Chapter VII: Part 7

As Pontiac watched the frowning palisades which he could not subdue, his heart was black with anger. "You must destroy those boats of the English," said he to his followers. "When they are gone, we can starve the white men out; but we must sink or burn them." So the Ottawas speedily constructed a raft formed of two boats, secured together with a rope and filled with pitch pine, birch bark, and other easily lighted wood. This they set on fire, on the night of the tenth of July, and shoving it well out into the current with their canoes, watched it as it floated down upon the schooners, anchored before the fort. The soldiers saw the blazing peril as it journeyed slowly towards them and prepared themselves with boat hooks, oars, and buckets, to meet it, but a fortunate gust of wind blew the burning pile out into the stream, and it sailed by the two vessels, well beyond their bowsprits. A cheer went up from those upon the decks as the sputtering, gleaming mass floated slowly out of harm's way, lighting up the shores with an ominous and sinister glare, plainly revealing the white houses of the Canadian settlers on the banks. Far down the stream the fire was extinguished with a dull and sickening hiss.

But this was not the only attempt which the Indians made to put an end to the two schooners, for, upon the morning of July twelfth, the sentinel on duty saw a glowing spark of fire on the surface of the river, and soon another blazing raft bore down upon the vessels and their startled crews. The men watched the oncoming blaze with no particular terror, as they knew that they could push aside the burning logs with sticks and boat hooks, but they had no necessity to do this, as the raft was driven over towards the fort by the swift current, and glided swiftly by, lighting up the dark shores as it did so, disclosing the dusky forms of many naked spectators who stood there, expectantly awaiting the burning of the hated vessels. A gunner trained one of the cannon upon them in the bright light. Suddenly, with a deep boom, an iron ball crashed among the followers of Pontiac, who, with wild yells of defiance, dashed into the brush. The soldiers laughed derisively as their forms retreated into the gloom and burst into a song of jollification as the raft burned to the water's edge and the last gleaming spark was extinguished by the black waters of the rushing stream.

Soon after the failure of this affair, the savages were busily seen constructing another raft of larger dimensions. The gallant Major in charge of Detroit was now determined to protect his vessels from further harm, and so procured a number of boats which he moored across the stream with hawsers, at some distance above the schooners, so that if any rafts should drop down the river they would lodge against these before they struck the sides of the two vessels. When the followers of Pontiac saw this they were very angry and it is said that they stood upon the shores and shook their clenched fists vindictively at the soldiers, for they now saw that their attempts to burn the vessels would be fruitless. Pontiac, himself, was somewhat disheartened at the turn which affairs were taking, but his heart was cheered, a few days later, by the appearance of an Abenaki brave from lower Canada who told him that the King of France--the Indians' Great Father--was advancing up the St. Lawrence River with a large and formidable army. This untruth was believed by the leader of the uprising, and, when a body of Wyandot warriors came in, not long afterwards, with the news that every English fortification, save that of Fort Du Quesne, had fallen before the onslaughts of the savages, the heart of Pontiac was glad, and he bitterly upbraided his own followers for not having sufficient courage to subdue the handful of Englishmen and trappers in Detroit.

Really the Indians had done well, for they had persisted in the siege for two full months, which was an extraordinarily long time for savages to remain constant to anything. Their usual method was to make a quick attack and to then retreat, if unsuccessful. Yet here--under guidance of the Great Pontiac--they had steadily persevered in hemming in the doughty garrison for a long and tedious period of from between two to three months. The only way in which they could possibly subdue the English would be by scaling the palisades, and, although they twice attempted this feat, none had the courage to complete the task after the garrison began to pour hot volleys into the ranks of the attackers. Pontiac, himself, should have led the advance, but even he did not have sufficient nerve to mount the log breastworks of Detroit.

What the spirit of the doughty Gladwyn was on this occasion is easily seen from the following letter. On July the ninth he wrote to a friend in the East, and his missive was carried past the Indians by a trusty scout.

"You have long ago heard of our pleasant situation. Was it not very agreeable to hear every day of the savages cutting, carving, boiling, and eating our companions? To see every day dead bodies floating down the river, mangled and disfigured? But Britons, you know, never shrink; we always appeared gay, to spite the rascals. They boiled and ate Sir Robert Deras, and we are informed by Mr. Paully, who escaped the other day from one of the stations--surprised at the breaking out of the war, and commanded by himself--that he had seen an Indian have the skin of Captain Robertson's arm for a tobacco pouch.

"Three days ago, a party of us went to demolish a breastwork they had made. We finished our work and were returning home, but the fort espying a party of Indians coming up, as if they intended to fight, we were ordered back, made our dispositions, and advanced briskly. Our front was fired upon warmly and we returned the fire for about five minutes. In the meantime, Captain Hobkins, with about twenty men, filed off to the left, and about twenty French volunteers filed off to the right, and got between them and their fires. The villains immediately fled, and we returned, as was prudent; for a sentry I had placed behind me informed me that he saw a body of them coming down the woods, and our party, being about eighty, was not able to cope with their united bands. In short, we beat them handsomely, and yet did not much hurt to them, for they ran extremely well. We only killed their leader and wounded three others. One of them fired at me at the distance of fifteen or twenty paces, but I suppose my terrible visage made him tremble. I think I shot him."

Gladwyn says: "Britons, you know, never shrink," and, in this one phrase lies the secret of the white man's success against the redskins. For, with order, knowledge of firearms, the construction of fortifications, houses, and redoubts, and obedience to the commands of their officers, this mere handful of soldiers had been able to stand off the overwhelming masses of the enemy with apparent ease. Then, too, combined with a knowledge of fighting, they possessed the spirit which "never shrank." Their hearts were big with courage--that courage for which the Britons have always been noted: that bulldog courage which carried them up the sides of Bunker Hill right into the bullets of the American forces, although they could have easily conquered their opponents by an advance upon the right flank; that resolution which later on was to sacrifice numberless brave men at Modder River and Spion Kop in South Africa needlessly, and, to our way of thinking, unintelligently. For here, as at Bunker Hill, red-coated and tartaned British soldiers marched courageously and firmly, straight up to the breastworks of the enemy, there to be mown down by thousands, when a flanking movement could easily have dislodged the foe. One cannot fail to admire such bravery, for, like Burnsides' frontal attack at Fredericksburg during the Civil War in America, such courage is great and awe-inspiring, but ill-advised. We are thrilled by it, yet we cannot applaud.

While the siege progressed at Detroit, a force gathered at Niagara to relieve the garrison, and, in the meanwhile, the Indians made a violent and fierce attack upon the fortifications upon the New York and Pennsylvania frontier. Fort Le Boeuf and Fort Venango fell before the wiles of the savages and only their smouldering ruins marked where traders, soldiers, homesteaders, and red men had once congregated in apparent peace and good will. At Fort Pitt (formerly Fort Du Quesne), every preparation was made for an attack from the Indians.

This formidable stockade (where now is the city of Pittsburg) had three hundred and thirty soldiers, traders, and hardy backwoodsmen in the garrison, with numbers of women and children. In command was Captain Simeon Ecuyer, a brave Swiss officer who had enlisted with the British and who was as doughty a warrior as the stubborn Gladwyn,--and with an equal contempt for the red men. "I believe from what I hear that I am surrounded by Indians," he wrote to his commanding officer in the settlements, two hundred miles away. "I tremble for our outposts. I neglect nothing to give them a good reception, and I expect to be attacked tomorrow morning. Please God I may be, I am fairly well prepared. Everybody is at work, and I do not sleep; but I tremble lest my messenger should be cut off." Well might he tremble, for the Tuscaroras and the Delawares were gathering in force to attack the fort, burn it to the ground, and, if possible, to massacre the captured garrison. Rumors of terrible outrages upon the settlers came hourly to the ears of the startled soldiers. Men, women and children flocked to the protection of the walls of the fort, while it became dangerous to venture outside the palisades, as the few who did were shot and scalped by lurking Indians. All night the savages fired upon the sentinels, and soon during the day no one dared to put his head above the rampart, because of the hidden redskins on the edge of the forest. It was apparent that the surrounding woods were full of Indians, whose numbers daily increased, though they made no attempt at a general attack upon the frowning log walls of Fort Pitt, where, with courage, cheer, and resolution, those within waited for the onslaught which they knew to be at hand.

Finally, on a bright June day, numbers of painted warriors appeared in the cleared lands behind the fort, drove off the horses which were grazing there, killed a herd of cattle belonging to the soldiers, and then began a hot fire at the stockades, which soon broke with a dull roar from every thicket of the forest. In reply, the garrison turned some howitzers upon the woodland, touched them off, and, as the iron shells burst in the dense underbrush with a loud and ominous report, the frightened red men could be seen scurrying out of harm's way, in every direction. The day wore to a close, and, as darkness settled upon the forest, the flashes from the guns of the Indians grew less; gradually their weird war whoops melted away, and in their place sounded the shrill piping of frogs. As darkness came, occasionally the sharp crack of a rifle warned the sentinels on the ramparts that the savages were still upon the alert.

Next morning gallant Ecuyer was watching the woodland through a glass, when several painted warriors strode from the shade of the trees to the ditch beyond the palisades. One of them stepped forward, and, proclaiming that he was a great chief of the Delawares called Turtle's Heart, addressed the garrison with the following words:

"My brothers, we that stand here are your friends; but we have bad news to tell you. Six great nations of Indians have taken up the hatchet, and have cut off all the English garrisons, excepting yours. They are now on their way to destroy you also.

"My brothers, we are your friends, and we wish to save your lives. What we desire you to do is this: You must leave this fort, with all your women and children, and go down to the English settlements, where you will be safe. There are many bad Indians already here, but we will protect you from them. You must go at once, because if you wait till the six nations arrive here, you will all be killed, and we can do nothing to protect you."

Certainly this was a bold proposal to an old warhorse like Ecuyer, and, like a true English bulldog, he voiced a reply which made the Indians wince. He spoke in loud and eloquent tones, so that all could not fail to hear him.

"My brothers," said he, "we are very grateful for your kindness, though we are convinced that you must be mistaken in what you have told us about the forts being captured. As for ourselves, we have plenty of provisions, and are able to keep the fort against all the nations of Indians that may dare to attack it. We are very well off in this place, and we mean to stay here.

"My brothers, as you have shown yourselves such true friends, we feel bound in gratitude to inform you that an army of six thousand English will shortly arrive here, and that another army of three thousand is gone up the lakes to punish the Ottawas and Ojibwas. A third has gone to the frontiers of Virginia, where they will be joined by your enemies, the Cherokees and Catawbas, who are coming here to destroy you. Therefore, take pity on your women and children, and get out of the way as soon as possible. We have told you this in confidence, out of our great solicitude lest any of you should be hurt, and we hope that you will not tell the other Indians, lest they should escape from our vengeance."

At the close of this speech the Indians withdrew, but it could be easily seen that the tale of the approach of the three armies had the desired effect, for the faces of some of the braves showed fear and consternation. Next day most of the savages moved away from the neighborhood and marched to meet a great body of warriors who were advancing from the westward to make an attack upon the fort, while the garrison labored with vim to make the palisades shot proof, to fill up a part of the palisades which had fallen into the ramparts, and to construct a fire engine, so that any flames which came from the burning arrows of the Indians could be extinguished with ease. But for several weeks no attacks came from the skulking foes, although they frequently appeared in the vicinity of the stockade and fired random shots at the sentinels. All communication was cut off with the settlements, and the soldiers nerved themselves for the coming affray which they knew would be a desperate affair.

Finally, on the twenty-sixth of July, a small party of Indians approached the gate bearing a flag of truce, and requesting that they be admitted. They were brought inside, and again--in a long and pompous address--requested the English to withdraw, or they would be overwhelmed by the attack of their own braves, assisted by Pontiac's Ottawas. But, although listening to them with respect, Ecuyer was not to be frightened by savage bravado. "I have warriors, ammunition, and provisions enough to defend this place for three years" he replied, "and against all the Indians on earth. We shall not abandon Fort Pitt as long as a white man lives in America. I despise the Ottawas of Pontiac, and am very much surprised at our brothers, the Delawares, for proposing to us to leave this place and go home. This is our home. You have attacked us without reason or provocation. You have murdered and plundered our warriors and traders; you have taken our horses and cattle; and at the same time you tell us that your hearts are good towards your brethren, the English. How can I have faith in you? Therefore, now, brothers, I will advise you to go home to your towns and to take care of your wives and children. Moreover, I tell you that if any of you appear again about this fort, I will throw bombshells, which will burst and blow you to atoms, and I will fire a cannon among you loaded with a whole bag full of bullets. Therefore, take care, for I don't want to hurt you."

The chiefs departed, glowering with anger and hatred, and bitterly disappointed in not gaining a bloodless possession of the fort, while the men of the garrison nerved themselves for the impending attack. On the night succeeding the conference it came. At dusk, dark forms could be seen stealing from the edge of the woodland. Hundreds of savages crawled as noiselessly as possible towards the log stockade, many of them dropping down behind the banks of the river and digging holes in the earth with their knives, so that they could be sheltered from the bullets from the fort. Silently and surely they made their line around the palisades, and, when the first flush of dawn reddened the East, a wild war whoop announced that the attack was to begin. Immediately a gruelling fire was opened upon the silent walls of Fort Pitt, bullets and arrows flew thick and fast into the palisades, but hiding behind the stout log breastwork, the garrison paid little heed to the rain of shot and other missiles. Occasionally a red man would expose his head from one of the holes in the bank, whereupon a dozen rifles would speak from the stockade, and as many bullets would whizz past the ears of the wily brave. Several were hit and died where they fell, and, although the Royal American troops had on the customary red uniforms which offered a bright mark to the Indians, not a single one was killed. Ecuyer ran among his men, exhorting them to do their best, and himself firing a rifle from the ramparts at the screeching savages. In broken English he was yelling defiance at the redskins, when an arrow hit him in the leg and pierced him through. Pulling it out immediately, he continued to direct the fire of his own men with as much spirit as before, and, when approached by the backwoodsmen with the request that they be allowed to make a sortie against the foe, called out with much spirit: "Allow you to go outside, my hearties? No, by Heaven, you are too valuable to me to permit me to risk even one of your necks in the open. Fight here, my boys, and we'll make good my boast to the redskins that I can hold this fort against all the Indians in the woods. Lie low, shoot straight, and when you see an Indian's head be sure that you hit it." As he ceased speaking a burning arrow flew into the stockade and ignited the roof of one of the houses, while the women and children--much terrified--rushed into the street with wails of distress. The savages fairly howled with joy when they saw the flames burst from the thatched roof, but water from the fire engine quickly put out the blaze, and, as several of the Indians exposed themselves in order to fire more arrows into the fort, they were killed by well-directed volleys of the Royal Americans. As darkness shut down upon the first day of fighting, there had been nothing accomplished by the besiegers.

For five days the redskins continued their screeching, howling, and desultory firing upon the palisades. As at Detroit, they did not have the heart to rush the stockade, and, as at Detroit, their irregular attack did little damage. The troops enjoyed the fun, shot carefully and did some damage. "The redskins were well under cover and so were we," wrote the gallant Ecuyer to Sir Geoffrey Amherst. "They did us no harm: nobody killed, seven wounded, and I, myself, slightly. Their attack lasted five days and five nights. We are certain of having killed and wounded twenty of them, without reckoning those we could not see die. I let nobody fire until he had marked his man; and not an Indian could show his nose without being pricked with a bullet, for I have some good shots here. Our men are doing admirably, regulars and the rest. All that they ask is to go out and fight. I am fortunate to have the honor of commanding such brave men. I only wish the Indians had ventured an assault. They would have remembered it to the thousandth generation. I forgot to tell you that they threw fire-arrows to burn our works, but they could not reach the buildings, nor even the rampart. Only two arrows came into the fort, one of which had the insolence to make free with my left leg."

On the sixth day of the attack, suddenly the men of the garrison saw the Indians crawling out of their burrows in the river bank and running away to the woods. As they moved off they were peppered by the shots of the backwoodsmen and Royal Americans, who knocked over two half-clad braves as they leaped from the waters of the river. Heavy firing could be heard to the southwest, which lasted for a short time only. Then wild yells sounded from the forest which seemed deeper and more human than those of the redskins. Brave Ecuyer jumped to the top of the stockade with a glass in his hand and eagerly scanned the edge of the timber, and, as he did so, a loud cheer arose from the defenders of Fort Pitt, for, bursting into the open, came the red coats of British soldiers, the tartans and plaids of Highlanders, the fringed buckskin shirts of Virginia rangers, and a torn and battered rag of a flag, half shot away from the pole to which it was fastened. The doors of the fort were thrown wide open, the defenders made a rush for the oncoming army of deliverance, and, before very many moments the men of Colonel Bouquet's army--for such they were--were being clasped in the arms of the rough soldiers who had held the stockade at Fort Pitt. A mighty cheer welled into the clear air, women cried, children laughed, and the doughty Ecuyer was seen to dance a cantata on the walls of the stockade, for the garrison was saved, and the power of Pontiac in Pennsylvania was irrevocably broken.

This little force which had come to succor the beleaguered garrison on the Allegheny had just been through one of the stiffest fights in the annals of Indian warfare. Colonel Bouquet had marched from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, a town which was filled with refugees from the outlying districts, ravaged by the friends and allies of Pontiac. His total numbers did not exceed five hundred men, and they were unused to frontier warfare, although he himself had served for seven years on the border and knew how to fight a redskin and how to give him measure for measure. When they reached Fort Ligonier--forty-five miles from Fort Pitt--a crowd of Indians, who were besieging the place, vanished into the depths of the wood, and the small garrison was overjoyed to be suddenly relieved from a siege which had lasted over a month. They had heard nothing of Fort Pitt, so, fearing that the oxen and wagons would be greatly in the way should he be suddenly attacked, Bouquet left them behind him, and pressed onward to the banks of a stream called Bushy Run. The forest was deep, vast, impenetrable, wild, and rugged boulders impeded the progress of the hardy troops. They marched compactly with scouts on either flank to warn them of any lurking foe, and a number of backwoodsmen thrown well out to the front and to the rear. Before them was Turtle Creek, a stream flowing at the bottom of a deep hollow, flanked by steep precipices, where an ambuscade could be most effective; and, fearing this, Bouquet decided to camp at Bushy Run and to pass through this gorge during the night, when the savages could not see how to make a formidable attack. So the men pressed cautiously on, feeling their way and ever ready for a brush with the lurking foe. It was soon to come.

At one o'clock that day, when the little force was within half a mile of Bushy Run, a rifle shot sounded through the stillness of the forest, and a wild yell far to the front was followed by that volley for which the English had been waiting during every hour of the past week. A rattle of musketry and a round British cheer showed that the guard had been furiously attacked, so the foremost companies were at once ordered to rush forward and aid the backwoodsmen of the advance. As they fixed bayonets for the assault, a tremendous volley warned Bouquet that the enemy were there in numbers. The troops were, therefore, halted, formed in line, and ordered to charge with the bayonet. With a wild cheer they bore down through the forest, ran into a band of yelping redskins, and drove them, "screeching like wildcats," into the dim forest. But as this foe vanished, a tremendous yelling and firing was heard upon either flank, while cheers, shots, and war whoops in the rear showed that the entire force was attacked, and that--if not protected--the horses would be stampeded. So, turning about, the Highlanders and backwoodsmen hastened to form a circle around the terrified animals, while from all sides wild cries and yells showed that a vast number of Pontiac's allies were thirsting for their life blood. But steady, firm, and resolute, the Regulars crouched upon one knee; hid behind trees and logs; carefully aimed at the puffs of smoke which issued from the underbrush, and cheerfully awaited the charge of the savages; while Bouquet--in the centre--urged them with voice and gesture to be calm, to take certain aim, and to make every bullet count.

The Indians did not content themselves with remaining hidden within the dark brush and shadows of the forest. Suddenly a considerable body of them charged furiously upon the British line, holding their knives and tomahawks ready for a close encounter. But they were met by a gruelling volley, and with the cry of "No quarter!" the Highlanders charged with fixed bayonets and drove the whooping warriors into the forest, where they scampered away like deer. Few of them were either shot or stabbed, while over fifty of the English were soon writhing upon the ground with severe wounds from bullets and arrows. Again and again the red men thus charged; again and again they were repulsed; while the hoarse shouts of the sturdy backwoodsmen were mingled with the bloodthirsty whoops of the Indian braves, the rattle of musketry, the screams of the wounded, and the snorting of the terrified horses. Twilight came, but the red men and white still fought on in the forest, and only night with its blackness put an end to this furious fight in the wilderness. The combatants parted only to sleep upon their arms, and wait for the renewal of the struggle which the first flush of daylight was again to bring.

The watchful sentries of the English camp no sooner saw the dim red light of dawn in the far east than hideous and awe-inspiring whoops arose from all sides of the British camp. The English soldiers sprang to their guns, and it was not a moment too soon, for, with a thundering roar, a volley was poured in upon them. Under cover of the trees and bushes the enemy crept up close to where courageous Bouquet stood in the centre of his men, crying to them to fight the red men as they themselves fought: to crouch behind logs, boulders, bushes, and to shoot with the greatest accuracy. Terrible thirst beset the English, for no water was at hand and they could not reach the stream near by, while the groans of the wounded stirred the savages to renewed vigor in the assault. Again and again the English charged, but the Indians vanished into the brush like serpents, and reappeared to the onslaught just as soon as the Highlanders and backwoodsmen had reformed their line. The redskins redoubled their yells and saw the horses plunging and rearing to gain their freedom from behind a wall of flour bags, which also sheltered the wounded, and aiming at them, endeavored to stampede the entire herd. This had its effect. Many maddened brutes broke away from their halters, galloped through the ring of kneeling troops and yelping Indians, and rushed madly into the forest, sweating with fear and terror. The savages yelled with pleasure at this and taunted the troops in broken English from behind the shelter of trees and boulders, saying, "We got you! We got you!"

The fight had now waged from daylight until ten o'clock, and there was a lull in the battle--a lull which allowed Bouquet to perfect a plan for drawing the Indians into an ambuscade, which he hoped would finish the affair. This was: to allow two companies on the centre of the line to fall back and swing around to the left, behind some thick brush where they could not be seen. The place vacated by them was not to be filled up, and thus the British commander hoped to entice the Indians into the gap in his line. When they had come well inside, the two companies which had retreated were to close in upon their rear, and then hem them in so that they could be slaughtered. At the word of command, the two companies fell back and disappeared from view.

When the savages saw this retreat, they were sure that they at last had the British on the run, and so pressed onward with loud and exultant yells of defiance. A thin line of troops had filled up the gap in the line, and these were pushed back towards the interior of the camp, while the Indians seemed to be about to break into the very heart of the circle. With wild, hilarious yelpings they ran headlong into the gap, but, as they did so, the two companies which had retreated broke from the cover of the bushes which had hidden them, and bore down upon their rear with yells as fierce as those of the men of the forest. The Indians faced about with great courage and fired into the oncoming mass of men, but the Highlanders fell upon them with the bayonet. Nothing could stand such an attack; the red warriors broke and fled, while two companies which had advanced from their position in the line and had lain down upon the ground, poured a murderous fire into them as they passed. Numbers fell to the ground in their death agony. The remainder fled precipitously, while the four companies united and chased them furiously through the woods. Seeing which, the remaining Indians gave up all hope of success against the stalwart British, and, with one parting volley and yell of defiance, they, too, melted away into the forest. The fight at Bushy Run was over. About sixty Indian corpses lay upon the ground, among which were those of several chiefs, while eight English officers and one hundred and fifteen men had breathed their last amidst the dark forests of Pennsylvania. Next day the victorious troops marched onward to the relief of Fort Pitt--with their wounded upon litters--and, although frequently attacked by small bands of savages, reached there without further loss or mishap.

At far-away Detroit the siege went merrily on, but a detachment of three hundred regular troops was hastening to its relief. On July the 26th the seasoned veterans of this remarkable siege were overjoyed to see the red coats of their brethren-in-arms as they silently entered the fort, after coming down the river under cover of the night. This was fortunate, for so bold had Pontiac's warriors become that it would have fared ill with them had they advanced by daylight. Commanded by Dalzell, a brave and courageous man, the detachment was composed of seasoned British soldiers and twenty independent forest rangers, who were so anxious to get at the enemy that arrangements were immediately made for an attack upon Pontiac. But by some unknown means this arch-conspirator and Napoleonic designer of the movement against the English learned of the plan, and not only removed the women and children from his camp, but stationed two strong parties of his warriors in an ambuscade, behind piles of cord-wood which lay on either side of the road that the English had to take. Three hundred of the British left the fort about an hour before day, and marched rapidly up the bank of the stream in the direction of the Ottawa camp. They proceeded in silence until they reached a small bridge over a stream called Bloody Run, and were half way across it before they knew that the Indians had the slightest suspicion of their approach. Suddenly terrific yells burst from their front and a roar of musketry sounded in their ears from the high banks on either side. Half the advance party fell in their tracks, while the rest turned to run, but Dalzell raised his voice above the uproar, rushed to the front, sword in hand, and led on his men. They pushed across the bridge, and ran up the banks, but not an Indian was in sight. In vain the British looked for them--they had fled--but in the murk of the early morn their guns flashed from behind outhouses and fences, while fierce war cries rose with vigor and intensity. Again and again the soldiers advanced, but it was useless, and so, abandoning all idea of a successful attack upon Pontiac's camp, they retreated to the stockade at Detroit, fired at all the way and presenting somewhat the same appearance as Lord Percy's troops in the retreat from Lexington some years later, at the outbreak of the American Revolution.

As the soldiers were retreating before the warriors of Pontiac, Dalzell used every effort to restore order, and at last succeeded in doing so. The Indians had taken possession of a house, near the road, from the windows of which they fired down upon the English; so some of the rangers broke down the door with an axe, rushed in, and drove the redskins away. A captain was ordered to drive off some braves from behind some neighboring fences, and, as he charged them with his company, he fell, mortally wounded, shouting: "On, on, England forever!" The Indians ran off, but no sooner had the men turned about than the savages came running in upon the flank and rear, cutting down the stragglers with their tomahawks and scalping all who fell. A Sergeant of the 55th Regiment lay helplessly wounded, and realizing that he soon would be scalped, he gazed with a look of despair after his comrades as they made off. This caught the eye of warm-hearted Dalzell. So--with the true spirit of a hero--he ran over to the wounded man to pull him away out of danger, where he could be carried to the fort. But as he leaned over him, a rifle shot sounded through the dense mist which shrouded the battle field, and he fell dead across the body of the disabled private. Few saw him struck, and no one dared to turn back to recover his body, and thus, deserted and alone, the brave Englishman lay upon the field of battle to be scalped and plundered by the exultant savages.

This was the last important event attending the remarkable siege of Detroit. Winter was approaching, the Indians had nothing laid by which could sustain them through the winter, and so they had to repair into the forests in order to trap, hunt, and fish. When spring arrived, the various bands, as they came in to see the great chief Pontiac, told him that they were tired of the war and that they wished for peace. The Hurons and Pottawattamies, who had partly been forced into the war by threats of the followers of Pontiac, withdrew altogether, and thus completely ruined the ambitions of the great Ottawa chief, who had been so sure of success that he had already made arrangements with the French of dividing the conquered territory with them. The garrison at Detroit still watched his movements with anxiety. "'Tis said that Pontiac has gone to the Mississippi, but we don't believe it," wrote one of the soldiers at this time, and so constant watch and guard was kept up within the palisades which had successfully defied the might of the cruel leader of the conspiracy. He was still near by; no one dared to venture far into the wilderness; and there was constant dread of a fresh assault.

But the reign of terror was drawing to its close, and when, in the early summer of 1764, General Bradstreet arrived with a force of three thousand men, all the tribes in the vicinity of Detroit came in and concluded a peace, with the exception of the fierce Delawares and Shawnees, who had so unsuccessfully besieged the ramparts of Fort Pitt. Pontiac, himself, took no part in the council and was no longer seen. He abandoned both the country and his followers, and, according to report, went far to the southwest to the territory of the Illinois. Here, nursing in silence his wrath, resentment, and mortification, he brooded upon his fate, and contemplated a fresh outbreak against the English, trusting that the tribes in the vicinity of the Illinois River--the St. Josephs, the Miamis, the Marcontens, the Pians, and the Illinois--would be sufficiently strong to cope with the force and intelligence of the British. His plot against Detroit had been a complete failure. True--the smaller forts upon the frontier had fallen before the unexpected assaults of his allies--but the great prize, Detroit, had slipped his grasp. Now a large garrison was there, his Indians were starved and awed into submission. Fort Pitt still frowned down from its height in perpetual menace to his allies, and rumors of an advance upon the warlike Delawares and Shawnees filled him with chagrin and mortification. His confederacy was fast breaking.

And the advance came. The brave and hardy Bouquet with an army of Pennsylvania rangers, Virginia trappers, and regular troops, pushed far into the country of the warlike Delawares in the valley of the Ohio. Reaching a spot in the very heart of the Indian country, he erected a stout palisade, and awaited a deputation from the fierce enemies of the Pennsylvania frontier. All the villages of the Shawnees were within a few days' march, so no choice was left to the Indian warriors but to sue for peace or else battle with a man, who, at the desperate encounter of Bushy Run, had routed their entire force of fighting braves, with an army one-third the size of that which he now had with him. Bouquet meant business, and the Indians knew it. The frontiersmen were tired of scalpings, burnings, and robberies on the border. They had marched out to conclude a treaty of perpetual peace, or to give these wild rangers of the forest such a beating that they would remember it forever. Confident in their strength and the justice of their cause, they awaited the advent of the Indian Chiefs, with rifles loaded, bullet pouches well filled, and spirits fired with hatred for the cruel savages.

When the Indian Chiefs arrived next day, they found a small-sized army of over fifteen hundred fighting men drawn up in battle array. The soldiers were silent, their bright red coats of the Royal Americans shone brightly against the green of the forest, the bayonets flashed; the flags fluttered; and the even ranks of backwoodsmen in fringed hunting-frocks and moccasins had stern determination written upon their weather-beaten countenances. The Highlanders, with bare legs and kilts, leaned carelessly upon their rifles and gazed with indifference at the painted chieftains of the forest, who, seating themselves with sullen dignity, appointed one of their number to deliver a speech. In this the orator promised to give up all the white captives which the Indians held and to make peace. "I am come among you to force you to make atonement for the injuries you have done us," answered the martial Bouquet. "I have brought with me the relatives of those you have murdered. They are eager for vengeance, and nothing restrains them from taking it but my assurance that this army shall not leave your country until you have given them ample satisfaction. You are all in our power, and, if we choose, we can exterminate you from the earth, but the English are a merciful and generous people, adverse to shed the blood even of their greatest enemies; and if it were possible that you could convince us that you sincerely repent of your past perfidy, and that we could depend on your good behavior for the future, you might yet hope for mercy and peace. If I find that you faithfully execute the conditions which I shall prescribe, I will not treat you with the severity which you deserve. I give you twelve days from this date to deliver into my hands all the prisoners in your possession, without exception--Englishmen, Frenchmen, women, and children--whether adopted into your tribes, married, or living among you under any denomination or pretense whatsoever. And you are to furnish these prisoners with clothing, provisions, and horses, to carry them to Fort Pitt. When you have fully complied with these conditions, you shall then know on what terms you may obtain the peace you sue for." This speech had the desired effect; prisoners by the hundreds were soon brought in, and, after forcing the Indians to give him hostages to insure the keeping of peace, Bouquet went back to the settlements with his army, threatening that if the Indians again went upon the war path he would return with a larger force and completely annihilate the warring tribes.

News of this was reported to Pontiac, as he sullenly meditated further plans for revenge in his wigwam among the Illinois. Daily he saw his followers dropping off from him. To hold out longer against the whites was folly. He was surrounded by enemies. In the West were unfriendly Indian tribes; to the South were the hereditary enemies of his people, the Cherokees; in the East were the whites, and to the North a strong and vigorous garrison held the fortress of Detroit. Foiled, defeated, dismayed, he determined to accept that peace which he knew that the English would give, to smoke the calumet (or peace pipe) with his white conquerors, and to wait for some favorable opportunity for revenge. Consequently he attended a council between his tribesmen--the Ottawas--and the English at Detroit, promised allegiance to the British flag, and, requesting that the past be forgotten, threw down a wampum belt upon the floor, saying: "By this belt I remove all evil thoughts from my heart. Let us live together as brothers." In the spring he attended a council at Oswego, New York, presided over by Sir William Johnson, and, being requested for a speech, rose to say: "Father, when our great father of France was in this country, I held him fast by the hand. Now that he is gone, I take you, my English father, by the hand, in the name of all nations, and promise to keep this covenant as long as I live." Here he delivered a belt of wampum. "Father, when you address me, it is the same as if you addressed all the nations of the West. Father, this belt is to cover and strengthen our chain of friendship, and to show you that if any nation shall lift the hatchet against our English brethren we shall be the first to feel and resent it."

True to his promise, the Great War Chief remained at peace with the whites from now on. Who can reckon what bitter thoughts must have assailed this red Napoleon when he considered the humiliating close of his campaign? Proud, ambitious, savage, he saw the oncoming rush of the men of a different race with revengeful apprehension. His great plan of extermination of the British had completely failed. The Indian lack of order, well-defined plan, and knowledge of warfare, had failed to make but a temporary impression upon the garrison of the frontier. Their non-providence of provisions and forethought in gathering them, had caused the abandonment of the siege of Detroit. Their inability to successfully approach a well-built stockade had made it impossible for them to damage the walls of Fort Pitt. Pontiac had plead with his white Canadian allies--during the attack on Detroit--and had requested them to show his Indians how to make tunnels of approach as the English did in their own warfare. But the French said that they did not, themselves, know how to dig these trenches--which was an untruth--and so he had to give up this proper method of attack. Had his followers been taught in the civilized schools of military discipline, they would, by mere numbers, have annihilated the brave defenders of Detroit; but they were children of the forest--rude, untutored huntsmen--and as such only could they make war.

Across from the present city of St. Louis, Missouri, is an old hamlet called Cahokia, and here were gathered several Illinois Indians one pleasant day of the early spring of 1769. Pontiac had wandered to St. Louis to see an old acquaintance called St. Ange, and, hearing that some drinking bout, or social gathering was in progress, told his white acquaintance that he was going to cross the river to see what the warriors of Illinois were doing. St. Ange besought him not to join them, for he was not popular with this tribe. "I am a match for the English; I am a match for twenty red men," answered the Ottawa Chief, boastfully, "and I have no fear for my life." So saying, he entered a canoe and crossed to the other shore of the river.

A feast was in progress, and to it the mighty Pontiac was invited as soon as his presence among the Illinois was known. There were songs, boasts, speeches, and the whiskey bottle was passed freely about. There is no doubt that the red Emperor drank deeply, and, when the affair was over, he walked majestically down the village street to the adjacent woods, where he was heard to chant his medicine songs in the dark and silent wood. An English trader who had an intense dislike for the mighty war chief was then in the village, and, seeing that the moment was propitious for an assault upon him, bribed a strolling warrior of the Kaskaskia tribe of the Illinois with a barrel of liquor to kill the fierce leader of the Ottawas. Fired, perhaps, by an equal hatred for Pontiac, the red assassin soon consented to do the deed, for he was promised still further reward if he should be successful. As the dark figure of the leader of the great Indian conspiracy loomed strangely erect in the shadow of the forest, a silent form crept--like a wildcat--close to where he stood. A twig snapped. Pontiac turned to see what disturbed the quiet of the forest, and, as he did so, a tomahawk was buried in his brain. He fell prostrate upon the green carpet of moss. A shrill wail of triumph startled the night birds from the branches, and thus, foully and brutally assaulted, died the mighty Sachem of the Ottawas.

LOGAN: THE MIGHTY ORATOR
AND WARRIOR OF THE MINGOES

A frontiersman in the Ohio country, named Brown, was looking about for good land upon which to settle, and, finding some excellent territory in the Kishacognillas Valley, was wandering around in search of springs. About a mile from the edge of the valley he discovered a bear, and as he travelled along--hoping to get a shot at him--he suddenly came upon a spring. Being very thirsty, he set his rifle against a small tree, and, rushing down the bank near the water, laid down to drink.

"Upon putting my head down," says the pioneer, "I saw reflected in the water, on the opposite side, the shadow of a tall Indian. I sprang to my rifle, when the savage gave a yell, whether for peace or war I was not just then sufficiently master of my faculties to determine; but upon my seizing my rifle and facing him, he knocked up the pan of his gun, threw out the priming, and extended his open palm to me in token of friendship. After putting down our guns, we again met at the spring and shook hands. This was Logan--the best specimen of humanity I ever met with, either white or red. He could speak a little English, and told me that there was another white hunter a little way down the stream, and offered to guide me to his camp. There I met another white man named Maclay. We remained together in the valley a week, looking for springs and selecting lands, and laid the foundation of a friendship which never had the slightest interruption.

"We visited the camp at Logan's Spring, and Maclay and he shot at a mark for a dollar a shot. Logan lost four of five rounds, and acknowledged himself beaten. When we were about to leave him, he brought out as many deerskins as he had lost dollars, and handed them to Mr. Maclay, who refused to take them, alleging that we had been his guests, and did not come to rob him; that the shooting had only been a trial of skill, and the bet merely nominal.

"Logan drew himself up with great dignity, and said: 'Me bet to make you shoot your best--me a gentleman, and me take your dollar if me beat.'

"So he was obliged to take the skins, or affront our friend, whose nice sense of honor would not permit him to receive even a horn of powder in return."

This incident well illustrates the character of Logan: a Chief of the Mingoes, one of the bravest of men, one of the greatest of orators, and a redskin who preferred peace to war. He was the second son of Shikellimus--a wealthy Sachem--but, although he inherited the talents of his father, he did not inherit his prosperity. He took no part--except that of peace-making--in the French and English war of 1760, and was always considered a friend of the white man, as he was at heart, although circumstances made him rebel against the aggressions of the frontiersmen. His residence was at a western settlement near Sandusky, Ohio, and near by were about three hundred red warriors.

This eminent Indian supported his family by killing deer, dressing the skins, and selling them to the whites. He also traded in the land, which he had inherited from his forebears, and sold quite a piece to a tailor named De Yong, who lived in Ferguson's Valley, near the Scioto River. According to the stipulation in this particular trade, he received his pay in wheat, and, taking it to the mill, found it so worthless that the miller refused to grind it, saying: "It is good for nothing. Take it away." Much chagrined at this turn of fortune, the Indian Chief took the matter before a Judge, named Brown, who questioned him about the character of the wheat, asking him what was in it that so much resembled the wheat itself, and yet was not wheat.

"I do not know what to call it," said Logan.

"It must have been _cheat_," said the Judge.

"Yah," answered the Indian, "that very good name for him. It was cheat."

"I will give you redress," cried the man of law, handing him a writ to give to the constable. "This will bring you in money for your skins. Take it to the constable and he will see that you have justice."

But the uncivilized, yet honest, Indian could not understand how this little piece of paper could force a rogue to pay him what he really owed. "I no understand," said he.

Judge Brown took down his own commission, with the arms of the King upon it, and explained to the Mingo Chief the first principles and operations of the civil law.

"Law good," said Logan, after a while. "Make rogues pay up. White man's law good. But my law better--Do to other man as you wish him to do to you."

Another incident well exhibits the goodness of heart possessed by this noted warrior, until cruel injustice made him turn against the whites with hatred and revenge in his soul.