"Who is Black Hawk?"
An exasperated general of the frontier army first flung this question at the assembled warriors and braves of Black Hawk's band in a council at Fort Armstrong on Rock Island back in the summer of 1831. A year later, when the old chief with some thirty or forty of his men had put to flight an attacking party of three hundred hardy pioneers and had completely demoralized the entire army of 2,500 militia and regulars, men and women throughout the length and breadth of our youthful republic were asking in tones of astonishment, fear, and anger, "Who is Black Hawk?"
Now, a scant century after the dramatic times of frontier strife, we of the Middle West seem strangely lacking in the background of tradition . . . strangely lacking indead, when one reflects on the richness of our prairie soil in the heroism, villainy, comedy, pathos, romance, and tragedy of three hundred years of recorded human history.
What do we know of the story of Nicollet, the Columbus of the West, who in the old quest for a passage from Europe to the Orient landed his canoes on the shores of Lake Michigan at Green Bay, arrayed himself in Chinese ceremonial robes to greet what he hoped would prove Mandarins of the Celestial Empire, but who turned out to be Winnebago Indians of the wild rice marshes of Wisconsin? What do we know of the herculean labors of Robert Cheveliere de La Salle and his faithful friend of the Iron hand, the Italian, Henri de Tonti? Of the martyrdom of the gentle Father Marquette? Of the adventures of those freebooters of the forest, Radisson, Groseilliers, and Du Lhut? Of the Indian legends of the Pipestone Quarries? Of the five-handed struggle between Indian, Frenchman, [Spaniard,] Britisher, and American for the key to the continent? And of the triumph of the American through the genius and daring of Washington's fellow Virginian, and rival in generalship, George Rogers Clark?
Nicollet, La Salle, Tonti, Radisson, Groseilliers, Du Lhut, Clark . . . to most of us they are only names of streets, towns, and hotels, mere labels as barren of significance as numbers on automobile license tags.
Yet there is one name to which still cling some wisps of glamor. Inevitably the visitor to the upper Mississippi and upper Lakes country is intrigued by the advertisements of "Black Hawk" restaurants, "Black Hawk" parks, "Black Hawk" tires, "Black Hawk" hams and bacons, and the like. To be sure, not one in a hundred of us who have lived our lives in the haunts of Black Hawk are even slightly familiar with his story . . . and only the most strenuous campaigning of a few enthusiasts has saved the last few acres of Saukenuk, his ancestral village on the outskirts of the city of Rock Island, from conversion into a typical suburban allotment. But nevertheless the tradition is still a living thing among us. Moreover, there are signs of a new and more vital interest, as instanced by the christening of the Illinois military unit in the late war as the "Black Hawk" Division, and the more recent construction of the "Black Hawk Trail" along Rock River.
A more adequate tribute to Black Hawk is Lorado Taft's symbolic statue of the chief that risen from the crest of a high bluff across Rock River from the Black Hawk Trail near the village of Oregon, Illinois. Here, indeed, is an impressive monument that strikes the imagination of all who pass. For miles up and down the river one sees the titanic figure above the surrounding skyline of foliage. To appreciate in any measure its full majesty, however, one must make the pilgrimage across the river from the highway and through the timber where automobiles must be left behind; then, afoot, follow the winding path along the water's edge and up the steep breath-taking bluff until he suddenly finds himself gazing up at the majestic conception of the artist's imagination. On a low pedestal sheathed in sumac bushes, stands the blanketed figure of Black Hawk, some forty or fifty feet tall, arms folded, and head thrown back, gazing down the valley, of which in his last years of exile and sorrow he said:
"Rock River was a beautiful country. I loved my towns, my cornfields and the home of my people. I fought for it. It is now yours. Keep it as we did."