ready. There was fierce exultation in that thought.

General Wayne was near me when the Indian attack began. He turned and brought down a heavy hand upon my shoulder:

“We are face to face with ’em at last, and it is not a surprise; I thank God for that, Jack!”

I think that he spoke unconsciously, and because the long and great tension of his mind found relief in the sudden opening of the battle.

The fire of the Indians rose to a steady crackle, with the defiant war-whoop swelling at intervals above it. Yet the warriors still lay hidden. Not one of their brown faces could we see, and our soldiers already were falling. But the army remained steady. I noticed it with joy. The long and diligent training had paid. Always the men had been told to do that most difficult of things—to remain firm in the face of hidden death; and now they obeyed. The bullets flying from the fallen trees and the long grass whistled among us, and the soldiers here and there continued to fall; but on the army went, steady and resolute, into the deepening fire.

I kept close to General Wayne, and I marked the unconscious workings of the mind of this man, who was prone to speak as he thought.

“Good lads! good lads!” he said in a rapid under-tone, like the patter of a subdued fire of musketry. “They don’t flinch! Look how they go against a death that they can not see, but which they know is there! Ha! this is worthy of Stony Point! No, on my soul ’tis better!”

He stopped suddenly and called me. The fire on our left was growing extremely heavy—as heavy as any that I witnessed at St. Clair’s defeat, and it was spreading, too, around our flank. They were seeking to repeat their old plan of surrounding us, pressing our army into a huddle, and then shooting us down from covert. But the general’s eye was quick to see.

“We must have none of that, Jack,” he cried. “Bid the left flank advance with the bayonet and we’ll rouse up these fellows.”

I delivered his order and galloped back to the general, and then we faced the fallen timber. Innumerable spouts of flame came from the tree trunks and upthrust boughs, and through the smoke now we could see the brown and naked forms of the warriors as they leaped from one covert to another. From the left came the boom of the cannon and the crash of our own rifle fire preparing the way for the bayonet charge. Then it died suddenly, and I knew that the men were advancing with the cold steel which no savage who was ever born can face. At the same moment the general gave the word to us in the centre. Up went the bayonets in a flash of light, and our line swept down on the fallen trees.

My horse was killed by a bullet, but I sprang clear of him, drew my sword, and rushed on in the charge. The fire in our faces seemed to redouble, and the flash of the exploding powder became one great, blinding blaze; but on we went into it and through it, and then we leaped among the fallen trees.

The bayonet was raised and the savages fled from its cold touch. We roused them out of the brush like a swarm of partridges, and they could not stand before us. Then they learned that they had not come against an ambushed rabble like St. Clair’s force, but a trained army led by the best men in the West. Again I felt the thrill of exultation as the line of bayonets flashed in the brushwood, and the naked warriors, leaping from their coverts, ran in terror. On our left we saw the same gleam, and we knew that it came from the bayonets of our comrades who were driving the enemy before them with a speed not less than ours.

The savages ceased to utter the defiant war-whoop. On all sides they fled, a frightened swarm, pursued by the avenging bayonets and stricken down by the rifle fire, the forms of their dead scattered all through the brushwood and high grass.

A tall figure rose out of the smoke beside me and a voice shouted in my ear:

“Who’s blinkin’ like a frog in a thunderstorm now, John?”

It was old Joe Grimes, his face one great blaze of triumph.

“You’re right,” I replied. “They can’t stand the flash of the bayonet in their eyes.”

“Bayonet, hell!” he cried. “It ain’t the bayonet that’s doin’ ’em! It’s this!” and he tapped the barrel of his rifle as he spoke. The next moment he was gone in the timber, hot upon the trail of the beaten savages. But I knew that he would never allow any of the credit of the victory to the regular soldiers, or to that weapon despised by all frontiersmen, the bayonet.

We passed on through all the grass and fallen timber, driving the savages so fast that our run never dropped to a walk, and winning the victory so soon that only our vanguard was unable to get into the battle, the rear ranks panting and rushing through the hot sun only to find the work done when they arrived.

I came near General Wayne again in the pursuit.

“It was quick—eh, Jack!” he cried, his face not concealing his triumph.

“Ay, quick,” I replied, “and thorough too.”

“After ’em, lads!” he cried. “Don’t give ’em time to turn on us!”

It was a difficult matter to pursue the savages. They melted before us like ghosts in the dark, but we knew as we pressed on that they would have no chance to rally and cut us down with a fire from ambush. I was hot with the pursuit, and having a better trained and keener eye than the soldiers for such work, I marked the tall form of a warrior fleeing through the woods, and kept it in sight.

The chase led me directly from my comrades and into the deeper forest. The scattering fire behind me became feeble, but I noticed little else in my eagerness to overtake or bring down the warrior. I judged from his size and the splendour of his garb that he must be a chief at least, and my zeal increased. I strove to reload my rifle as I ran, but he led me in such a rapid chase that I could not do it, and giving up the attempt, I loosened the pistol in my belt.

I was scarce twenty yards away when the warrior suddenly stopped, and turning about, stood stock still, gazing at me. Then I recognised the lofty features and haughty gaze of Little Turtle, the great chief of the Miamis.

He struck his hand upon his breast and said in a tone of mingled dignity and sadness:

“Fire, my brother! Mechecunnaqua, this day, has seen his people beaten and their power destroyed forever. The land was once the land of the red man, but it is now the land of the white man. The will of Manito is done. Since Mechecunnaqua is to die, he is glad that he is to die by the hand of a brave enemy—an enemy whom he has loved.”

I lowered my pistol. I remembered that night in the Miami village when he looked upon his escaping prisoner and then looked away.

“You did not command the Indian army to-day, Mechecunnaqua?” I said.

“No,” he replied. “I was but the chief of my own tribe.”

“Wherein God was kind to us,” I said.

He bowed to my compliment, but I saw the flash of his eye, and I knew that he believed it true.

“Be our friend, 0 Mechecunnaqua,” I said, and I turned away.

I left him standing there alone in the forest, a defeated and fallen king, a prey to I knew not what gloomy thoughts, but never have I had cause to regret lowering my weapon. He was the leader in making the great treaty of peace the next year, and now the mighty chief, Little Turtle, who more than once led the allied tribes to victory, lives among us, our long-time and faithful friend.

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