off escape that way, while the other should cross over and attack it in front. This plan would bring the Indians between two fires. This important advantage was thrown away by the imprudence of a militiaman, who, upon seeing a stray Indian, fired at him, so putting the unsuspecting foe on the alert. In an instant the Indians were seen running in every direction. The surprise having thus failed, the plan of attack was completely turned against the Americans. Little Turtle now threw himself between the two detachments, first driving one back and then the other, so that only by the most desperate sort of fighting could the remnants of the two bodies get together again for a hurried flight. Only half of those who went into this action came out of it alive, as the badly wounded were tomahawked on the spot. For a wonder, many of the Indians now fought on horseback, as well as the whites, from whom, in fact, they had learned the art, as well as stolen the horses. They rode like the Arabs, and made a much more fierce and warlike appearance even, in their war-paint, feathers, and bells as they came charging down upon their adversaries, shouting like madmen, and looking like demons. Thus ended Harmar's inglorious attempt to chastise the hostile tribes in their own stronghold. 3 St. Clair then raised a second army of two thousand men, with which he in turn marched against Little Turtle, early in September (1791). To say that he had worked early and late to get his forces in the field would be only giving him his due. He had even been to Philadelphia to consult with President Washington, who, in taking leave of him, had as impressively warned St. Clair against a surprise as he had done Braddock before him. Possibly that terrible disaster was yet fresh in his mind. In a campaign of this sort, where there were absolutely no roads, one great difficulty consisted in keeping communication open as the army marched on. It is a very old maxim that every army marches on its stomach. Unless, then, St. Clair could keep the road open behind him his army could not be fed; and if it could not be fed, it would have to halt, perhaps retreat. Twenty-four miles up the Miami, St. Clair, therefore, halted to build Fort Hamilton; forty miles farther on he built Fort Jefferson. This fort was six miles south of Greenville. Having thus guarded his line of supply or retreat, as the case might be, he pushed on toward the enemy again. 4 November 3d the army went into camp on the banks of a small stream, militia in front, regular troops in the rear. In this order the militia would have to meet the first onset. The army was considerably weakened by insubordination, and still more so from a want of confidence in St. Clair, whom all knew to be physically unfit for active command. It was a terrible mistake, terribly paid for. There was firing along the front all night, just enough to keep the army on the alert; so the men lay on their arms, fully expecting an attack to begin as soon as it was light. There were other signs abroad that a prudent commander would fail to heed at his peril. St. Clair was not heedless; he well knew what ought to be done; yet a general who was so stiff and sore with the gout as to have to be helped on and off his horse, was not the man to be beating up the wild woods, searching for wild Indians, from a camp-bed. As we have just said, the army lay on its arms expecting an attack. It was an Indian war-custom always to attack at break of day, on the theory that drowsy sentinels make a sleepy camp. At about midnight, therefore, the army was quietly drawn up, under arms, to await the passing of the critical moment. At the same time, scouts were sent out to scour the woods in front. As they reported no Indians near, at daybreak (November 4th), the men were dismissed to get their breakfasts. A light snow had fallen during the night, the morning was chilly, and the men were so worn out with marching and loss of sleep that most of them had thrown themselves down upon the ground to get a little rest. Others were dispersed around the camp-fires. While vigilance was thus relaxed, the enemy burst upon the camp like a tornado. In a moment the dusky woods around were all ablaze with the flashes of musketry. To the noise of the explosions was added the hideous yells. issuing from two thousand eager throats, as like leaping panthers the furious savages came rushing down upon St. Clair's first line. With this first furious onset that line went to pieces. As the bewildered soldiers of the second line sprang from the ground, they saw the Indians, with their bloody tomahawks and death-dealing knives, butchering the flying militia. In another moment fugitives and pursuers came down upon them in a heap together. There was no time to form. In squads or fragments the regular troops got together as best they could and fought as men do for their lives. They even succeeded in driving the screaming Indians back to cover, so securing a moment's respite in which to form in some kind of order. The battle soon began again with tenfold fury. It was only the panther drawing back for a more terrible and decisive leap. Seemingly at one and the same moment, the most deadly fire began again all around the camp. It was terribly fatal, yet the men had to stand and take it, like living targets, because the wily enemy kept close to cover. They were then ordered to charge with the bayonet. Again, and again, the troops drove the Indians from their hiding-places, only to fall back again for want of support, with thinner and thinner ranks. St. Clair behaved like a hero; three horses were shot under him; still the feeble old man undauntedly rode in the thickest of the fight; though at length the case became so desperate that, to save the gallant little remnant of his army, he had to order a last, a hopeless charge. How well they had fought after the first panic will be better understood when it is known that more men fell here than in any battle of the Revolutionary War. But as regards fighting the Indians, it really seems as if nothing had been learned and nothing forgotten. It was only by repeated defeats that we were taught at last how to conquer them. Among the many acts of heroism shown on that fatal field, the last was by no means least. When the badly wounded men found that they were to be left behind, they begged their comrades, as a last favor, to load their muskets for them for a last shot; and their dropping shots, heard in the distance, after all fighting was over, told the fugitives that more than one savage was being made to bite the dust. St. Clair rode away from the field mounted upon a pack-horse. The men threw away their guns to run the faster, and did not stop till they got to Fort Jefferson, |