All through the summer and fall, the heterogeneous band of Indians at the Prophet’s Town upon the Upper Wabash had increased in numbers. Bold and savage warriors from various tribes—prompted by the words and example of the eloquent and sagacious Tecumseh, and inspired by the fanatical zeal of the cunning and bloodthirsty Prophet—had taken up the hatchet and expressed a readiness to make war upon the Americans. Aided and abetted by the British—who still manifested a rancorous hostility toward the United States—they had made petty incursions into the defenseless settlements, bent on pillage and murder. For several years the wily leader of the warlike Shawnees, Tecumseh, had been visiting the tribes of the north, west, and south, urging them to form a confederacy that would be powerful enough to eject the Americans from the Mississippi and Ohio valleys. He was a brave, resolute, and ambitious man; and had faith in the feasibility and success of his project. Harrison, as governor of Indiana Territory, had become aware of Tecumseh’s scheme and had realized the great danger that threatened the growing but unprotected settlements, and had taken prompt measures. Empowered by his commission, he had held a council with Tecumseh and a number of his followers, at Vincennes, in 1810. But the haughty Shawnee had retired from the governor’s presence, angry and defiant. Then Harrison had apprised the government at Philadelphia of the state of affairs and had asked for aid. The Fourth regiment of regulars, under Colonel Boyd, had been sent to him. And with these troops and several companies of Kentucky and Indiana militia—nine hundred men in all—he had left Vincennes, on the twenty-eighth of September, and taken up his march for the Prophet’s Town, resolved to make a lasting peace or strike a telling blow, while Tecumseh was absent on a mission to the southern tribes. About seventy miles up the Wabash he had built Fort Harrison. Then, on the twenty-ninth of October, he had left the place garrisoned, and had resumed his journey toward the Prophet’s Town. He was now moving along the northwestern bank of the Wabash, a short distance from the village he sought. The long line of vehicles and troops came to a sudden stop. Tired horses lowered their heads to the cutting blast and shivered. Weary oxen leaned heavily against the wagon-tongues. Footsore soldiers threw themselves upon the damp ground and feelingly rubbed their aching limbs. Drivers stamped their feet and slapped their palms together to restore the circulation to their benumbed members. Far down toward the rear of the line, a militiaman was singing: “I left my home in ol’ Kaintuck, An’ my wife an’ babes behind me; An’ if the Injins gits my scalp, My folks ’ll never find me.”