That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  Michikiniqua moved aside and sat down as the 23-year-old Tecumseh came to his feet and stepped to the place where Michikiniqua had stood. “Brothers,” he said, “I bring news that will be short in the telling but immensely important in its meaning. The Shemanese general, St. Clair, was preparing to bring a force against us of three thousand soldiers, both Blue Coats and soldiers from across the Spaylaywitheepi. But his chiefs far to the east have failed him, and when he left Fort Washington, he had less than half the soldiers planned. His supplies failed to reach him, and so he marched with only half enough, and his men are hungry and discouraged. He built two forts and had to leave men to guard them. Then, in the middle of the night, three hundred of his white chickens flew away, and so he sent half that many Blue Coats to chase them and bring them back and continued his own march north. He is now very weak, with just over nine hundred men—only a third part of the number of warriors assembled here.”

  He waited while an excited murmur rose among the assembled Indians and then died. “Brothers,” he continued, “the Blue Coats he sent to chase those who fled from him may come back. The hundreds of other soldiers he expected may arrive at Fort Washington with the supplies and all these may be sent on to him. But they could not reach him as quickly as we! They move slowly, even when in haste, and if we ride against him now—this day!—we will find him still weak, still hungry and without defense in a place where the Wabash can be leaped across by a horse. We cannot afford to wait until they reach the place where Wehyehpihehrsehnwah and Michikiniqua defeated them during the last Harvest Moon. By then, his belly may be filled and his weak arms strengthened. No! Brothers, we must move to cut him off, now!”

  War cries erupted from the Indians as they leaped to their feet in excitement over Tecumseh’s words. There was a little more talk after that from the co-commanders, but not much. Within four hours, their faces startlingly painted in red and white, yellow and black, the entire Indian force set out.

  To the south and west, St. Clair’s army, as weak and dejected as Tecumseh had pictured it, plodded on. The farther north it marched, the colder the weather became. During the first two days of November it snowed, and scouts came in with the disturbing report of greatly increased sign of Indians in the fresh snow. Finally, late in the afternoon yesterday, the army ground to a halt on the banks of the narrow headwaters of the Wabash River, 37 miles north of Fort Jefferson, only three miles east of the line separating the Ohio and Indiana territories.742

  Only too aware of how exhausted, cold and hungry his men were, Gen. St. Clair announced they would establish a camp here and wait for the supplies to reach them before continuing, but, because of the fatigue gripping the army and the fact that it was already late in the day, they would postpone erecting any fortifications until the morrow.

  The evening before, the Indians had arrived within three miles of this place and made their camp, carefully choosing a secluded spot. Their spies had reported that the path the army was traveling would lead them to the narrow headwaters of the Wabash exactly where Tecumseh had predicted and that they would arrive the next day. It was a cold camp the Indians had established, without fire, without food. The fast was upon them now, and they would not eat again until the battle had been fought.

  Then the army of St. Clair had arrived, and the Indian spies had excitedly reported that something most unusual had happened. Always before, whenever the Americans had stopped overnight in dangerous territory, they had quickly raised a breastwork of logs and branches for shelter in case of attack. But this time the army was so weary and bedraggled, they had not done so. Even the wagons, which could have formed a bulwark of sorts behind which they could take cover if necessary, were simply left where they had stopped, in scattered fashion. The fatigued soldiers had all but dropped in their tracks. Some had built small fires, but most simply curled up on the ground beneath their blankets.

  Word of the army’s situation spread throughout the Indian camp, and a controlled excitement filled them. Many of the warriors, particularly the Winnebagoes, Kickapoos, Sacs and Foxes were eager to attack during the night, but Michikiniqua and Blue Jacket overruled them. “We must wait,” Blue Jacket told them, “until the dawn. We are so many that if we try to attack them in the dark of night, we will hurt one another even as we try to hurt the enemy. Beyond this, at the dawn the Shemanese will be coldest and in least command of their wits, and their confusion will become our ally.”

  They had spent the night moving into position, stealthily forming themselves into a sort of horseshoe line a quarter-mile distant around the camp of the Americans, keeping to cover and staying out of sight, avoiding the open end of the horseshoe to the south simply because there was insufficient cover close enough for them in that direction. Even the huddled figures of the camp-followers were included within the formation.

  Now, when it was yet two hours before dawn on this bleak, cold morning of November 4, with tiny stinging particles of snow still falling atop the half-foot of snow already on the ground, the Indians in the north part of the line, at the great bend of the horseshoe, became aware of an advance guard of sentries moving toward them, and they hunched down even more. Abruptly there was a brief rattle of gunfire from the whites as they shot toward a spot where no Indians were positioned. The discipline of the Indians was so well coordinated, however, that no answering fire was made. The whites clustered together for a moment, talking among themselves, and then they relaxed and turned back, convinced they had only been shooting at shadows.

  An hour later, with dawn still an hour distant, a scout appeared to the general’s aide and spoke briefly with him. The aide immediately entered the general’s marquee tent and roused St. Clair, speaking to him in clipped sentences. At once St. Clair hurriedly dressed, pulling on his coarse capote and tricornered beaver hat. He ordered the army awakened and assembled at once and, as the runner sped away, the general nearly groaned aloud with the pain rolling in waves from his gout-afflicted feet. Then he stepped out of the tent, sword in hand, calling orders to various commanders to form their men, and the camp began to stir.

  Three Ottawa spies, close in to the camp, inched back and raced to Michikiniqua and Blue Jacket with word of what was occurring—the Shemanese chief was moving among his men, long knife in hand, calling orders, and the men were rising. Still, it was too soon, and the Indians held their place.

  In the American camp, as the very first tinges of cold, mean gray were beginning to lighten the eastern sky, the naked tree branches etching a network of crooked black lines against the ominous horizon, St. Clair was addressing his officers.

  “From intelligence delivered to me during the night,” he said, “I am led to believe that we will be attacked by the Indians today. Perhaps very soon. All men will see to their weapons at once. Artillerymen will position and load the cannons. Emergency fortifications to be erected beginning this moment.”

  The officers leaped to execute the commands, but it was already too little, too late.

  “HAAAaaaaaahhh!”

  The wild shriek of Michikiniqua’s voice shattered the eerie stillness far to the left and was instantly echoed by a similar cry from Blue Jacket on the right. In that moment the entire Indian force erupted in a cacophony of hideous cries and plunged to the attack. Scarcely firing a shot, the forward guards on a low knoll north of the camp and on the opposite side of the Wabash abruptly panicked, threw down their rifles and ran for their lives back toward the main encampment, screaming in terror as they plunged across the narrow Wabash. Their panic was a contagion that swept across the entire army, and in an instant all was chaos. The white force milled about in a state of deadly confusion.

  As the first of the charging Indians neared the stream, the Americans rallied enough to momentarily pour a hot fire toward them, but it was hurriedly made, ill directed and ineffective. The immediate return fire from the Indians was devastatingly accurate, and the withering blasts mowed down windrows of the soldiers.

  Gen. St. Clair was
screaming for the artillery to open fire, but the cannon powder was defective and packed in mislabeled kegs marked “For the Infantry.” Only two of the eight pieces exploded, their charges misdirected, causing little harm to the attackers. The next moment the brunt of the Indian fire was directed at the artillerymen in a staccato din lasting a minute or two. When it was finished, all but a handful of the artillerymen were down, either dead or dying. Col. Gibson, artillery commander, was desperate in his efforts to bring the remaining few of his men together, his voice raised above the confusion: “Fight them! Fight them! Don’t show fear—true Virginians never show fear. By God, I’d rather die a thousand deaths than let these damned savages take this field!” One death sufficed. At that moment a lead ball struck him between the shoulder blades and severed his spine.

  The several remaining artillerymen continued to get off an occasional shot but with little effect. One by one the cannon were rendered useless by the defective powder that refused to ignite, and the frightened cannoneers fell back. Dangerously wounded, the only one of the three artillery officers remaining alive, Capt. Frederick Ford, screamed at them, “Stand by your guns! Die like men, not cowards!”

  St. Clair was hobbling about painfully, calling for a horse. One was brought to him but, as he tried to mount, the animal was shot dead. Another was brought, with the same result. A third came, and he was helped to the saddle, but was luckily thrown free as that one, too, was killed. In the midst of all this, the din was unbelievable: a fantastic crescendo of shrieks and screams of anger, terror and pain, the terrible meaty thuds of war clubs against skulls, the crashing of rifles, the shrill whinnying of injured and panicked horses, the hoarse cursing of the soldiers who fought for their lives and the terrifying cries of the bloodstained warriors who took them.

  Chaubenee, the young Potawatomi chief who was a close friend and admirer of Tecumseh, stayed as close to him as he could, hoping to protect him wherever possible, but it was difficult for him to keep up. The young Shawnee had become an incredible fighting machine, darting here and there, his blows with a war club rarely failing to crush the skull at which directed, leaping with amazing agility from one clash to another to engage in hand-to-hand battle. In the midst of it all, Chaubenee became separated from Tecumseh and concentrated thereafter on killing others and keeping himself alive.

  Exasperated at his inability to get a horse, St. Clair hobbled off afoot. The troops were amazed and heartened to see him scrambling back and forth on his own legs among them in the hottest areas of the firing, calling encouragement and demanding perseverance, urging them to be steady, to hold their ground, to aim well, to make their shots count. He hardly noticed it when a ball whizzed past his temple so close that it took away a lock of his scraggly gray hair. He did, however, see Col. William Darke and ordered him to lead his men in a bayonet charge at the greatest concentration of Indians. Darke instantly rallied his men and executed the order with great spirit, but the toll they paid was horrendous, and few survived the rain of war clubs and tomahawks.

  Spying Col. William Oldham standing slack-jawed and wide-eyed beside a small tree, teetering on the brink of panic himself, St. Clair accosted him angrily and ordered him to lead a similar attack, but Oldham looked at him fearfully and shook his head.

  “No, damn it, that’s suicide. I won’t do it.”

  “You’ll do it, Colonel,” St. Clair said coldly, raising his sword and leveling it at the officer’s chest, “or by Christ I will run you through!”

  At that instant a ball tore away the whole rear of Oldham’s skull and he pitched forward, dead as he fell. St. Clair scarcely paused. Raising his sword high, he rallied Oldham’s men behind himself and personally led a bayonet charge against the enemy on the left flank and momentarily repulsed them, again at a dreadful loss. Twice more he led similar attacks, himself unscathed while his men dropped in such numbers about him that there were soon not enough to mount further charges.

  With prearranged calls that pierced the overriding din, Michikiniqua and Blue Jacket—the latter coated with blood but not one trace of it his own—drew a large portion of the warriors into a new assault wave, simultaneously hitting the rear and both flanks of the army, and the American dead were so numerous they fell upon one another. The attacks were parried by St. Clair’s second-in-command, Maj. Gen. Richard Butler—formerly treaty commissioner for peace with the Shawnees at Fort Finney—on the right and Maj. William Clark on the left. Both counterattacks succeeded momentarily before giving way, but Clark took a tomahawk blow in the chest that pierced his heart, and Butler, four bullets in his body, leaned dying against a tree, with all but three of his men killed in the attempt to repulse the enemy. Two of these men half-dragged, half-carried him into the medical tent and left him lying on the ground. Surgeon Edward Grassen immediately began dressing his wounds, but only instants later a warrior plunged inside the tent and shot the physician. As the Indian then attempted to take Butler’s scalp, the dying doctor snatched his gun and shot him. In seconds, all three men in the tent were dead.

  Among the dozen British who had accompanied the Indian force, only the Girty brothers participated in the actual fighting. Clad and painted as Indians, they were unrecognizable as whites, and Simon alone had already killed six men with gun and tomahawk. The tallies of George and James were not far behind.743

  The battle had by now been raging for the better part of three hours, and the snow underfoot had become a hideous red slush. Gen. St. Clair remained in the thick of the action, directing his troops and desperately attempting to quell the panic, his orders repeatedly being disobeyed or ignored by both regulars and militia. Encountering a group of six men clustered together weeping, he drew his pistol and ordered them back into the fight or he would kill them where they stood. Other small groups, paralyzed with fear, fell without resistance to the warriors who leaped among them. At last, however, the pain of his gout so severe that he was no longer able to walk, St. Clair was reduced to scrabbling about on hands and knees, still shouting orders and calling for someone, anyone, to get him a horse so he could direct the fighting properly. Finally, a recalcitrant, sluggish packhorse was brought, and the general was helped onto its back. Now at least he was mounted and could move about.

  It was clear to the commanding general that if they were to avert an absolute massacre of the entire army, the only course remaining was to retreat—immediately. The remaining Americans who were still capable of fighting were now mainly clustered near St. Clair, attempting to find shelter behind dead horses, overturned wagons, even the bodies of their own companions.

  Cupping his mouth, St. Clair shouted as loudly as he could, “Feint right! Feint right, then drive to the south—now!—retreat! Retreat!”

  All the whites capable of doing so now rushed to the right flank, sending the Indians there reeling back, and then the troops veered sharply to the south, punching through the scattered Indians in their way and continuing as fast as they could go. But the organized retreat swiftly degenerated into a rout, with men trampling over others to gain the lead. Many dropped their weapons and even shucked off their greatcoats to make better speed, running with the breath of the devil at their heels. Some helped wounded companions along, but most of those who were hurt were left on their own to limp or hobble or crawl after them as best they could. St. Clair was among the last to leave who were capable of leaving. With no strong officer in front to control them, the rout continued unabated. St. Clair pounded the sides of his packhorse with his heels in an effort to regain the lead, but he could coax no more than a mediocre trot out of the animal. He called to those officers he saw to run to the front of the panicky men and gain control, but they ignored him.

  Some of the Indians began to pursue, but a sharp, booming command from Michikiniqua stayed them, and runners passed his words to others elsewhere on the battlefield: “You must be satisfied—you have killed enough.” Blue Jacket issued similar commands, and together the Indian commanders held their warriors at the scene o
f the battle. Sporadic shots and screams of the dying being tomahawked continued for a while but gradually diminished.

  By noon it was all over, and no living Americans were left on the field. Those who had fled were no longer in sight. The scalping began in earnest then. Some of the warriors had scalped as they downed their foes, but others, such as Tecumseh and Chaubenee, had merely struck over and again. The horde of Indian women who had accompanied the warriors and had largely remained hidden in the woods during the battle emerged and joined in the business of scalping, gathering up weapons and equipment, stripping the bodies of coats, clothing and shoes, leaving them naked and bare-skulled on the stained snow. The eight cannon, too large to be taken along, were hidden for possible recovery later.

  Michikiniqua and Blue Jacket ordered a careful search be made for any wounded or dead Indians. A total of 66 were found dead and gently wrapped in shrouding made from the army’s abandoned tent canvas, then tied to horses to be returned to their villages or to a distant burial place. Only nine Indians had been wounded and, of these, just one seemed likely to die. By midafternoon, the whole force of Indians was moving off, the surviving packhorses staggering beneath the weight of the plunder they carried.

  All the way back to Fort Jefferson, the shambles of the army ran, walked or stumbled as fast as they could go. Hardly a man among them wore clothing unstained by his own blood, and their wavering trail in the snow was that of some gigantic snake, hurt and seeking shelter. Near its tail rode Gen. St. Clair on a horse that walked slowly with its head near the ground, its body rippled with trembling, while the general himself hunched dejectedly in the saddle. His clothing and hat had been punctured by no less than eight bullets, yet he was himself uninjured.