Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  “Yes.”

  “Today? Now?”

  Harrison was caught up in his own bravado. “Yes. I’ll take a detail of men, and I’ll go settle this with that savage right now. When I finish, he’ll understand he better take his people somewhere else.”

  Eli rose. “It’s a start. There’s risk if you try it alone. Take only a few men and go unarmed. I’ll take you in. I guarantee your safe return.”

  “All right,” Harrison snapped. “Give me fifteen minutes to tell my officers and put together a detail.” He thrust the tent flap aside and strode into camp while Eli waited. Twenty minutes later Harrison pushed back into the tent, his face flushed, teeth clenched.

  “I informed my officers. Most of them came near mutiny. Major Daviess—Joseph Hamilton Daviess from the Kentucky regiment—all but demanded we attack those savages today. Now. The word is spreading through the camp. I’m going to have to deal with it when we get back. Do you understand what this insanity is going to cost me?”

  Eli’s answer came quietly. “Do you want them angry, or dead? Your choice.”

  “All right. I’ve got a squad of ten out there waiting. Let’s go.”

  Eli led the column through the camp in single file, aware that most of the other soldiers stopped to stare as they passed, and he heard the murmurings of disgust and anger. They took the narrow, winding trail through the two miles of forest separating Prophetstown from the American camp, and as they approached the Indian camp, once again Eli raised his rifle high above his head and walked steadily forward. Half a dozen scouts appeared on either side of the trail, and each American felt the Indians’ black eyes searching them for weapons. They walked into the clearing, to the longhouse, and Eli stopped them. The old man came out, still wrapped in his blanket, and spoke in Shawnee.

  “You brought white men with you.” It was almost an accusation.

  Eli answered in Shawnee. “I gave Tenskwatawa my promise. I bring the leader of this territory. He represents the white father in the east. He is Governor Harrison. He wishes to settle many things with the Shawnee. He requests council with Tenskwatawa.”

  Without a word the old man turned and disappeared into the longhouse, and returned half a minute later.

  “You may enter.”

  Eli led them inside, left his rifle and tomahawk with the young warrior at the entrance, and approached the six seated Indians, Tenskwatawa among them. Harrison looked about, then at the Indians, and no one could mistake the contempt in his face.

  Tenskwatawa spoke. “Be seated.”

  Eli gestured, and the Americans sat down cross-legged, facing the Indians. Eli held up a hand to hold them silent, waiting for Tenskwatawa to open the conversation.

  “I am honored that Harrison has come. It is my desire to counsel in peace. I will be happy to hear his proposals.”

  Harrison looked at Eli for translation and Eli said quietly, “He understands some English but prefers Shawnee. He said he wants to counsel in peace. He wants your proposals. I will translate.”

  Harrison’s voice rang loud, and Eli translated his words into the simple sentences preferred by the Indians.

  “I am here to represent the great father in the east. He is concerned that you are gathering warriors here. He is concerned that Tecumseh is now far to the south to gather more. He sent me here to learn your intentions. We wish to have peace. We do not know if that is your wish, too.”

  Tenskwatawa studied Harrison for several seconds before answering. “We wish peace. Our only desire is to keep the land where our people have lived since beyond memory. It is right that we keep these lands. We wish to make a treaty.”

  Harrison shook his head. “That is not possible. We have settled this land. Built towns and villages. Roads. Farms. You are welcome to become part of this great thing, but you must give up your claim to the land as your own.”

  Tenskwatawa shook his head. “We do not understand. By what right did you come and take our lands for your towns and your farms?”

  Harrison could not answer the question and avoided it. “It is impossible to undo what is already done. The Shawnee must leave. Find new land to the west, where they can live in peace. You must leave Prophetstown. I am here to request that you leave tomorrow. The seventh day of November.”

  Not one Indian moved, but the air was suddenly filled with a tension that was nearly physical. Tenskwatawa broke the deadly silence.

  “You said you request that we abandon our land. What is to happen if we deny your request?”

  There was no hesitation in Harrison’s answer. “You will be forced.”

  Eli turned to Harrison and spoke quietly. “You said you wanted to come to counsel, but you just threatened the whole Shawnee nation. In their eyes, you have all but declared war. Do you want me to tell him what you said, or do you want to change it?”

  There was rage in Harrison’s face as he answered. “Tell him we request him to leave Prophetstown tomorrow. If he chooses not to, we must counsel with him again. But in the end, the Shawnee will need to move farther west where they can once again be a free people.”

  Carefully Eli delivered the message, but he was watching the face of Tenskwatawa, and he knew The Prophet had understood both what Harrison had said in English, and the meaning of it. If Harrison were to have his way, it would only be a matter of time until the Shawnee would be a scattered, lost people.

  Tenskwatawa bowed his head to Harrison. “I thank you for coming to counsel. I must discuss these matters among my own people. You have safe passage back to your camp. I will send a message soon, when my people have spoken.”

  Harrison refused to say anything more, and Eli answered for him. “It is my great hope that this is the beginning of talks that will settle the differences between our people peacefully. I believe that what has been said today has opened a door. It remains to be seen if both sides have the wisdom to keep it open and to find a way to avoid war. I thank you for your protection.”

  Tenskwatawa nodded to him, and Eli stood. Harrison and the ten soldiers stood with him, and without another word Eli took his rifle and tomahawk at the door and led them single file out of the camp, with silent Indians watching them until they disappeared along the trail into the forest. Little was said during the two-mile walk back to the sprawling American camp, where Eli followed Harrison into his tent. Harrison sat down in his chair and turned to face Eli, who remained standing.

  “Well,” he exclaimed, “we counseled with your Indians. What good did it do?”

  Eli spoke evenly. “You didn’t counsel. You dictated. Maybe Tenskwatawa will understand it enough to think that you took the first step toward trying for a peace treaty, but I doubt it. If it had been Tecumseh, he would have seen it for what it was and probably overlooked the fact you went over there to serve notice they were to leave or get pushed off their land. He would likely have set things up for a major council and spelled out his side of it in detail and asked you to do the same. But Tecumseh is down south, and you’re dealing with Tenskwatawa, and my guess is he’s over there right now making plans for a fight. Either he’ll start it, or he’ll defy you and you will.” Eli paused, and a look of sadness crossed his face. “I think you’re in trouble.”

  Harrison tossed a hand upward. “Let it come! Let’s get this thing settled, the sooner the better.”

  Disgust and fear were plain in Eli’s face as he answered. “I’m going to make my camp out in the woods. In the night I’m going back to Prophetstown for a look. I’ll be back before morning if anything happens. You better post extra pickets all around your camp and tell them to stay out of sight. Indians favor an attack just before dawn.”

  Harrison brushed it off. “I know that. Good. Fine. See you in the morning.”

  Eli turned on his heel and ducked to pass through the tent entrance into the sunlight of late afternoon. At dusk he was a mile north of Prophetstown, partially hidden in the decayed remains of a great, ancient sycamore tree, sitting quietly in the twilight, with no fir
e, grinding corn between his teeth and eating dried fish. He gathered boughs to lie on, and in full darkness wrapped himself in his blanket and let his thoughts run before he drifted into a restless sleep. In the frosty chill of three o’clock, beneath a nearly full moon that cast a faint silvery light in the forest, he awakened, rolled his blanket and slung it over his shoulder. He gathered his gear and silently started south, toward the Indian village, stopping every hundred yards to listen. The only sound was owls asking, “Whooo?” He was still half a mile from the village when he passed through a small clearing and for the first time saw the glow of light in the night sky ahead of him, where the village had to be, and he stopped, brow knitted in puzzlement.

  Light? Fires? In the night?

  He went on with his rifle held before him at the ready, crouched, every nerve, every instinct alive, placing his feet with care, brushing nothing that would make a sound.

  At a distance of four hundred yards, through the trees, he could see glimpses of light from fires in the camp and dropped to one knee. With his head bowed and his eyes closed to concentrate, he listened for any sound that would tell him of a nearby sentry, but there was nothing.

  An enemy camp two miles away and no pickets? Fires where there should be none?

  He moved on slowly, stopping every ten yards, poised, ready to move any direction instantly if he came upon a hidden sentry. At two hundred yards he could see two large fires burning in the center of the village, near the longhouse, and see the silhouettes of people gathered and moving about it. The sound of a single shrill voice reached him. He stopped to listen but could not make out the words that were being shouted in Shawnee. Crouched low he moved on, one careful step at a time, waiting for the tell-tale sound of a moccasin on the forest floor or the guttural challenge of a surprised sentry. At the place where the forest yielded to the clearing, he lay down flat on his belly and studied what was before him.

  Nearly every Indian in Prophetstown was gathered near the longhouse. Two huge fires sent sparks soaring into the black heavens, turning them all into a circle of black, moving images. In the center of the circle, on a crude platform, stood Tenskwatawa, one arm raised to the heavens as he shouted his message to his people. Eli turned his head and concentrated to catch fragments of the words.

  “. . . the white men have lied from the beginning . . . broken every treaty . . . sent an army now camped nearby . . . come to drive us away . . . destroy us . . . the Master of Life has spoken . . . they must be destroyed . . .”

  Eli studied the crowd of more than one thousand Indians and for the first time noticed that in the center of it were warriors, and they were armed. Their long British muskets were thrust high, thin black lines in the firelight. The oration of Tenskwatawa went on.

  “. . . I have seen a vision . . . it has been revealed to me . . . it is on us to rid our sacred lands of the white men . . . we must obey . . . we will meet Harrison’s army . . . tonight . . .”

  The voice stopped, and Eli peered at Tenskwatawa as the Indian drew himself to his full height and then slowly raised both arms high above his head, fingers spread. His voice became firm, vibrant, resolute.

  “I tell you now . . . do not fear battle with the white men . . . they will fire their muskets and their rifles but the bullets will not touch you!”

  Eli’s head jerked forward in disbelief. Tenskwatawa continued.

  “You will be protected by the Master of Life! The weapons of the white men will harm none of you. Their bullets will be guided away from you. I am The Prophet. I give you this promise as it has been given to me by the Master of Life!”

  It struck Eli like a thunderbolt, and he raised to one knee, ready. That Indian intends attacking Harrison’s camp tonight! Now! Just before dawn! Like they always do.

  He remained still for one more minute, waiting, and then it came. Tenskwatawa’s voice was like thunder. “Prepare yourselves! We leave at once! We strike before the sun rises!”

  A deep, guttural, thrilling sound came from seven hundred warriors who had been raised to a blood-lust fever. They separated from the crowd and formed themselves into a column, and on the signal from The Prophet, started at a trot toward Harrison’s camp, two miles distant.

  Eli came to his feet, spun, and broke into a run, heedless of the sound and the branches and underbrush that tugged at him. He came to the small clearing and sprinted through, on into the forest. Half a mile from Harrison’s camp he began shouting, “White man coming in! White man coming in! Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” He was less than one hundred yards from the camp when he saw the smoldering campfires through the trees and suddenly understood there were no extra pickets posted, nor was there anyone awake and on his feet in the camp. The tents were there, but the campground was deserted.

  That fool! That fool!

  He sprinted halfway through the camp directly to Harrison’s tent, threw the flap back, and burst in, panting, sweating in the cold. Harrison’s eyes opened just as Eli seized his shoulder and shook him hard, his voice raised, nearly shouting in the darkness of the tent.

  “On your feet! You’re under attack!”

  Harrison raised his head and opened his eyes, trying to focus on the dark shape above him while his brain struggled to come back to the world.

  “Wha . . . who . . .” he stammered.

  “Stroud. Eli Stroud. The Shawnee are coming. You’re under attack.” Eli threw Harrison’s blanket back and grasped him by both shoulders. “Get up. On your feet. You haven’t got ten minutes!”

  Harrison struck at Eli’s arms. “Get your hands off me. What are you doing here?”

  “Can you understand me?”

  “Yes. I can. What are you doing here?”

  “I just left Prophetstown. About seven hundred warriors are coming here at a trot. They’re going to strike this camp in less than ten minutes. Unless you want a massacre, you better get your men up and armed and ready. Kill those campfires! Get your men positioned in two lines, facing south, one behind the other so they can put up a sustained fire! Move! Move!”

  Harrison was dressed in his long underwear and trousers, still sitting in the dark, brain fumbling, reeling to understand what he was hearing. He spoke sharply.

  “Stop. You come in here in the middle of the night with some wild story about an attack! What attack? I don’t hear an attack.”

  “Where are your pickets? Why aren’t there extra pickets out there?”

  “What for? Those Indians aren’t going to take on this army.”

  “You fool! They’ll be here in less than five minutes!”

  “All right, all right. I’ll get dressed and we’ll see about an Indian attack.”

  Eli spun on his heel and darted out the flap into the center of the camp and ran to the nearest tent. He threw back the flap and thrust his head inside. “On your feet,” he shouted. “Wake up. You’re under attack. Get your weapons. Now!”

  Six groggy militiamen raised on one elbow to squint at the dark shape at the tent flap. None spoke, and Eli ran to the next tent, shouting all the way. The camp began to stir and men began coming from the tents in their long underwear, still fumbling with their trousers, hair messed, wide-eyed, waiting for the sleep fog to clear from their brains. A few of them had reached their racked weapons when the first blood-curdling, warbling war cries were heard from the forest to the south, and then the bronze bodies were there, dodging through the trees in a long line, muskets raised and ready.

  Eli held his breath, waiting, and the Shawnee broke into the camp, and the first volley blasted from more than four hundred muskets. Silhouetted against their own campfires, the Amerians made perfect targets, and at near point-blank range, the musket balls ripped into them. In an instant, the sleeping camp was thrown into pandemonium. Men burst from their tents in their long underwear, racing for their stacked muskets and rifles, and the second volley of three hundred Shawnee muskets roared, and more Americans went down, some unmoving, others groaning, writhing on the frosty ground. Som
e Shawnee stopped to reload their muskets while others threw them down and jerked tomahawks from their belts and plowed into the crowd of disorganized, terrified soldiers. Eli backed to the edge of the clearing, away from the Indians, unwilling to kill them.

  Then an American musket cracked out, and then another, and then more. Eli stared, unable to believe what he saw next.

  The Shawnee paid no heed to the American muskets! They charged straight into them, and Eli heard the rifle balls smack into the bare flesh and saw the Indians crumple, and still they came, showing no fear of the American weapons, taking the wounds and going down with astonishment on their faces.

  Eli gaped. They believed him! He told them the American musket balls would not hit them, and they believed him!

  Then Eli saw Harrison, half-dressed, working through his men, shouting, “Buckshot! Load with buckshot! Use buckshot!”

  Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the Americans rallied. The Kentucky riflemen were loading fast, with only gunpowder and buckshot—no greased linen patch—and firing from the hip, to reload as fast as they could. The other militiamen saw it, and soon the Americans were blasting buckshot into the swarming Indians as fast as they could reload and pull the trigger. The sound of musket fire crescendoed into one sustained explosion, and it rang and echoed for miles in the forest. Dead bodies of half-dressed Americans were mixed with those of the Indians as the hot, hand-to-hand battle raged on in the dark, unreal world of dwindling campfires and muzzle flashes. Tomahawks and belt knives flashed in the firelight, and dozens of Americans and Indians groaned and fell to the ground. Almost as though someone had given a signal, the Shawnee musket fire decreased, became more sporadic, partly because some had no more ammunition, partly because the others had stopped in their tracks and were retreating, stepping over the dead and crippled bodies of their own warriors, cursing, bewildered, the heart gone out of them.

  The Prophet had lied! Fallen! Sacrificed them for his own gain! Had he not told them the American musket balls could not hit them? That they need have no fear of them? Ignore them? Had they not done exactly what he told them? And were not many of these fallen bodies Shawnee, dead because they had obeyed their revered Prophet?