They moved through the darkened woods with extreme care, allowing no brush to crackle, no twig to snap, no sound to escape their lips, progressing as much by feel as by sight, pausing often to listen and hearing only the throbbing of their own excited hearts. There was fear, vile and evil tasting, in some of them, but scarcely containable anticipation in most, filling them with a wildly atavistic desire to shatter the heavy silence with shrieks and screams. These were the near one thousand garishly painted warriors creeping slowly into their positions, fanning out over a wide arc until they were all but shoulder to shoulder across the forested base of a triangle whose apex was poorly named for this day's enterprise-Point Pleasant.
To their far right the waters of the broad Spaylaywitheepi hissed past with a murmur more imagined than heard, while to their left the Kanawha-theepi eddied with the faintest of gurgling as if in protest at the prospect of, in a few seconds more, losing its identity in the larger stream.
Ahead of them lay more woodland, gradually thinning and then vanishing altogether as the ground itself narrowed to the point where the two great rivers converged.
And at the heart of this point lay the blanketed mounds that were the slightly more than eight hundred militia soldiers Colonel Lewis had led down the Kanawhatheepi, their presence here and there punctuated by the muted red orange glow of embered campfires.
A portion of the Indians slipped into the waters of the Kanawhatheepi and swam quietly to the far side of that stream, directed by Hokolesqua to secrete themselves there and cut off any effort of the whites to escape across the narrower river. With rifles and bows, pistols and war clubs, spears and scalping knives, the principal body of Indians remained hidden in the woods awaiting the approaching dawn.
it was at this juncture that nature took a hand, unexpectedly becoming an ally of the Shemanese. With insidious silence a fog crept in, mercurial in its habit, dense in one area, patchy in another, almost absent in yet another, swelling and fading, sliding ghostlike through the woods and over the rivers, at times wholly enshrouding large segments of recumbent militiamen and crouching warriors.
The Indians had approached no nearer the camp than about fifteen hundred yards, due not only to the thinning of protective forest cover but because a handful of scattered Shemanese sentries were walking perimeter patrol. The fog, which might mask the Indians to some extent, was of more benefit to the whites because it had been the plan of Hokolesqua, at his command, for the attackers to pour a withering fire into the camp. Now that advantage was negated by the Indians largely being unable to see their targets. With the dawn just becoming visible as a faint glow in the misty eastern sky, misfortune compounded itself with an unexpected occurrence.
Although Colonel Lewis had given the order that preparations for crossing the Ohio would begin at dawn, two of the militiamen arose just before that time and ambled together into the woods in the hope of bagging a turkey.
They moved generally eastward in the edge of the wood flanking the Ohio River and, about a mile from the camp, misfortune played its third prank on the attackers. For the duration of about a dozen heartbeats, just as the pair neared the mouth of a small creek, the fickle fog broke apart and revealed to their stunned eyes a line of war-painted Indians facing in their direction and extending from the Ohio River shore on their left to out of sight in the misty forest on their right. A Shawnee warrior named Epinoosa flung up his rifle and shot, the report obscenely loud in the morning stillness, and one of the two men crumpled lifeless to the ground, a grape-sized lead ball having drilled through the center of his chest. 104
The other man turned and fled, quickly disappearing into the mist that was once again closing in. The Indians could hear his terrified cries as he sprinted into the camp and the general hubbub that ensued as soldiers roused from bedrolls and snatched their weapons. From one of the few tents that had been erected, a man emerged and conferred briefly with two others who had run up from an adjoining tent, one hastily buttoning a fine scarlet waistcoat.
These two raced off, shouting orders which were relayed and in moments men were vaguely seen in the patchy mist forming themselves into three separate groups. 105
As the commander's unit took its place in the center of the line and the entire three segments began marching forward into the woods, enough day-light, muted and gray, had evolved that now a sporadic firing was begun by the Indians closest to the Spaylaywitheepi and rapidly spread down the line all the way to the Kanawha. The heavy blue-white gunpowder smoke mingling with the fog made vision extremely poor. Despite less than adequate visi-bility, an early target was the man who wore the brilliant red waistcoat— Colonel Charles Lewis, the commander's brother. Rifles barked and he fell with a ball through his head, one of the first casualties. 106 On the other side of the line, close to the Ohio River, another principal officer —Colonel William Fleming—was severely wounded with a ball that passed through him just beneath the ribs. 107 A fierce and almost continuous shrieking from the Indians filled the air—a tactic well known and often used by the Shawnees to instill fear in opponents and thus produce uncontrollable panic and its resultant helplessness
.
The shrieks, the screams, the blasting of weapons and hideous whiz-and-thunk of tomahawks and war clubs created a cacophony beyond belief and the layers of smoke in acrid screens stung the eyes until all the combatants wept hot tears that still could not clear their vision. The triple phalanx of militia held their ground for a while and then gave way, falling back beneath the power of the Indian attack, and Hokolesqua's warriors surged forward with increased howls. Overriding the incredible din, the powerful booming voice of Hokolesqua was raised in a stirring cry which he repeated over and over again up and down the line.
"Oui-shi-cat-to-oui! Oui-shi-cat-to-oui."
Pucksinwah and Talgayeeta, too, were very active, not only in actual fighting but in passing back and forth in the Indian lines, encouraging the warriors.
With their lines crumbling, the militiamen began diving for cover behind anything available-logs, brush, standing trees, rocks, bodies of fallen friends, anything that would provide protection against the murderous barrage of gunfire directed at them. The advance of the Indians stopped and direct hand-to-hand conflict increased with more screaming, more groans and grunts and cursing and the ugly sound of viciously rent flesh and bone.
The whites gained a little ground, then lost it again, then held. Ho-lesqua's warriors strove to force the Shemanese back and back, bunching them closer and closer together as they were forced to the apex of the triangle, thus making them ever more vulnerable through their very density as they lost ground. When the whites pushed back and the foot of the triangle from river to river lengthened, the lines of the Indians grew ever thinner, increasing their vulnerability.
Thus, each side realized the desperate need to at least hold their ground and at best to push their adversaries back. With the cries of "Oui-shi-cat-to-oui" bolstering them, the Indians lunged again, recovering the ground they had momentarily lost, which now was littered with bodies and slickened into a scarlet mud. Time after time each side strove to thrust the other back to the point where they would be lost and time after time each side failed.
It remained a seesaw battle for an hour, then two, then three. Time lost all meaning and often simple survival became paramount. Exhaustion numbed limbs, searing smoke scalded tongues and throats and even the demonic cries of the warriors and the shouts and curses of the militia became slurred.
Though they had been involved in skirmishes on a number of occasions before, Blue Jacket, Chaquiweshe, and Chiksika were today engaging in their first actual battle and all three young Shawnees fought with a skill and execution that belied their inexperience. The three were close together when the fight broke out but gradually became separated as the melee continued. Chiksika's weapon of choice was a war club and he darted here and there in the line, swinging it with fierce accuracy, breaking the limbs and rib cages and skulls of the militiamen who swarmed around them in the murky area. Twice he felt a great surge of pride as he caught the gaze of his father upon him and saw the fierce approval in his eyes.
Blue Jacket had fired his flintlock only twice and then discarded it as ineffective and relied on his bow, smoothly releasing arrow after arrow with whining accuracy until his quiver was empty, then wading into the thickest of the combat with tomahawk in one hand, knife in the other, whirling and slashing with great effect. Seven times he left behind the bodies of those with whom he had grappled and whose scalps he had swiftly removed with triumphant screams and stuffed in his pouch before moving on. He was oblivious to the blood streaming down his own chest and back from a ball that had grazed his neck, giving him a nightmarish appearance that caused foes to quail and fee at his approach.
Chaquiweshe fought nearly as well, but only briefly before he was struck by a ball that ripped through his stomach and left him doubled over in agony for only an instant before a militiaman raced up and drove his knife through the young Shawnee's heart. The militiaman himself was downed in the act and strong hands picked up the body of Chaqui and carried it from the field and back to the canoes where it was transported across the river with a few other dead and wounded. Among them was Silverheels, his chest wound from the stabbing at Fort Pitt healed but his strength not fully recovered, who had fought near Hokolesqua until he collapsed with exhaustion.
His giant sister, Nonhelema, bloodspattered from the soldiers she had been fighting, had scooped him up and cradled him childlike in her arms as she carried him all the way to the canoes.
Even as the battle raged, surging back and forth across its front in a swath some two hundred yards deep, another squad of the militia felled a number of small trees to form a breastwork of sorts and they and their fellows gradually made their way to it, took refuge behind it, strengthened it. The warriors plunged into it, ripped at it, tore through autumn ambered leaves and foliage as scarlet as the blood being shed.
They breached the defense and drove their way into the whites and still the Shemanese resisted beyond the imaginings of their foes.
Just before noon, with the battle still raging furiously throughout the entire line, Chiksika and Pucksinwah happened to be fighting the enemy close to one another when a rifle ball struck Pucksinwah in the chest and slammed him to the ground. Instantly Chiksika raced to the spot, slung his father over his shoulder and stumbled as rapidly as possible toward the rear with him.
When well away from the main fighting, he lay the war chief down beneath a large tree and began to plug the wound with buzzard down from his pouch, but Pucksinwah regained consciousness and shook his head.
"It's of no use,
" he whispered. "I am a dead man, as I knew I would
be. ... You are a good son, Chiksika. Promise me..." He broke off and grimaced.
"What, father? Anything! Promise you what?" -
"Promise me that you will take care of Tecumseh. ... Teach him to be a good warrior... a good man. Guide him in the right way. The little brothers, also. Provide ... provide for the family. Promise me that you will never ... make peace with the Shemanese. They wish only to devour us."
"I promise, father. Please, don't die." He cradled his father in his arms
and wept, saying again, "Please, don't die."
There was no response. Pucksinwah was dead.
Chiksika sat holding him for a long while, then gathered him up once again and carried him the rest of the way to where the canoes were. A few other dead, along with several wounded, were in one canoe that two older Shawnees were just about ready to paddle across the river. Strong arms helped Chiksika gently lay Pucksinwah in the bottom of that canoe and he watched, his expression one of grim sorrow, as the canoe was thrust away from shore and the crossing begun. In a moment more he jerked his stained war club from his belt and set off at a lope toward the sounds of the distant battle.
Time had become meaningless on the field of combat as the fighting persisted.
Sometime earlier the fog had lifted, though none had noted exactly when, and the midpoint of day was already two hours into history, the afternoon harvest sun flaring through the coppery haze of a struggle that to its participants seemed destined to last until sunset on a never ending day. Hand-to-hand combat had slackened and gasping combatants moved apart as if by mutual agreement, regrouping, reassessing and resting while a sporadic firing continued across the length of the line from Spaylaywitheepi to Kanawhatheepi.
Suddenly came the booming voice of Hokolesqua with a new cry and, to the amazement and relief of the whites, his Indians began falling back, gradually, carefully, but unmistakably, carrying along with them the remainder of their dead and wounded, leaving not one of their own on the field.
Encouraged,by the enemy's inexplicable withdrawal, the Virginians began to scramble through the breach in their impromptu defensive barricade to pursue, their throats already starting to swell with a blooming cry of victory, but their own commander intervened and ordered them back, fearful of a ruse of the Indians to lead them into an ambush from which few, if any, would emerge. It was a reaction Hokolesqua anticipated. Had it been a ruse, the bait would have been far more subtly presented.
This was no ruse, no trap, but neither was it precipitate flight. It was a deliberate, methodical, well-defended and very gradual withdrawal, with frequent pauses to hold for a while and then move again. There was very good reason for the withdrawal; runners had come with intelligence so imperative that they rushed headlong to Hokolesqua in the midst of the battlefield, dodging from tree to tree until they reached him. They imparted their news in gasping phrases: a reinforcement was coming for the Shemanese; half a thousand more Virginians descending the Kanawhatheepi and less than three hours away.
Hokolesqua heard them out, expression initially grim, but then altering to the faintest of smiles. A short time, yes, but time enough to pull away in strength and dignity. 110
A certain number of the whites followed for a half mile, then a mile, but the warning of their commander echoed in their minds and they grew afraid of the suspected ambush. They slowed and stopped and then picked their way back, confused and worried, past the multitude of bodies of their comrades and to their own lines, there to help shore up and improve a defensive barricade that should have been built days ago. When the final wisps of battle smoke thinned and dissipated in the later afternoon and early evening, not a single Indian, living or dead, remained on the field of combat.
As the final four canoes pushed into the current of the Spaylaywitheepi in the gathering dusk, Hokolesqua was in one of them, having refused to leave until all had crossed and, in his own leaving, facing rearward so that none could ever say he had turned his back in a contest with the Shemanese.
~~~Allan W. Eckert. Tecumseh, A Sorrow In Our Hearts~~~
