XI Clark Guards the Frontier
The Indian hunt was over; they were done making their sugar; the women were planting corn. The warriors hid in the thick foliage of the river borders, preparing for war.
“Madison has declared war against England!”
The news was hailed with delight. Now would end this frightful suspense. In Illinois alone, fifteen hundred savages under foreign machinations held in terror forty thousand white people,—officers and soldiers of George Rogers Clark and others who had settled on the undefended prairies.
“Detroit has fallen!”
“Mackinac is gone!”
“The savages have massacred the garrison at Fort Dearborn!”
“They are planning to attack the settlements on the Mississippi. If the Sioux join the confederacy—” cheeks paled at the possibility.
The greatest body of Indians in America resided on the Mississippi. Who could say at what hour the waters would resound with their whoops? Thousands of them could reach St. Louis or Cahokia from their homes in five or six days. Immense quantities of British gifts were coming from the Lakes to the Indians at Peoria, Rock Island, Des Moines.
“Yes, we shall attack when the corn is ripe,” said the Indians at Fort Madison.
“Unless I hear shortly of more assistance than a few rangers I shall bury my papers in the ground, send my family off, and fight as long as possible,” said Edwards, the Governor of Illinois.
In Missouri, surrounded by Pottawattamies, champion horsethieves of the frontier, and warlike Foxes, Iowas, and Kickapoos, the settlers ploughed their fields with sentinels on guard. Horns hung at their belts to blow as a signal of danger. In the quiet hour by the fireside, an Indian would steal into the postern gate and shoot the father at the hearth, the mother at her evening task.
Presently the settlers withdrew into the forts, unable to raise crops. With corn in the cabin loft, the bear hunt in the fall, the turkey hunt at Christmas, and venison hams kept over from last year, still there was plenty.
Daniel Boone, the patriarch of about forty families, ever on the lookout with his long thin eagle face, ruled by advice and example. The once light flaxen hair was gray, but even yet Boone’s step was springy as the Indian’s, as gun in hand he watched around the forts.
Maine, Montana, each has known it all, the same running fights of Kentucky and Oregon. Woe to the little children playing outside the forted village,—woe to the lad driving home the cows,—woe to the maid at milking time.
The alarm was swelled by Quas-qua-ma, a chief of the Sacs, a very pacific Indian and friend of the whites, who came by night to bring warning and consult Clark. In his search Quas-qua-ma tip-toed from porch to porch. Frightened habitants peered through the shutters.
“What ees wanted?”
“The Red Head Chief.”
But Clark had not arrived.
“We must take this matter into our own hands,” said the people. “British and Indians came once from Mackinac. They may again.”
“Mackinac? They are at Fort Madison now, murdering our regulars and rangers. How long since they burned our boats and cargoes at Fort Bellevue? Any day they may drop down on St. Louis.”
“We must fortify.”
“The old bastions may be made available for service.”
“The old Spanish garrison tower must be refitted for the women and children.”
Such were the universal conclusions. Men went up the river to the islands to bring down logs. Another party set to work to dig a wide, deep ditch for a regular stockade.
When Clark arrived to begin his duties as Territorial Governor he found St. Louis bordering on a state of panic. There was the cloud-shadow of the north. Below, one thousand Indians, Cherokees, Chickasaws, Choctaws, Creeks, and Catawbas on a branch of the Arkansas within three days’ journey of Saint Genevieve were crossing the river at Chickasaw Bluffs. Tecumseh’s belts of wampum were flying everywhere.
In their best necklaces of bears’ claws Clark’s ninety chiefs came home, laden with tokens of esteem. Civilised military dress had succeeded the blanket; the wild fierce air was gone.
“We have declared war against Kinchotch [King George],” said the proud chiefs, taking boat to keep their tribes quiet along the west.
A sense of security returned to St. Louis. Would they not act as a barrier to tribes more remote? The plan for local fortification was abandoned, but a cordon of family blockhouses was built from Bellefontaine to Kaskaskia, a line seventy-five miles in length, along which the rangers rode daily, watching the red marauders of Illinois. The Mississippi was picketed with gunboats.
“Whoever holds Prairie du Chien holds the Upper Mississippi,” said Governor Clark. “I will go there and break up that rendezvous of British and Indians.”
Who better than Clark knew the border and the Indian? He could ply the oar, or level the rifle, or sleep at night on gravel stones.
“It requires time and a little smoking with Indians if you wish to have peace with them.”
As soon as possible a gunboat, the Governor Clark, and several smaller boats, manned with one hundred and fifty volunteers and sixty regular troops, went up into the hostile country. Fierce Sacs glared from Rock Island, Foxes paused in their lead digging at Dubuque’s mines,—lead for British cannon.
Although on Missouri territory, Prairie du Chien was still occupied by Indians and traders to the exclusion of Americans. Six hundred, seven hundred miles above St. Louis, a little red bird whispered up the Mississippi, “Long Knives coming!” The traders retired.
“Whoever enjoys the trade of the Indians will have control of their affections and power,” said Clark. “Too long have we left this point unfortified.”
A great impression had been made on the savages by the liberality of the British traders. Their brilliant red coats—“Eenah! eenah! eenamah!” exclaimed the Sioux.
But now the Long Knives! Wabasha, son of Wabasha of the Revolution, remembered the Long Knives. When Clark arrived at Prairie du Chien Wabasha refused to fight him. Red Wing came down to the council. Upon his bosom Rising Moose proudly exhibited a medal given him by Captain Pike in 1805. The Indians nicknamed him “Tammaha, the Pike.”
Twenty-five leagues above Tammaha’s village lived Wabasha, and twenty-five above Wabasha, the Red Wing, all great chiefs of the Sioux, all very friendly now to the Long Knife who had come up in his gunboat.
Since time immemorial Wabasha had been a friend of the British, twice had he, the son of Wabasha I., been to Quebec and received flags and medals. But now he remembered Captain Pike who visited their northern waters while Lewis and Clark were away at the west. Grasping the hand of Clark,—
“We have the greatest friendship for the United States,” said the chiefs,—all except Little Crow. He was leading a war party to the Lakes.
Leaving troops to erect a fort and maintain a garrison at the old French Prairie du Chien, Governor Clark returned to his necessary duties at St. Louis. Behind on the river remained the gunboat to guard the builders.
“A fort at the Prairie?” cried the British traders at Mackinac. “That cuts off our Dakota trade.” And forthwith an expedition was raised to capture the garrison.
Barely was the rude fortification completed before a force of British and Chippewas were marching upon it.
“I will not fight the Big Knives any more,” said Red Wing.
“Why?” asked the traders.
“The lion and the eagle fight. Then the lion will go home and leave us to the eagle.” Red Wing was famed for foretelling events at Prairie du Chien.
In June Manuel Lisa came down the Missouri.
“De Arrapahoe, Arikara, Gros Ventre, and Crow are at war wit’ de American. De British Nort’west traders embroil our people wit’ de sauvages to cut dem off!”
“We must extend the posts of St. Louis to the British border,” cautioned Clark to Lisa. “And if necessary arm the Yanktons and Omahas against the Sacs and Iowas. I herewith commission you, Lisa, my especial sub-agent among the nations of the Missouri to keep them at peace.”
Very well Clark knew whom he was trusting. Now that war had crippled the Missouri Fur Company, Lisa alone represented them in the field. Familiar with the fashions of Indians, the size and colour of the favourite blanket, the shape and length of tomahawks, no trader was more a favourite than Manuel Lisa. Besides, he still maintained the company’s posts,—Council Bluffs with the Omahas, six hundred miles up the Missouri, and another at the Sioux, six hundred miles further still, with two hundred hunters in his employ. Here was a force not to be despised.
Ten months in the year Lisa was buried in the wilderness, hid in the forest and the prairie, far from his wife in St. Louis. Wily, winning, and strategic, no trader knew Indians better.
“And,” continued the Governor, “I offer you five hundred dollars for sub-agent’s salary.”
“A poor five hundred tollar!” laughed Lisa. “Eet will not buy te tobacco which I give annually to dose who call me Fader. But Lisa will go. His interests and dose of de Government are one.”
Then after a moment’s frowning reflection,—“I haf suffered enough,” almost wailed Lisa, “I haf suffered enough in person and in property under a different government, to know how to appreciate de one under w’ich I now live.”
Even while they were consulting, “Here is your friend, de Rising Moose!” announced old Antoine Le Claire.
“Rising Moose?” Governor Clark started to his feet as one of the Prairie du Chien chiefs came striding through the door.
“The fort is taken, but I will not fight the Long Knife. Tammaha is an American.”
All the way down on the gunboat riddled with bullets, Tammaha had come with the fleeing soldiers to offer his tomahawk to Governor Clark. The guns were not yet in when the enemy swept down on the fort at Prairie du Chien.
“Prairie du Chien lost? It shall be recovered. Wait until Spring.”
And the British, too, said, “Wait until Spring and we will take St. Louis.” But they feared the gunboats.
Governor Clark accepted Tammaha’s service, commissioning him a chief of the Red Wing band of Sioux. “Wait and go up with Lisa. Tell your people the Long Knife counsels them to remain quiet.”
When Lisa set out for the north as agent of both the fur business and that of the Government, he carried with him mementoes and friendly reminders to all the principal chiefs of the northern tribes.
Big Elk of the Omahas, Black Cat and Big White of the Mandans, Le Borgne of the Minnetarees, even the chiefs of the dreaded Teton Sioux were not forgotten. The Red Head had been there, had visited their country. He was the son of their Great Father,—they would listen to the Red Head Chief.
At this particular juncture of our national history, Clark the Red Head and Manuel Lisa the trader formed a fortunate combination for the interests of the United States. Their words to the northern chiefs were weighty. Their gifts were continued pledges of sacred friendship. While the eyes of the nation were rivetted on the conflict in the East and on the ocean, Clark held the trans-Mississippi with even a stronger grip than his illustrious brother had held the trans-Alleghany thirty years before.
Along with Lisa up the Missouri to the Dakotas went Tammaha, the Rising Moose, and crossed to Prairie du Chien.
“Where do you come from and what business have you here?” cried the British commander, rudely jerking Tammaha’s bundle from his back and examining it for letters.
“I come from St. Louis,” answered the Moose. “I promised the Long Knife I would come to Prairie du Chien and here I am.”
“Lock him in the guard house. He ought to be shot!” roared the officer.
“I am ready for death if you choose to kill me,” answered Rising Moose.
At last in the depth of winter they sent him away.
Determined now, the old chief set out in the snows to turn all his energy against the British.
“The Old Priest,” said some of the Indians, “Tammaha talks too much!”
All along the Missouri, from St. Louis to the Mandans, Lisa held councils with the Indians with wonderful success. But the Mississippi tribes, nearer to Canada, were for the most part won over to Great Britain.
In other directions Governor Clark sent out for reports from the tribes. The answer was appalling. As if all were at war, a cordon of foes stretched from the St. Lawrence to the Arkansas and Alabama.
Even Black Partridge,—at the Fort Dearborn massacre he had snatched Mrs. Helm from the tomahawk and held her in the lake to save her life. Late that night at an Indian camp a friendly squaw-mother dressed her wounds. Black Partridge loved that girl.
“Lieutenant Helm is a prisoner among the Indians,” said agent Forsythe at Peoria. “Here are presents, Black Partridge. Go ransom him. Here is a written order on General Clark for one hundred dollars when you bring him to the Red Head Chief.”
Black Partridge rode to the Kankakee village and spread out his presents. “And you shall have one huntret tollars when you bring him to te Red Head Chief.”
“Not enough! Not enough!” cried the Indians.
“Here, then, take my pony, my rifle, my ring,” said the Partridge, unhooking the hoop of gold from his nose. The bargain was made. The man was ransomed, and mounted on ponies all started for St. Louis. Lieutenant Helm was saved.
Late at night, tired and hungry, the rain falling in torrents, without pony or gun, Black Partridge arrived at his village on Peoria Lake. His village? It was gone. Black embers smouldered there.
Wrapped in his blanket, Black Partridge sat on the ground to await the revelation of dawn. Wolves howled a mournful wail in his superstitious ear. Day dawned. There lay the carnage of slaughter,—his daughter, his grandchild, his neighbours, dead. The rangers had burnt his town.
Breathing vengeance, “I will go on the war path,” said Black Partridge, the Pottawattamie.
Two hundred warriors went from the wigwams of Illinois under Black Partridge, Shequenebec sent a hundred from his stronghold at the head of Peoria Lake, Mittitass led a hundred from his village at the portage on the Rivière des Plaines. Painted black they came, inveterate since Tippecanoe.
“Look out for squalls,” wrote John O’Fallon from St. Louis to his mother at Louisville. “An express arrived from Fort Madison yesterday informing that the sentinels had been obliged to fire upon the Indians almost every night to keep them at their distance. Indians are discovered some nights within several feet of the pickets.”
Black Hawk was there. Very angry was Black Hawk at the building of Fort Madison at the foot of Des Moines rapids.
While Lewis and Clark were gone in 1804, William Henry Harrison, directed by Jefferson, made a treaty with the Sacs and Foxes by which they gave up fifty millions of acres. Gratiot, Vigo, the Chouteaus, and officers of the state and army, Quasquama and four other chiefs, attached their names to that treaty in the presence of Major Stoddard.
“I deny its validity!” cried Black Hawk. “I never gave up my land.”
Now Black Hawk was plotting and planning and attacking Fort Madison, until early in September a panting express arrived at St. Louis.
“Fort Madison is burned, Your Excellency.”
“How did it happen?” inquired the Governor.
“Besieged until the garrison was reduced to potatoes alone, we decided to evacuate. Digging a tunnel from the southeast blockhouse to the river, boats were made ready. Slipping out at night, crowding through the tunnel on hands and knees, our last man set fire to Fort Madison. Like tinder the stockade blazed, kissing the heavens. Indians leaped and yelled with tomahawks, expecting our exit. At their backs, under cover of darkness, we escaped down the Mississippi.”