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with the secret in his heart. His loyalty to the dust of his leader was proof against all research, all exploration, all investigation, and all inquiry. Grand in life, Tecumseh was and is grand in death. In the isolation and desolation of his burial he becomes almost sublime, for to this day "no man knows where they have laid him."
AFTER THE BATTLE
The storm of battle was past. A small detachment rode hard to overtake Proctor and Elliott, and along the narrow trail through the forests pressed eagerly forward to catch the fleeing Briton and his wary allies.
Some fifteen miles away Major DeVall Payne and half a dozen associates had captured Proctor's and Elliott's carriages and baggage, and with sixty prisoners were now turning their faces toward the camp of their friends.
The remainder of the army was preparing for sleep, and as the twilight came on the saddest of all a soldier's duties was performed.
Through the grasses and willows of the swamp, and along the ridges among the trees, search was made for the dead and wounded. At one place the dead were close together; at the spot where the immortal "Forlorn Hope" had received the concentrated fire of Tecumseh and his red men, the richest sacrifice had been made.
The tall, stalwart form of the ever brave Whitley was there. His trusty rifle was in his hand, his powderhorn swung over his shoulder, and his hunter's knife in its sheath, and with his face to the foe they found the fearless soldier, now past threescore years, pierced by many bullets, lying at the side of his chivalrous leader, where he had gone down to death for his beloved country.
A few feet away lay all the dead of the "Forlorn Hope." Colonel Johnson had been carried a few hundred yards south to a tent.
Lieutenant Logan, mortally wounded, had expired, and among the dead horses were found the lifeless forms of the other heroes who had so gloriously fallen in the advance upon the Indian line.
Less than twenty yards west were the bodies of the red men who had disputed the passage across the swamp with the Kentucky mounted soldiers.
The corpses of the white slain were gathered together and lain side by side on a small knoll just northeast of where the men had fallen and where the British artillery had been placed to command the road along which the Kentuckians had advanced.
The British dead were also collected, and now that death, the great leveler and peacemaker, had done his work, the opposing slain lay calmly and quietly side by side on the mound which had been selected for a common sepulchre.
Over the bodies of the foe and friend blankets were spread, and there, with guards about them, they remained through the hours of the night, awaiting burial on the morrow.
In the morning two trenches were dug, one for the British, the other for the Kentucky dead. A blanket was their only coffin. Side by side, with hands folded over their stilled hearts, these patriots were laid in foreign soil. Their features and forms were imposing and majestic even in their rude cerements.
These hardy and warlike men were not unaccustomed to burials in the wilderness, but as they wrapped the bodies of their dead comrades in their winding sheets, which were only linsey blankets, and forever hid their faces from the light of day, they dropped tears upon these inanimate forms and bewailed that fate which gave them so rude a tomb on hated English soil.
There was no sound as the loose earth fell upon the soft and yielding blankets; the trenches were quickly filled. On the beech trees, which were to be the sentinels to stand guard over the Kentucky dead, were carved with hunting-knives the names of those who had found graves beneath their protecting shade. The tragedy was ended, and these glorious dead were left forever in the solitude of the Canadian forest. The firing squad performed the last sad rites, the drums beat a dirge, and William Whit