As we are getting ready for the battle of Tippecanoe here is a song about an earlier battle in 1791 that would probably been familiar to the soldiers of Tippecanoe. In St. Clair's defeat (the title kinda gives away the ending) the American troops, under the command of Gen. Arthur St. Clair who numbered about 1400 men and 200 camp followers were caught off guard by an Shawnee and Miami attack in Ohio and lost about 900 men and nearly all of the camp followers. It was the worst major defeat sustained by the Americans by Indian tribes. It was this kind of thing that was probably in the minds of those that were at Tippecanoe where the combined Indian tribes also attack in the dark of the morning, but this time the American troops were victorious.
November the fourth in the year of ninety-one,
we had a sore engagement near to Fort Jefferson;
Sinclair was our commander, which may remembered be,
For there we left nine hundred men in the Indian Territory.
At Bunker's Hill and Quebec, where many a hero fell,
Likewise at Long Island, 'tis I the truth can tell.
But such a dreadful carnage, never did I see,
As happened on the plains, near the River St. Marie.
Our militia were attacked, just as the day did break,
And soon were overpowered, and forced to retreat.
They killed major Ouldham, Levin, and Briggs likewise,
While horrid yells of savages, resounded thro' the skies.
We had not long been broke, when general Butler fell;
He cries, my boys, I'm wounded, pray take me off the field,
My God, says he, what shall we do, we're wounded ev'ry man;
Go, charge, you valiant heroes, and beat them if you can.
He leaned his back against a tree, and there resigned his breath,
And like a valiant soldier, sunk in the arms of death;
When blessed angels did await, his spirit to convey,
And unto the celestial fields, he quickly bent his way.
We charged again, we took our ground, which did our hearts elate,
There we did not tarry long, they soon made us retreat;
They killed major Ferguson, which caused his men to cry;
Stand to your guns, says valiant Ford, we'll fight until we die.
Our cannon balls exhausted, our artillery-men all slain,
Our musketrymen and riflemen, their fire did sustain;
Three hours more we fought like men, and they were forced to yield,
While three hundred bloody soldiers lay stretched upon the field.
Says colonel Gibson to his men, my boys, be not dismayed,
I'm sure that true Virginians were never yet afraid;
Ten thousand deaths I'd rather die, than they should gain the field,
With that he got a fatal shot, which caused him to yield.
Says major Clark, my heroes, I can no longer stand,
We will strive to form in order, and retreat the best we can.
The word retreat being passed all round, they raised a huing cry,
And helter skelter through the woods, like lost sheep we did fly.
We left the wounded on the field, O heavens, what a shock!
Some of their thighs were shattered, some of their limbs were broke;
With scalping knives and tomahawks, soon eased them of their breath,
While fiery flames of torment soon tortured them to death. [
1]
-Peter Bringe
Memor!