May 17 & 18, 2014
Retreat, WI
“As you fade into the night, who will tell the story of your life?”
Lyrics from: In the End, by the Black Veil Brides
As a child I was involved in the Girl Scouts, specifically the Blackhawk Council of Girl Scouts, where I enjoyed many outings and camping trips. The name of the council never held meaning for me until a year ago. On more than one occasion we journeyed to the Kickapoo River, widely known for its beautiful, winding waterway through high hills, low fields, and remote pastureland. As an adult, I took my daughter there to enjoy its cool waters in the heat of a summer afternoon. Today, when I crossed this river, so full of memories for myself, I added the memories of others.
Black Hawk had been traveling for days through the Ocooch mountains, and here, after crossing the Kickapoo, he was finally able to allow his horses to graze, for in the forest there had been no grass. They camped here on the night of July 30th, and then journeyed on to the northwest, into what is now Vernon County. On the night of July 31st, they had traveled to a new camp, located on a high plain about ten miles from the Mississippi River near the town of Retreat. The next morning, August 1st, those who were able arose with the first hint of dawn and started towards the river, intent on crossing over into the new dangers of Sioux territory. The soldiers who followed were scarcely more than ten miles behind.
On August 1st, a day about which I will write two more posts, the soldiers of General Atkinson’s army awoke before dawn, camped a few miles south and east of Soldiers Grove. They reached this haven by noon, and like Black Hawk, were relieved at both the change of landscape and the presence of feed for their horses. They remained only an hour, long enough for their horses to fill their empty bellies, and then rode off again in pursuit of their enemy.
In the sixteen miles marched and ridden by the troops on August 1st, the soldiers encountered an uninterrupted trail of dead Indians, five in the first five miles, a total of eleven over the course of the day. They were dressed, “… in every-day dress – lying by the trail in the open prairie; and where pack-horses had fallen exhausted, they had been slaughtered; and nothing but the hooves and the paunch were left.”
The soldiers, still roughly 1200 infantry, mounted militia and regular army, marched at a rapid pace until 8 pm and well into the gloom of approaching darkness, stopping when they reached the very camp abandoned that morning by Black Hawk’s band.
The soldiers have written many stories about their march that day. These three are particularly interesting.
The first story is about the warrior Me-ne-kau.
The second story is about a starving old man and is mentioned in several accounts. I will paraphrase and summarize it here, using the words from several sources to stitch together the tale.
Twelve hundred men in evidence, and it was not possible to look into the eyes of a helpless, starving, enfeebled old man and find pity and humanity for a defeated enemy. After giving the information the soldiers sought – even guiding them to water – the best solution they could come up with was an execution. What would have been the outcome if they had come across a wounded old white settler, who had fallen from his horse and lay starving in the prairie? Instead, they passed judgment, and carried out a lethal sentence. This time I quote directly, “… But no doubt, he had been at the massacre of a number of our own citizens, and deserved to die for the crimes which he had perpetrated, in taking the lives of harmless and unoffending women and children.”
The third story is very brief…
This disturbingly brief reference to “some stragglers were killed” brings into painful focus the degree to which human tragedy and killing had become an indifferent companion to the members of the pursuing army. I hope for the sake of this soldier’s spirit that this calloused reference indicates only something he had heard about and not something he had witnessed. I pray that there will never be a circumstance that could allow me to treat the loss of human life with such disregard.
In Vernon County, there are a series of roadside markers made of poured concrete that were left in memoriam of Black Hawk and his people. The first, as noted in my previous post, lies in Crawford County in the town of Rising Sun, and identifies a ridge where Black Hawk and his people crossed into Vernon County. Nine miles up the road, on Hwy 82, are the next two markers in the series. These markers were placed in 1930 as a result of the efforts of Dr. Charles V. Porter, a Vernon County historian.
On my journey, I have attempted to learn the ‘truth’ about everything that happened during this four-month period of time, so that I could tell the story.
Among the challenges I have faced telling this story has been reading conflicting, uncorroborated, or fragmented accounts, then trying to measure their weight, so I can walk a balanced path and tell the story as fairly and truthfully as I am able. One such fragment of story is that of the six Indians and the silver brooches.
In all my research, beyond Porter’s markers, I could find only a single, brief reference to the six women killed at the pond in Retreat, that being the fleeting comment about the ‘stragglers’, a direct quote from Charles Bracken, a Lieutenant who fought in the conflict. This in no way is an indication that the event never happened, or that any of the details are false. To the contrary, the stories are true.
Dr. C. V. Porter lived in Vernon County in the 1880’s, and spent years interviewing people who lived in the area and who knew stories and lore that unless written down, would have been forever lost in time. Porter collected tidbits of knowledge about exactly where the trail had been from the farmers, dairymen, and settlers who came to the land immediately afterwards and who knew what had happened, and where. Perhaps it was knowledge passed on by the former soldiers and militiamen, or perhaps some parts of the trail were still physically visible when the settlers arrived. Perhaps the story was passed on by the Native Indians who still lived in the area long beyond 1832. Porter found and interviewed these people while they were still alive, and was able to determine exactly where some of these events had taken place. Had he not chosen to write these things down, in stone, these parts of the story would have been lost for all time.
By gathering the loose fibers of historical accounts, I have formed threads of Black Hawk’s story, which I have woven into a tapestry recounting the events which took place over a period of two days in the summer of 1832, as told from the perspective of the fleeing band of Indians. This is their story.
I stood in quiet contemplation after reading the two markers on the side of the road. I felt a tug in my chest urging me to go and visit the pond itself, rather than just driving by and reading the signs. Water is life, and the pond was the heart of all the activity that took place in this high, lonely area. Both Black Hawk and the following militia relied on the tiny water source for themselves and their horses. The old Indian had directed Atkinson’s troops there. It was there that the soldiers found and killed the six women. It was there that I would find whatever was pulling at my soul.
The marker indicated that the pond was 115 rods due south, but the marker had been moved from its original position, so it was difficult to know where to start. Another source I read indicated that the pond was about a mile northeast of Retreat, Wisconsin. We knew from looking at maps that there were no roads through the middle of the block defined by those parameters, so we drove south on CTH N to Retreat to see if we could spot the pond from the road. Just past the Cemetery, we stopped alongside the road to make a special prayer stick. I wanted to remember and send prayers to the many people who had been lost along the trail, and who perished in their flight. Not just those whose names we knew, or those who had been found lying dead or hastily buried, but also those who were never found.
I do not generally describe my prayer sticks. My prayers are private, and are meant for those to which they are sent, but in this case I will share some of its meaning. I chose the branch of an elm tree, so important to the travelers who were forced to ‘bark’ the trees to reach the life-sustaining inner cambium layer, which could be eaten for the starch and base sugars it contained. To that, I added a branch from a wild grapevine growing along a fence, whose fruit and leaves can both be eaten. Then I added a raspberry stalk, and the thorny branch from a gooseberry bush, both of which would still have provided some few berries to the band as they passed. Then I walked through the cornfield to glean some of the corn still lying in the field after the long winter, and I wrapped and bound all of these together using twine and the strong, dried shucks of the corn plants. I took these items into the woods where I sat among an abundance of jack-in-the-pulpit flowers and formed my prayers with each added symbol of food and sustenance.
Despite the peaceful surroundings, I felt this was not the right place to leave my prayers. I wanted to place the prayer stick near the pond, if I could, so I took it with me and started walking along the edge of the field, but there was too much negative energy in that place, where recent activity had left behind too much garbage and disturbance. Instead, we returned to the car and we drove back to Walnut Mound Cemetery to see if we could get a better view. At the very back of the Cemetery we looked north and east, but could only see a wooded area, so we drove on. We went back east again, and ended up driving in a full circle around the unbroken landscape, never able to see the elusive pond. Finally, from Hwy 82 we drove south on a farmer’s gravel road leading into the fields, and drove as far into the region as we could safely travel. Then, we got out and walked the area, looking for a place where our prayers could be carried on the wind. Though we never found the pond, we chose a strip of alfalfa, lush and green in the early season, and left our prayer stick for the old man and the six women, and all the people who had been lost on the trail.
The story may have ended there. I had followed my instincts and done the best I could to place my prayers where they could be carried by the great Wind Spirits. We were back in the car, intending to drive to our next stop along the way, but just a little further down the road my husband suddenly slowed and stopped, pointing to a bald eagle in flight, avoiding a harassing blackbird. It landed on a tree a ways from the road, just down another gravel farmer’s road. The blackbird left, but within moments, the eagle was joined by a second bald eagle, flying in from the east, and together the two of them took wing and started a beautiful dance in the sky for us to watch. Then, together, they flew off to the west in the direction of Battle Island, and I took it as a signal that our prayers had been heard and understood, and that we could now continue our journey.
Again, the story could have ended there, but after I returned home I felt that my job here was not complete. I wanted to know if there was still a pond there somewhere, and exactly how close we had come as we searched for it. Using Google Earth, we were able to determine that the pond was in the middle of the heavily wooded area in which we started, down the ravine from where we sat while making our prayer stick. Geographically, it is due north of the Walnut Mound Cemetery, and is not visible or directly accessible from any road.
Looking at the maps as I prepared to write this post, I realized with the resonance of a well-struck chord that the two eagles, dancing in the sky above us, performed their ballet directly above the unseen pond just past the edge of the woods. When I return to this area in the fall, I intend to complete my search for the pond. The eagles showed me where to find it, and I believe the spirits still want me to visit.
(Key Terms: Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak, Black Sparrow Hawk, Black Hawk, 1767, Saukenuk, Pyesa, Rock Island, Black Hawk’s Watch Tower, Black Hawk State Historic Site, Hauberg Museum, Sauk, Sac, Meskwaki, Fox, Rock River, Sinnissippi River, Mississippi River, War of 1812, British Band, Great Britain, Treaty of 1804, Treaties, Ceded Land, William Henry Harrison, Quashquame, Keokuk, Fort Armstrong, Samuel Whiteside, Black Hawk War of 1832, Black Hawk Conflict, Scalp, Great Sauk Trail, Black Hawk Trail, Prophetstown, Wabokieshiek, White Cloud, The Winnebago Prophet, Ne-o-po-pe, Dixon’s Ferry, Isaiah Stillman, The Battle of Stillman’s Run, Old Man’s Creek, Sycamore Creek, Abraham Lincoln, Chief Shabbona, Felix St. Vrain, Lake Koshkonong, Fort Koshkonong, Fort Atkinson, Henry Atkinson, Andrew Jackson, Lewis Cass, Winfield Scott, Chief Black Wolf, Henry Dodge, James Henry, White Crow, Rock River Rapids, The Four Lakes, Battle of Wisconsin Heights, Benjamin Franklin Smith, Wisconsin River, Kickapoo River, Soldier’s Grove, Steamboat Warrior, Steamship Warrior, Fort Crawford, Battle of Bad Axe, Bad Axe Massacre, Joseph M. Street, Antoine LeClaire, Native American, Indian, Michigan Territory, Indiana Territory, Louisiana Territory, Osage, Souix, Potawatomi, Ojibwe, Ottawa, Ho-Chunk)
On August 1st, a day about which I will write two more posts, the soldiers of General Atkinson’s army awoke before dawn, camped a few miles south and east of Soldiers Grove. They reached this haven by noon, and like Black Hawk, were relieved at both the change of landscape and the presence of feed for their horses. They remained only an hour, long enough for their horses to fill their empty bellies, and then rode off again in pursuit of their enemy.
In the sixteen miles marched and ridden by the troops on August 1st, the soldiers encountered an uninterrupted trail of dead Indians, five in the first five miles, a total of eleven over the course of the day. They were dressed, “… in every-day dress – lying by the trail in the open prairie; and where pack-horses had fallen exhausted, they had been slaughtered; and nothing but the hooves and the paunch were left.”
The soldiers, still roughly 1200 infantry, mounted militia and regular army, marched at a rapid pace until 8 pm and well into the gloom of approaching darkness, stopping when they reached the very camp abandoned that morning by Black Hawk’s band.
The soldiers have written many stories about their march that day. These three are particularly interesting.
The first story is about the warrior Me-ne-kau.
“At sunset we arrived on the ground which they had that morning abandoned; the fires still smoked. Here I [Lieutenant Philip St. George Cooke] saw a dead warrior, who had been placed in a sitting position, with his back to a tree; he had been painted red as if going to war; and – his arms folded – he seemed to bid us grim defiance even in death. Few might look on unmoved – none could ever forget that dead warrior in his paint.”
Another soldier added, “He was placed on the ground, with his head resting against the root of a tree, logs were placed around him and covered with bark; and on top of which green bushes were laid; so intended, that we might pass by without discovering the grave. He was examined, and found to have been shot.” It is believed that this warrior was Mee-ne-cau, second only to Black Hawk in command of the warriors, and that he died of wounds sustained in the Battle at Wisconsin Heights.
The second story is about a starving old man and is mentioned in several accounts. I will paraphrase and summarize it here, using the words from several sources to stitch together the tale.
‘It was now late in the evening, and we had proceeded but a short distance from the dead warrior’s grave, when we came across an old Indian who had been left behind for some reason or another. It was an old man who could not rise, but who spoke English. We interrogated him, and learned that the main body of the enemy had left the encampment that morning, and would already be at the Mississippi River, and would have succeeded in crossing by morning. He was a friendly enough Indian; showed us where we could find water. Then he begged to be taken prisoner, so as to get something to eat, but we had no time to be plagued with the charge of prisoners. We discussed whether it would be better to leave him behind to starve, or kill him. We decided it would be better to kill him, so we shot him.’
Twelve hundred men in evidence, and it was not possible to look into the eyes of a helpless, starving, enfeebled old man and find pity and humanity for a defeated enemy. After giving the information the soldiers sought – even guiding them to water – the best solution they could come up with was an execution. What would have been the outcome if they had come across a wounded old white settler, who had fallen from his horse and lay starving in the prairie? Instead, they passed judgment, and carried out a lethal sentence. This time I quote directly, “… But no doubt, he had been at the massacre of a number of our own citizens, and deserved to die for the crimes which he had perpetrated, in taking the lives of harmless and unoffending women and children.”
The third story is very brief…
“On the evening of the first of August, signs of the enemy were discovered, and some stragglers were killed.”
This disturbingly brief reference to “some stragglers were killed” brings into painful focus the degree to which human tragedy and killing had become an indifferent companion to the members of the pursuing army. I hope for the sake of this soldier’s spirit that this calloused reference indicates only something he had heard about and not something he had witnessed. I pray that there will never be a circumstance that could allow me to treat the loss of human life with such disregard.
******************************
In Vernon County, there are a series of roadside markers made of poured concrete that were left in memoriam of Black Hawk and his people. The first, as noted in my previous post, lies in Crawford County in the town of Rising Sun, and identifies a ridge where Black Hawk and his people crossed into Vernon County. Nine miles up the road, on Hwy 82, are the next two markers in the series. These markers were placed in 1930 as a result of the efforts of Dr. Charles V. Porter, a Vernon County historian.
One of the two markers states, “On the nights of August 1 & 2, 1832, Gen. Atkinson’s army of 1200 mounted men in pursuit of Black Hawk encamped in this area from 8 p.m. until 3 a.m. The spring from which the men and horses drank is northeast.”
The second marker tells the story of the Indians who had camped there a day earlier, and makes reference to the ‘stragglers’ who had been killed there. “At shallow pond 115 rods due south Black Hawk’s 700 Sac Indians encamped. Soldiers found six decrepit Indians there and ‘left them behind’. Lee Sterling in 1846 found a handful of silver brooches there, concluding those killed there were squaws.”
The second marker tells the story of the Indians who had camped there a day earlier, and makes reference to the ‘stragglers’ who had been killed there. “At shallow pond 115 rods due south Black Hawk’s 700 Sac Indians encamped. Soldiers found six decrepit Indians there and ‘left them behind’. Lee Sterling in 1846 found a handful of silver brooches there, concluding those killed there were squaws.”
Among the challenges I have faced telling this story has been reading conflicting, uncorroborated, or fragmented accounts, then trying to measure their weight, so I can walk a balanced path and tell the story as fairly and truthfully as I am able. One such fragment of story is that of the six Indians and the silver brooches.
 |
| Charles Bracken |
Dr. C. V. Porter lived in Vernon County in the 1880’s, and spent years interviewing people who lived in the area and who knew stories and lore that unless written down, would have been forever lost in time. Porter collected tidbits of knowledge about exactly where the trail had been from the farmers, dairymen, and settlers who came to the land immediately afterwards and who knew what had happened, and where. Perhaps it was knowledge passed on by the former soldiers and militiamen, or perhaps some parts of the trail were still physically visible when the settlers arrived. Perhaps the story was passed on by the Native Indians who still lived in the area long beyond 1832. Porter found and interviewed these people while they were still alive, and was able to determine exactly where some of these events had taken place. Had he not chosen to write these things down, in stone, these parts of the story would have been lost for all time.
By gathering the loose fibers of historical accounts, I have formed threads of Black Hawk’s story, which I have woven into a tapestry recounting the events which took place over a period of two days in the summer of 1832, as told from the perspective of the fleeing band of Indians. This is their story.
Black Hawk and his band woke at dawn and made hasty preparations to continue their flight to the west. As their first grim task of the day, in a ritual that had become all too familiar, they collected the bodies of those who had died during the night, and performed hasty burials, hiding the bodies as best as they could to prevent them from being discovered by the advancing soldiers. This day, the bodies of several were hidden in the brush.
Everyone then foraged for food, which was almost entirely absent on the barren, grassy highland plain. They scoured the ground for the early, bitter white oak and overcup oak acorns, roasting them in their small fires with ground elmbark. Some found roots which could be eaten. Some tried looking for fish in the streams and pond but few were caught. Only the horses had adequate food, after suffering for days in the mountains. Everyone drank as much water as they could and made ready to depart.
When they checked on Mee-ne-cau, they found that he still lived, but was suffering gravely from his gunshot wounds. He was able to take only a little water, and could not eat the meager food they had to give him. They cleaned his wounds, gave prayers and offerings, and lifted him onto his horse, tying him in place so that he would not fall off. Several others were helped to their horses, and those that were able to walk or ride began the slow, arduous march.
Not all were able to leave at once. Black Hawk had given the order that they were to march in single-file, so as to leave as few tracks as possible. He would not have had to give the order. It was a natural way of traveling for the Indians, minimizing the effort given by those who followed, and hiding their numbers from their enemy. The strongest, and the fastest, therefore, led the way. They broke trail through the hilly ground, and the rest of the people would follow behind as best they could.
Some of the slowest – those who were always at the rear of the procession, had lagged so far behind the day before that they had scarcely gotten into camp and fallen asleep before dawn had broken and the rest of the band began their preparations to leave. These few would sleep as long as they dared, allowing their broken bodies as much time as possible to rest before struggling to their aching feet and once more bringing up the rear. On this day, some of those who struggled to get up and follow, fell for the last time and died where they lay. They would manage to travel only nine miles that day. Along the way, several would fall, never to rise again.
Those at the end walked past the bodies of the fallen, too weak themselves to do anything but march on in hopes that they would not fall and join their lost loved ones.
They marched all day in the July heat, and when they made camp near the small, shallow pond they had located atop this high meadow, they discovered that Mee-ne-cau, still tied to his horse, had passed on to the world of the spirits.
Despite their own desperate condition, they gave Mee-Ne-Cau the honorable burial of a great warrior, seated in an upright position and painted red for battle with sap from the bloodroot plant. To hide his body from their enemies, they leaned him against a tree, and hid his body with logs, bark, and branches. They built a fire and performed their burial rites, giving his body to Mother Earth, and sending his spirit to the Father Creator with the smoke from their fires.
Once again, the foraging for food began, and once again they could not find enough to eat. Water was plentiful, but did not remove the weakness of their limbs nor the gnawing of their stomachs. Only the hope of reaching the Mississippi gave them any joy. Tomorrow, they would reach the river and escape, as they had done on the Ouisconsin.
The exhausted fugitives made beds in the grasses, and fell asleep where they lay, and once again the stragglers found their way in, after dark, unable to forage for food and only capable of collapsing in their great state of emptiness.
Morning broke, with a low fog in the distance in the direction of the river. They rose and buried their dead, foraged for their breakfast, and made out for the river. After they left, their fires still burning, six women arrived, who had been walking all night to try and catch up to the band. They had been traveling together, helping each other through terrifying hardship and inconsolable grief at the loss of their families and loved ones. Vowing not to lose each other, they remained behind, intent on following only when the weakest of them was able to continue. They had fallen many hours behind, and now found themselves without strength and without hope, unable to leave the abandoned campsite.
On the trail, the first to fall was an old warrior. He lay by the trail, unable to get up, and made his prayers in preparation for the end of his time on earth. When the soldiers came, they found the old Indian warrior as he lay dying on the trail. The old warrior gave them information, and told them where to find water. Then he was shot.
At the pond, the soldiers found the women, huddled in fear, a collection of wretched skeletons. They were unable to speak English, and there were no interpreters among Atkinson’s troops. With nothing to be gained by questioning the women, they, too, were summarily shot.
I stood in quiet contemplation after reading the two markers on the side of the road. I felt a tug in my chest urging me to go and visit the pond itself, rather than just driving by and reading the signs. Water is life, and the pond was the heart of all the activity that took place in this high, lonely area. Both Black Hawk and the following militia relied on the tiny water source for themselves and their horses. The old Indian had directed Atkinson’s troops there. It was there that the soldiers found and killed the six women. It was there that I would find whatever was pulling at my soul.
The marker indicated that the pond was 115 rods due south, but the marker had been moved from its original position, so it was difficult to know where to start. Another source I read indicated that the pond was about a mile northeast of Retreat, Wisconsin. We knew from looking at maps that there were no roads through the middle of the block defined by those parameters, so we drove south on CTH N to Retreat to see if we could spot the pond from the road. Just past the Cemetery, we stopped alongside the road to make a special prayer stick. I wanted to remember and send prayers to the many people who had been lost along the trail, and who perished in their flight. Not just those whose names we knew, or those who had been found lying dead or hastily buried, but also those who were never found.
I do not generally describe my prayer sticks. My prayers are private, and are meant for those to which they are sent, but in this case I will share some of its meaning. I chose the branch of an elm tree, so important to the travelers who were forced to ‘bark’ the trees to reach the life-sustaining inner cambium layer, which could be eaten for the starch and base sugars it contained. To that, I added a branch from a wild grapevine growing along a fence, whose fruit and leaves can both be eaten. Then I added a raspberry stalk, and the thorny branch from a gooseberry bush, both of which would still have provided some few berries to the band as they passed. Then I walked through the cornfield to glean some of the corn still lying in the field after the long winter, and I wrapped and bound all of these together using twine and the strong, dried shucks of the corn plants. I took these items into the woods where I sat among an abundance of jack-in-the-pulpit flowers and formed my prayers with each added symbol of food and sustenance.
Despite the peaceful surroundings, I felt this was not the right place to leave my prayers. I wanted to place the prayer stick near the pond, if I could, so I took it with me and started walking along the edge of the field, but there was too much negative energy in that place, where recent activity had left behind too much garbage and disturbance. Instead, we returned to the car and we drove back to Walnut Mound Cemetery to see if we could get a better view. At the very back of the Cemetery we looked north and east, but could only see a wooded area, so we drove on. We went back east again, and ended up driving in a full circle around the unbroken landscape, never able to see the elusive pond. Finally, from Hwy 82 we drove south on a farmer’s gravel road leading into the fields, and drove as far into the region as we could safely travel. Then, we got out and walked the area, looking for a place where our prayers could be carried on the wind. Though we never found the pond, we chose a strip of alfalfa, lush and green in the early season, and left our prayer stick for the old man and the six women, and all the people who had been lost on the trail.
The story may have ended there. I had followed my instincts and done the best I could to place my prayers where they could be carried by the great Wind Spirits. We were back in the car, intending to drive to our next stop along the way, but just a little further down the road my husband suddenly slowed and stopped, pointing to a bald eagle in flight, avoiding a harassing blackbird. It landed on a tree a ways from the road, just down another gravel farmer’s road. The blackbird left, but within moments, the eagle was joined by a second bald eagle, flying in from the east, and together the two of them took wing and started a beautiful dance in the sky for us to watch. Then, together, they flew off to the west in the direction of Battle Island, and I took it as a signal that our prayers had been heard and understood, and that we could now continue our journey.
Again, the story could have ended there, but after I returned home I felt that my job here was not complete. I wanted to know if there was still a pond there somewhere, and exactly how close we had come as we searched for it. Using Google Earth, we were able to determine that the pond was in the middle of the heavily wooded area in which we started, down the ravine from where we sat while making our prayer stick. Geographically, it is due north of the Walnut Mound Cemetery, and is not visible or directly accessible from any road.
Looking at the maps as I prepared to write this post, I realized with the resonance of a well-struck chord that the two eagles, dancing in the sky above us, performed their ballet directly above the unseen pond just past the edge of the woods. When I return to this area in the fall, I intend to complete my search for the pond. The eagles showed me where to find it, and I believe the spirits still want me to visit.
My Dear Sisters – Six Sisters – Sister of the North, Sister of the East, Sister of the South, Sister of the West, Sister of the Earth, Sister of the Sky – Sacred are the waters of the pond where you took your last drink, and sacred is the ground on which you last lay down to rest, unable to rise for your weariness of body, mind and spirit. I never learned the names you used in this life, but I know you. I have learned your story. To honor your deaths and your lives, I call you Six Sisters, so that I may remember you, and those that hear your story may have names to remember you by.
I can feel your spirits resting at this place, and that it remains undisturbed, surrounded by forest exactly as it was when you left this world for the next. I pray for you my spirit sisters. If you choose to stay and protect this land, I thank you. If you choose to go on to the next world and leave behind the troubles of this world, I wish you good journey. If you choose to come with me and join the dance of celebration as we journey to your home, I welcome your company.
Me-ne-kau, and all of the fallen – listen for my prayers carried by Nôtenwi, the Wind. They are calling you to gather, to walk with me, and in joyous reunion to journey home again.
Grandfather Eagle – always you have guided my path and watched over me on my travels. Always you have listened to my prayers, and carried them to the Great Spirit. You visited me at Sycamore Creek, where the first innocents were killed. You visited me at Indian Lake, and waited for me in the cold rains. Today, you give me two gifts. I thank you for showing me the location of the pond, and I thank you for giving me a name for the brave, aging warrior who was killed even after helping to guide his enemy to the water they needed.
Brave warrior – Two Eagles – I never learned the name you used in this life, but I know who you are, because I have read of your final acts of bravery and kindness. As you guided your enemies, who were in need to the life-giving waters, so, too, I was led by the Master of wind and sky.
To honor your death, and your life, I will call you Two Eagles, so that I may remember you, and those that hear your story may have a name to remember you by. I know it is the custom of your people that when warriors have fallen in battle, there is to be no dancing at the campfires that night. I know, too, that when the mourning time is done and the time comes to dance, in celebration of life and in defiance of hardship, that the dances tell the stories of the past. Your life was long, and good, Two Eagles, and it is time to celebrate that life. I have watched your spirit rise and dance on the wind, clothed in the living feathers of the ketiwa. Thank you for guiding me this day. My period of mourning is nearly over, and then I will follow you, Two Eagles, to the campfires of your home, and I will dance in celebration of your life.
Ah-ho.
(Key Terms: Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak, Black Sparrow Hawk, Black Hawk, 1767, Saukenuk, Pyesa, Rock Island, Black Hawk’s Watch Tower, Black Hawk State Historic Site, Hauberg Museum, Sauk, Sac, Meskwaki, Fox, Rock River, Sinnissippi River, Mississippi River, War of 1812, British Band, Great Britain, Treaty of 1804, Treaties, Ceded Land, William Henry Harrison, Quashquame, Keokuk, Fort Armstrong, Samuel Whiteside, Black Hawk War of 1832, Black Hawk Conflict, Scalp, Great Sauk Trail, Black Hawk Trail, Prophetstown, Wabokieshiek, White Cloud, The Winnebago Prophet, Ne-o-po-pe, Dixon’s Ferry, Isaiah Stillman, The Battle of Stillman’s Run, Old Man’s Creek, Sycamore Creek, Abraham Lincoln, Chief Shabbona, Felix St. Vrain, Lake Koshkonong, Fort Koshkonong, Fort Atkinson, Henry Atkinson, Andrew Jackson, Lewis Cass, Winfield Scott, Chief Black Wolf, Henry Dodge, James Henry, White Crow, Rock River Rapids, The Four Lakes, Battle of Wisconsin Heights, Benjamin Franklin Smith, Wisconsin River, Kickapoo River, Soldier’s Grove, Steamboat Warrior, Steamship Warrior, Fort Crawford, Battle of Bad Axe, Bad Axe Massacre, Joseph M. Street, Antoine LeClaire, Native American, Indian, Michigan Territory, Indiana Territory, Louisiana Territory, Osage, Souix, Potawatomi, Ojibwe, Ottawa, Ho-Chunk)
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