Front matter (continued 4)

A party of soldiers, consisting of a corporal and six men, had that afternoon obtained leave to go up the river to fish.

They had not returned when the fugitives from Lee’s Place arrived at the fort, and fearing that they might encounter the Indians, the commanding officer ordered a cannon to be fired, to warn them of danger.

They were at the time about two miles above Lee’s Place. Hearing the signal, they took the hint, put out their torches (for it was now night), and dropped down the river toward the garrison, as silently as possible. It will be remembered that the unsettled state of the country since the battle of Tippecanoe, the preceding November, had rendered every man vigilant, and the slightest alarm was an admonition to beware of “the Indians.”

When the fishing-party reached Lee’s Place, it was proposed to stop and warn the inmates to be upon their guard, as the signal from the fort indicated danger of some kind. All was still as death around the house. They groped their way along, and as the corporal jumped over the small enclosure, he placed his hand upon the dead body of a man. By the sense of touch he soon ascertained that the head was without a scalp, and otherwise mutilated. The faithful dog of the murdered man stood guarding the lifeless remains of his master.

The tale was now told. They retreated to their canoes and reached the fort unmolested about eleven o’clock at night. The next morning a party of the citizens and soldiers volunteered to go to Lee’s Place, to learn further the fate of its occupants. The body of Mr. White was found pierced by two balls, and with eleven stabs in the breast. The Frenchman, as already described, lay dead, with his dog still beside Mm. Their bodies were brought to the fort and buried in its immediate vicinity.

It was subsequently ascertained, from traders out in the Indian country, that the perpetrators of this bloody deed were a party of Winnebagoes, who had come into this neighborhood to “take some white scalps.” Their plan had been, to proceed down the river from Lee’s Place, and kill every white man without the walls of the fort. Hearing, however, the report of the camion, and not knowing what it portended, they thought it best to remain satisfied with this one exploit, and forthwith retreated to their homes on Rock River.

The inhabitants outside the fort, consisting of a few discharged soldiers and some families of half-breeds, now entrenched themselves in the Agency House. This stood on the esplanade west of the fort, between the pickets and the river, and distant about twenty rods from the former.[AB]

It was an old-fashioned log-building, with a hall running through the centre, and one large room on each side. Piazzas extended the whole length of the building in front and rear. These were planked up, for greater security, port-holes were cut, and sentinels posted at night.

As the enemy were believed to be lurking still in the neighborhood, or, emboldened by former success, likely to return at any moment, an order was issued prohibiting any soldier or citizen from leaving the vicinity of the garrison without a guard.

One night a sergeant and private, who were out on a patrol, came suddenly upon a party of Indians in the pasture adjoining the esplanade. The sergeant fired his piece, and both retreated toward the fort. Before they could reach it, an Indian threw his tomahawk, which missed the sergeant and struck a wagon standing near. The sentinel from the block-house immediately fired, and with effect, while the men got safely in. The next morning it was ascertained, from traces of blood to a considerable distance into the prairie, and from the appearance of a body having been laid among the long grass, that some execution had been done.

On another occasion the enemy entered the esplanade to steal horses. Not finding them in the stable, as they had expected, they made themselves amends for their disappointment by stabbing all the sheep in the stable, and then letting them loose. The poor annuals flocked towards the fort. This gave the alarm—the garrison was aroused—parties were sent out, but the marauders escaped unmolested.

The inmates of the fort experienced no further alarm for many weeks.

On the afternoon of the 7th August, Winnemeg, or Catfish, a Pottowattamie chief, arrived at the post, bringing despatches from Gen. Hull. These announced the declaration of war between the United States and Great Britain, and that Gen. Hull, at the head of the North-Western army, had arrived at Detroit; also, that the island of Mackinac had fallen into the hands of the British.

The orders to Captain Heald were, “to evacuate the fort, if practicable, and in that event, to distribute all the United States' property contained in the fort, and in the United States' factory or agency, among the Indians in the neighborhood.”

After having delivered his despatches, Winnemeg requested a private interview with Mr. Kinzie, who had taken up his residence in the fort. He stated to Mr. K. that he was acquainted with the purport of the communications he had brought, and begged him to ascertain if it were the intention of Captain Heald to evacuate the post. He advised strongly against such a step, inasmuch as the garrison was well supplied with ammunition, and with provisions for six months. It would, therefore, be far better, he thought, to remain until a reinforcement could be sent to their assistance. If, however. Captain Heald should decide upon leaving the post, it should by all means be done immediately. The Pottowattamies, through whose country they must pass, being ignorant of the object of Winnemeg’s mission, a forced march might be made, before those who were hostile in their feelings were prepared to interrupt them.

Of this advice, so earnestly given, Captain Heald was immediately informed. He replied that it was his intention to evacuate the post, but that, inasmuch as he had received orders to distribute the United States' property, he should not feel justified in leaving it until he had collected the Indians of the neighborhood, and made an equitable division among them.

Winnemeg then suggested the expediency of marching out, and leaving all things standing—possibly while the Indians were engaged in the partition of the spoils, the troops might effect their retreat unmolested. This advice was strongly seconded by Mr. Kinzie, but did not meet the approbation of the Commanding Officer.

The order for evacuating the post was read next morning upon parade. It is difficult to understand why Captain Heald, in such an emergency, omitted the usual form of calling a council of war with his officers. It can only be accounted for by the fact of a want of harmonious feeling between himself and one of his junior officers—Ensign Ronan, a high-spirited and somewhat overbearing, but brave and generous young man.

In the course of the day, finding that no council was called, the officers waited on Captain Heald to be informed what course he intended to pursue. When they learned his intentions, they remonstrated with him, on the following grounds:

First—It was highly improbable that the command would be permitted to pass through the country in safety to Fort Wayne. For although it had been said that some of the chiefs had opposed an attack upon the fort, planned the preceding autumn, yet it was well known that they had been actuated in that matter by motives of private regard to one family, and not to any general friendly feeling toward the Americans; and that, at any rate, it was hardly to be expected that these few individuals would be able to control the whole tribe, who were thirsting for blood.

In the next place—their march must necessarily be slow, as their movements must be accommodated to the helplessness of the women and children, of whom there were a number with the detachment. That of their small force, some of the soldiers were superannuated, others invalid; therefore, since the course to be pursued was left discretional, their unanimous advice was, to remain where they were, and fortify themselves as strongly as possible. Succors from the other side of the peninsula might arrive before they could be attacked by the British from Mackinac, and even should there not, it were far better to fall into the hands of the latter than to become the victims of the savages.

Captain Heald argued in reply, “that a special order had been issued by the war department, that no post should be surrendered without battle having been given, and his force was totally inadequate to an engagement with the Indians. That he should unquestionably be censured for remaining, when there appeared a prospect of a safe march through; and that, upon the whole, he deemed it expedient to assemble the Indians, distribute the property among them, and then ask of them an escort to Fort Wayne, with the promise of a considerable reward upon their safe arrival—adding, that he had full confidence in the friendly professions of the Indians, from whom, as well as from the soldiers, the capture of Mackinac had been kept a profound secret.”

From this time the officers held themselves aloof, and spoke but little upon the subject, though they considered the project of Captain Heald little short of madness. The dissatisfaction among the soldiers hourly increased, until it reached a high pitch of insubordination.

Upon one occasion, as Captain Heald was conversing with Mr. Kinzie upon the parade, he remarked, “I could not remain, even if I thought it best, for I have but a small store of provisions.”

“Why, captain,” said a soldier who stood near, forgetting all etiquette in the excitement of the moment, “you have cattle enough to last the troops six months.”

“But,” replied Captain Heald, “I have no salt to preserve it with.”

“Then jerk[AC] it,” said the man, “as the Indians do their venison.”

The Indians now became daily more unruly. Entering the fort in defiance of the sentinels, they made their way without ceremony into the officers' quarters. On one occasion, an Indian took up a rifle and fired it in the parlor of the Commanding Officer, as an expression of defiance. Some were of opinion that this was intended among the young men as a signal for an attack. The old chiefs passed backwards and forwards among the assembled groups, with the appearance of the most lively agitation, while the squaws rushed to and fro, in great excitement, and evidently prepared for some fearful scene.

Any further manifestation of ill-feeling was, however, suppressed for the present, and Captain Heald, strange as it may seem, continued to entertain a conviction of having created so amicable a disposition among the Indians, as would insure the safety of the command on their march to Fort Wayne.

Thus passed the time until the 12th August. The feelings of the inmates of the fort during this time may be better imagined than described. Each morning that dawned seemed to bring them nearer that most appalling fate—butchery by a savage foe—and at night they scarcely dared yield to slumber, lest they should be aroused by the war-whoop and tomahawk. Gloom and mistrust prevailed, and the want of unanimity among the officers, debarred them the consolation they might have found in mutual sympathy and encouragement.

The Indians being assembled from the neighboring villages, a council was held with them on the afternoon of the 12th. Captain Heald only, attended on the part of the military. He requested his officers to accompany him, but they declined. They had been secretly informed that it was the intention of the young chiefs to fall upon the officers and massacre them while in council, but they could not persuade Captain Heald of the truth of their information. They waited therefore only until he had left the garrison, accompanied by Mr. Kinzie, when they took command of the block-houses which overlooked the esplanade on which the council was held, opened the port-holes, and pointed the cannon so as to command the whole assembly. By this means, probably, the lives of the whites who were present in council were preserved.

In council, the Commanding Officer informed the Indians that it was his intention to distribute among them the next day, not only the goods lodged in the United States' Factory, but also the ammunition and provisions, with which the garrison was well supplied. He then requested of the Pottowattamies an escort to Fort Wayne, promising them a liberal reward on arriving there, in addition to the presents they were now about to receive. With many professions of friendship and good-will, the savages assented to all he proposed, and promised all he required.

After the council, Mr. Kinzie, who understood well, not only the Indian character, but the present tone of feeling among them, had a long interview with Captain Heald, in hopes of opening his eyes to the present posture of affairs.

He reminded him that since the troubles with the Indians upon the Wabash and its vicinity, there had appeared a settled plan of hostilities toward the whites, in consequence of which it had been the policy of the Americans to withhold from them whatever would enable them to carry on their warfare upon the defenceless inhabitants of the frontier.

Mr. Kinzie recalled to Captain Heald how that he had himself left home for Detroit the preceding autumn, but, receiving when he had proceeded as far as De Charme’s[AD] the intelligence of the battle of Tippecanoe, he had immediately returned to Chicago, that he might dispatch orders to his traders to furnish no ammunition to the Indians; in consequence of which all they had on hand was secreted, and such of the traders as had not already started for their wintering-grounds took neither powder nor shot with them.

Captain Heald was struck with the impolicy of furnishing the enemy (for such they must now consider their old neighbors) with arms against himself, and determined to destroy all the ammunition except what should be necessary for the use of his own troops.

On the 13th the goods, consisting of blankets, broadcloths, calicoes, paints, etc., were distributed, as stipulated. The same evening the ammunition and liquor were carried, part into the sally-port, and thrown into a well which had been dug there to supply the garrison with water in case of emergency; the remainder was transported as secretly as possible through the northern gate, the heads of the barrels knocked in, and the contents poured into the river.

The same fate was shared by a large quantity of alcohol belonging to Mr. Kinzie, which had been deposited in a warehouse near his residence opposite the fort.

The Indians suspected what was going on, and crept, serpent-like, as near the scene of action as possible, but a vigilant watch was kept up, and no one was suffered to approach but those engaged in the affair. All the muskets not necessary for the command on the march were broken up and thrown into the well, together with the bags of shot, flints, gunscrews, and in short, everything relating to weapons of offence.

Some relief to the general feeling of despondency was afforded by the arrival, on the 14th of August, of Captain Wells[AE] with fifteen friendly Miamis.

Of this brave man, who forms so conspicuous a figure in our frontier annals, it is unnecessary here to say more than that he had been residing from his boyhood among the Indians, and consequently possessed a perfect knowledge of their character and habits.

He had heard, at Fort Wayne, of the order for evacuating the fort at Chicago, and knowing the hostile determination of the Pottowattamies, he had made a rapid march across the country, to prevent the exposure of his relative, Captain Heald, and his troops to certain destruction.

But he came “all too late.” When he reached the post he found that the ammunition had been destroyed, and the provisions given to the Indians. There was, therefore, now no alternative, and every preparation was made for the march of the troops on the following morning.

On the afternoon of the same day, a second council was held with the Indians. They expressed great indignation at the destruction of the ammunition and liquor.

Notwithstanding the precautions that had been taken to preserve secrecy, the noise of knocking in the heads of the barrels had betrayed the operations of the preceding night; and, so great was the quantity of liquor thrown into the river, that the taste of the water the next morning was, as one expressed it, “strong grog.”

Murmurs and threats were everywhere heard among the savages. It was evident that the first moment of exposure would subject the troops to some manifestation of their disappointment and resentment.

Among the chiefs were several, who, although they shared the general hostile feeling of their tribe toward the Americans, yet retained a personal regard for the troops at this post, and for the few white citizens of the place. These chiefs exerted their utmost influence to allay the revengeful feelings of the young men, and to avert their sanguinary designs, but without effect.

On the evening succeeding the council Black Partridge, a conspicuous chief, entered the quarters of the Commanding Officer.

“Father,” said he, “I come to deliver up to you the medal I wear. It was given me by the Americans, and I have long worn it, in token of our mutual friendship. But our young men are resolved to imbrue their hands in the blood of the whites. I cannot restrain them, and I will not wear a token of peace while I am compelled to act as an enemy.”

Had further evidence been wanting, this circumstance would sufficiently have proved to the devoted band, the justice of their melancholy anticipations. Nevertheless, they went steadily on with the necessary preparations; and amid the horrors of their situation, there were not wanting one or two gallant hearts, who strove to encourage in their desponding companions, the hopes of escape they were far from indulging themselves.

Of the ammunition there had been reserved but twenty-five rounds, beside one box of cartridges, contained in the baggage-wagons. This must, under any circumstances of danger, have proved an inadequate supply, but the prospect of a fatiguing march, in their present ineffective state, forbade the troops embarrassing themselves with a larger quantity.

CHAPTER XIX

NARRATIVE OF THE MASSACRE CONTINUED

The morning of the 15th arrived. All things were in readiness, and nine o’clock was the hour named for starting.

Mr. Kinzie had volunteered to accompany the troops in their march, and had entrusted his family to the care of some friendly Indians, who had promised to convey them in a boat around the head of Lake Michigan to a point[AF] on the St. Joseph’s river; there to be joined by the troops, should the prosecution of their march be permitted them.

Early in the morning Mr. Kinzie received a message from To-pee-nee-bee, a chief of the St. Joseph’s band, informing him that mischief was intended by the Pottowattamies who had engaged to escort the detachment; and urging him to relinquish his design of accompanying the troops by land, promising him that the boat containing himself and family should be permitted to pass in safety to St. Joseph’s.

Mr. Kinzie declined according to this proposal, as he believed that his presence might operate as a restraint upon the fury of the savages, so warmly were the greater part of them attached to himself and his family.

The party in the boat consisted of Mrs. Kinzie and her four younger children, their nurse Grutte,[AG] a clerk of Mr. Kinzie’s, two servants and the boatmen, besides the two Indians who acted as their protectors. The boat started, but had scarcely reached the mouth of the river, which, it will be recollected was here half a mile below the fort, when another messenger from To-pee-nee-bee arrived to detain them where they were.

In breathless expectation sat the wife and mother. She was a woman of uncommon energy and strength of character, yet her heart died within her as she folded her arms around her helpless infants, and gazed upon the march of her husband and eldest child to certain destruction.

As the troops left the fort, the band struck up the Dead March. On they came in military array, but with solemn mien. Captain Wells took the lead at the head of his little band of Miamis. He had blackened his face before leaving the garrison, in token of his impending fate. They took their route along the lake shore. When they reached a point where commenced a range of sand-hills intervening between the prairie and the beach, the escort of Pottowattamies, in number about five hundred, kept the level of the prairie, instead of continuing along the beach with the Americans and Miamis.

They had marched perhaps a mile and a half, when Captain Wells, who had kept somewhat in advance with his Miamis, came riding furiously back.

“They are about to attack us,” shouted he; “form, instantly, and charge upon them.”

Scarcely were the words uttered, when a volley was showered from among the sand-hills. The troops were hastily brought into line, and charged up the bank. One man, a veteran of seventy winters, fell as they ascended. The remainder of the scene is best described in the words of an eye-witness and participator in the tragedy, Mrs. Helm, the wife of Captain (then Lieutenant) Helm, and step-daughter of Mr. Kinzie.

“After we had left the bank the firing became general. The Miamis fled at the outset. Their chief rode up to the Pottowattamies and said:

“‘You have deceived the Americans and us. You have done a bad action, and (brandishing his tomahawk) I will be the first to head a party of Americans to return and punish your treachery.’ So saying, he galloped after his companions, who were now scouring across the prairies.

“The troops behaved most gallantly. They were but a handful, but they seemed resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Our horses pranced and bounded, and could hardly be restrained as the balls whistled among them. I drew off a little, and gazed upon my husband and father, who were yet unharmed. I felt that my hour was come, and endeavored to forget those I loved, and prepare myself for my approaching fate.

“While I was thus engaged, the surgeon. Dr. Van Voorhees, came up. He was badly wounded. His horse had been shot under him, and he had received a ball in his leg. Every muscle of his face was quivering with the agony of terror. He said to me—‘Do you think they will take our lives? I am badly wounded, but I think not mortally. Perhaps we might purchase our lives by promising them a large reward. Do you think there is any chance?’

“‘Dr. Van Voorhees,’ said I, ‘do not let us waste the few moments that yet remain to us in such vain hopes. Our fate is inevitable. In a few moments we must appear before the bar of God. Let us make what preparation is yet in our power.’

“‘Oh! I cannot die,’ exclaimed he, ‘I am not fit to die—if I had but a short time to prepare—death is awful!’

“I pointed to Ensign Ronan, who though mortally wounded and nearly down, was still fighting with desperation on one knee.

“‘Look at that man,’ said I, ‘at least he dies like a soldier.’

“‘Yes,’ replied the unfortunate man, with a convulsive gasp, ‘but he has no terrors of the future—he is an unbeliever!’

“At this moment a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me. By springing aside, I avoided the blow which was intended for my skull, but which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him around the neck, and while exerting my utmost efforts to get possession of his scalping-knife, which hung in a scabbard over his breast, I was dragged from his grasp by another and an older Indian.

“The latter bore me struggling and resisting towards the lake. Notwithstanding the rapidity with which I was hurried along, I recognized as I passed them the lifeless remains of the unfortunate surgeon. Some murderous tomahawk had stretched him upon the very spot where I had last seen him.

“I was immediately plunged into the water and held there with a forcible hand, notwithstanding my resistance. I soon perceived, however, that the object of my captor was not to drown me, for he held me firmly in such a position as to place my head above water. This reassured me, and regarding him attentively, I soon recognized, in spite of the paint with which he was disguised. The Black Partridge.

“When the firing had nearly subsided, my preserver bore me from the water and conducted me up the sandbanks. It was a burning August morning, and walking through the sand in my drenched condition was inexpressibly painful and fatiguing. I stooped and took off my shoes to free them from the sand with which they were nearly filled, when a squaw seized and carried them off, and I was obliged to proceed without them.

“When we had gained the prairie, I was met by my father, who told me that my husband was safe and but slightly wounded. They led me gently back towards the Chicago River, along the southern bank of which was the Pottowattamie encampment. At one time I was placed upon a horse without a saddle, but finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Supported partly by my kind conductor, Black Partridge, and partly by another Indian, Pee-so-tum, who held dangling in his hand a scalp, which by the black ribbon around the queue I recognized as that of Capt. Wells, I dragged my fainting steps to one of the wigwams.

“The wife of Wau-bee-nee-mah, a chief from the Illinois River, was standing near, and seeing my exhausted condition she seized a kettle, dipped up some water from a stream that flowed near,[AH] threw into it some maple sugar, and stirring it up with her hand gave it me to drink. This act of kindness, in the midst of so many horrors, touched me most sensibly, but my attention was soon diverted to other objects.

“The fort had become a scene of plunder to such as remained after the troops marched out. The cattle had been shot down as they ran at large, and lay dead or dying around. This work of butchery had commenced just as we were leaving the fort. I well remembered a remark of Ensign Ronan, as the firing went on. ‘Such,’ turning to me, ‘is to be our fate—to be shot down like brutes!’

“‘Well, sir,’ said the Commanding Officer who overheard him, ‘are you afraid?’

“‘No,’ replied the high spirited young man, ‘I can march up to the enemy where you dare not show your face;’ and his subsequent gallant behaviour showed this to be no idle boast.

“As the noise of the firing grew gradually less and the stragglers from the victorious party came dropping in, I received confirmation of what my father had hurriedly communicated in our rencontre on the lake shore; namely, that the whites had surrendered after the loss of about two-thirds of their number. They had stipulated, through the interpreter, Peresh Leclerc, for the preservation of their lives, and those of the remaining women and children, and for their delivery at some of the British posts, unless ransomed by traders in the Indian country. It appears that the wounded prisoners were not considered as included in the stipulation, and a horrible scene ensued upon their being brought into camp.

“An old squaw infuriated by the loss of friends, or excited by the sanguinary scenes around her, seemed possessed by a demoniac ferocity. She seized a stable-fork and assaulted one miserable victim, who lay groaning and writhing in the agony of his wounds, aggravated by the scorching beams of the sun. With a delicacy of feeling scarcely to have been expected under such circumstances, Wau-bee-nee-mah stretched a mat across two poles, between me and this dreadful scene. I was thus spared in some degree a view of its horrors, although I could not entirely close my ears to the cries of the sufferer. The following night five more of the wounded prisoners were tomahawked.

“The Americans after their first attack by the Indians charged upon those who had concealed themselves in a sort of ravine, intervening between the sand banks and the prairie. The latter gathered themselves into a body, and after some hard fighting, in which the number of whites had become reduced to twenty-eight, this little band succeeded in breaking through the enemy, and gaining a rising ground, not far from the Oak Woods. The contest now seemed hopeless, and Lt. Helm sent Peresh Leclerc, a half-breed boy in the service of Mr. Kinzie, who had accompanied the detachment and fought manfully on their side, to propose terms of capitulation. It was stipulated that the lives of all the survivors should be spared, and a ransom permitted as soon as practicable.

“But, in the mean time, a horrible scene had been enacted. One young savage, climbing into the baggage-wagon containing the children of the white families, twelve in number, tomahawked the children of the entire group. This was during the engagement near the Sand-hills. When Captain Wells, who was fighting near, beheld it, he exclaimed:

“Is that their game, butchering the women and children? Then I will kill too!'

“So saying, he turned his horse’s head, and started for the Indian camp, near the fort, where had been left their squaws and children.

“Several Indians pursued him as he galloped along. He laid himself flat on the neck of his horse, loading and firing in that position, as he would occasionally turn on his pursuers. At length their balls took effect, killing his horse, and severely wounding himself. At this moment he was met by Winnemeg and Wau-ban-see, who endeavored to save him from the savages who had now overtaken him. As they supported him along, after having disengaged him from his horse, he received his death-blow from another Indian, Pee-so-tum, who stabbed him in the back.

“The heroic resolution of one of the soldier’s wives deserves to be recorded. She was a Mrs. Corbin, and had, from the first, expressed the determination never to fall into the hands of the savages, believing that their prisoners were always subjected to tortures worse than death.

“When, therefore, a party came upon her, to make her a prisoner, she fought with desperation, refusing to surrender, although assured, by signs, of safety and kind treatment, and literally suffered herself to be cut to pieces, rather than become their captive.

“There was a Sergeant Holt, who, early in the engagement, received a ball in the neck. Finding himself badly wounded, he gave his sword to his wife, who was on horseback near him, telling her to defend herself—he then made for the lake, to keep out of the way of the balls. Mrs. Holt rode a very fine horse, which the Indians were desirous of possessing, and they therefore attacked her, in hopes of dismounting her.

“They fought only with the butt-ends of their guns, for their object was not to kill her. She hacked and hewed at their pieces as they were thrust against her, now on this side, now on that. Finally, she broke loose from them, and dashed out into the prairie. The Indians pursued her, shouting and laughing, and now and then calling out:

“‘The brave woman! do not hurt her!’

“At length they overtook her again, and while she was engaged with two or three in front, one succeeded in seizing her by the neck behind, and dragging her, although a large and powerful woman, from her horse. Notwithstanding that their guns had been so hacked and injured, and even themselves cut severely, they seemed to regard her only with admiration. They took her to a trader on the Illinois River, by whom she was restored to her friends, after having received every kindness during her captivity.[AI]

“Those of the family of Mr. Kinzie, who had remained in the boat, near the mouth of the river, were carefully guarded by Kee-po-tah and another Indian. They had seen the smoke—then the blaze—and immediately after the report of the first tremendous discharge sounded in their ears. Then all was confusion. They realized nothing until they saw an Indian come towards them from the battle-ground, leading a horse on which sat a lady, apparently wounded.

“‘That is Mrs. Heald,’ cried Mrs. Kinzie. ‘That Indian will kill her. Run, Chandonnai,’ to one of Mr. Kinzie’s clerks, ‘take the mule that is tied there, and offer it to him to release her.’

“Her captor by this time, was in the act of disengaging her bonnet from her head, in order to scalp her. Chandonnai ran up, offered the mule as a ransom, with the promise of ten bottles of whiskey, as soon as they should reach his village. The latter was a strong temptation.

“‘But,’ said the Indian, ‘she is badly wounded—she will die. Will you give me the whiskey, at all events?’

“Chandonnai promised that he would, and the bargain was concluded. The savage placed the lady’s bonnet on his own head, and after an ineffectual effort on the part of some squaws to rob her of her shoes and stockings, she was brought on board the boat, where she lay moaning with pain from the many bullet wounds she had received in both arms.

“The horse she had ridden was a fine spirited animal, and, being desirous of possessing themselves of it uninjured, the Indians had aimed their shots so as to disable the rider, without injuring her steed.

“She had not lain long in the boat, when a young Indian of savage aspect was seen approaching. A buffalo robe was hastily drawn over Mrs. Heald, and she was admonished to suppress all sound of complaint, as she valued her life.

“The heroic woman remained perfectly silent, while the savage drew near. He had a pistol in his hand, which he rested on the side of the boat, while, with a fearful scowl, he looked pryingly around. Black Jim, one of the servants who stood in the bow of the boat, seized an axe that lay near, and signed to him that if he shot, he would cleave his skull; telling him that the boat contained only the family of Shaw-nee-aw-kee. Upon this, the Indian retired. It afterward appeared that the object of his search was Mr. Burnett, a trader from St. Joseph’s, with whom he had some account to settle.

“When the boat was at length permitted to return to the mansion of Mr. Kinzie, and Mrs. Heald was removed to the house, it became necessary to dress her wounds.

“Mr. K. applied to an old chief who stood by, and who, like most of his tribe, possessed some skill in surgery, to extract a ball from the arm of the sufferer.

“‘No, father,’ replied he. ‘I cannot do it—it makes me sick here’—(placing his hand on his heart).

“Mr. Kinzie then performed the operation himself with his penknife.

“At their own mansion the family of Mr. Kinzie were closely guarded by their Indian friends, whose intention it was, to carry them to Detroit for security. The rest of the prisoners remained at the wigwams of their captors.

“The following morning the work of plunder being completed, the Indians set fire to the fort. A very equitable distribution of the finery appeared to have been made, and shawls, ribbons, and feathers fluttered about in all directions. The ludicrous appearance of one young fellow who had arrayed himself in a muslin gown, and the bonnet of one of the ladies, would, under other circumstances, have afforded matter of amusement.

“Black Partridge, Wau-ban-see, and Kee-po-tah, with two other Indians, having established themselves in the porch of the building as sentinels, to protect the family from any evil that the young men might be excited to commit, all remained tranquil for a short space after the conflagration.

“Very soon, however, a party of Indians from the Wabash made their appearance. These were, decidedly, the most hostile and implacable of all the tribes of the Pottowattamies.

“Being more remote, they had shared less than some of their brethren in the kindness of Mr. Kinzie and his family, and consequently their sentiments of regard for them were less powerful.

“Runners had been sent to the villages to apprise them of the intended evacuation of the post, as well as of the plan of the Indians assembled to attack the troops.

“Thirsting to participate in such a scene they hurried on, and great was their mortification on arriving at the river Aux Plaines, to meet with a party of their friends having with them their chief Nee-scot-nee-meg, badly wounded, and to learn that the battle was over, the spoils divided, and the scalps all taken.

“On arriving at Chicago they blackened their faces, and proceeded towards the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie.

“From his station on the piazza Black Partridge had watched their approach, and his fears were particularly awakened for the safety of Mrs. Helm (Mr. Kinzie’s step-daughter), who had recently come to the post, and was personally unknown to the more remote Indians. By his advice she was made to assume the ordinary dress of a French woman of the country; namely, a short gown and petticoat, with a blue cotton handkerchief wrapped around her head. In this disguise she was conducted by Black Partridge himself to the house of Ouilmette, a Frenchman with a half-breed wife, who formed a part of the establishment of Mr. Kinzie, and whose dwelling was close at hand.

“It so happened that the Indians came first to this house, in their search for prisoners. As they approached, the inmates, fearful that the fair complexion and general appearance of Mrs. Helm might betray her for an American, raised a large feather-bed and placed her under the edge of it, upon the bedstead, with her face to the wall. Mrs. Bisson, the sister of Ouilmette’s wife, then seated herself with her sewing upon the front of the bed.

“It was a hot day in August, and the feverish excitement of fear and agitation, together with her position, which was nearly suffocating, became so intolerable, that Mrs. Helm at length entreated to be released and given up to the Indians.

“‘I can but die,’ said she; ‘let them put an end to my misery at once.’

“Mrs. Bisson replied, ‘Your death would be the destruction of us all, for Black Partridge has resolved that if one drop of the blood of your family is spilled, he will take the lives of all concerned in it, even his nearest friends, and if once the work of murder commences, there will be no end of it, so long as there remains one white person, or half-breed, in the country.’

“This expostulation nerved Mrs. Helm with fresh resolution.

“The Indians entered, and she could occasionally see them from her hiding-place, gliding about, and stealthily inspecting every part of the room, though without making any ostensible search, until apparently satisfied that there was no one concealed, they left the house.

“All this time Mrs. Bisson had kept her seat upon the side of the bed, calmly sorting and arranging the patch-work of the quilt on which she was engaged, and preserving an appearance of the utmost tranquillity, although she knew not but that the next moment she might receive a tomahawk in her brain. Her self-command unquestionably saved the lives of all present.

“From Ouilmette’s house the party of Indians proceeded to the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie. They entered the parlor in which the family were assembled with their faithful protectors, and seated themselves upon the floor in silence.

“Black Partridge perceived from their moody and revengeful looks what was passing in their minds, but he dared not remonstrate with them. He only observed in a low tone to Wau-ban-see—

“‘We have endeavored to save our friends, but it is in vain—nothing will save them now.’

“At this moment a friendly whoop was heard from a party of new comers on the opposite bank of the river. Black Partridge sprang to meet their leader, as the canoes in which they had hastily embarked touched the bank near the house.

“‘Who are you?’ demanded he.

“‘A man—who are you?’

“‘ A man like yourself, but tell me who you are’—meaning, tell me your disposition, and which side you are for.

“‘I am the Sau-ga-nash!’

“‘Then make all speed to the house—your friend is in danger, and you alone can save him.’

“Billy Caldwell,[AJ] for it was he, entered the parlor with a calm step, and without a trace of agitation in his manner. He deliberately took off his accoutrements and placed them with his rifle behind the door; then saluted the hostile savages.

“‘How now, my friends! A good day to you. I was told there were enemies here, but I am glad to find only friends. Why have you blackened your faces? Is it that you are mourning for the friends you have lost in battle?’ (purposely misunderstanding this token of evil designs). ‘Or is it that you are fasting? If so, ask our friend here, and he will give you to eat. He is the Indian’s friend, and never yet refused them what they had need of.’

“Thus taken by surprise, the savages were ashamed to acknowledge their bloody purpose. They, therefore, said modestly that they came to beg of their friends some white cotton in which to wrap their dead, before interring them. This was given to them with some other presents, and they took their departure peaceably from the premises.

“Along with Mr. Kinzie’s party was a non-commissioned officer who had made his escape in a singular manner. As the troops were about leaving the fort it was found that the baggage-horses of the surgeon had strayed off. The quarter-master-sergeant, Griffith, was sent to collect them and bring them on, it being absolutely necessary to recover them, since their packs contained part of the surgeon’s apparatus, and the medicines for the march.

“This man had been for a long time on the sick report, and for this reason was given the charge of the baggage, instead of being placed with the troops. His efforts to recover the horses being unsuccessful, he was hastening to rejoin his party, alarmed at some appearances of disorder and hostile indications among the Indians, when he was met and made prisoner by To-pee-ne-bee.

“Having taken from him his arms and accoutrements, the chief put him into a canoe and paddled Mm across the river, bidding him make for the woods and secrete himself. This he did, and the following day, in the afternoon, seeing from his lurking-place that all appeared quiet, he ventured to steal cautiously into the garden of Ouilmette, where he concealed himself for a time behind some currant-bushes.

“At length he determined to enter the house, and accordingly climbed up through a small back window, into the room where the family were. This was just as the Wabash Indians left the house of Ouilmette for that of Mr. Kinzie. The danger of the sergeant was now imminent. The family stripped him of his uniform and arrayed him in a suit of deer-skin, with belt, moccasins, and pipe, like a French engagé. His dark complexion and large black whiskers favored the disguise. The family were all ordered to address him in French, and although utterly ignorant of the language he continued to pass for a Weem-tee-gosh,[AK] and as such to accompany Mr. Kinzie and his family, undetected by his enemies, until they reached a place of safety.

“On the third day after the battle, the family of Mr. Kinzie, with the clerks of the establishment, were put into a boat, under the care of François, a half-breed interpreter, and conveyed to St. Joseph’s, where they remained until the following November, under the protection of To-pee-nee-bee’s band. They were then conducted to Detroit, under the escort of Chandonnai and their trusty Indian friend, Ke-po-tah, and delivered up as prisoners of war, to Col. McKee, the British Indian Agent.

“Mr. Kinzie was not allowed to leave St. Joseph’s with his family, his Indian friends insisting on his remaining and endeavoring to secure some remnant of his scattered property. During his excursions with them for that purpose, he wore the costume and paint of the tribe, in order to escape capture and perhaps death at the hands of those who were still thirsting for blood. In time, however, his anxiety for his family induced him to follow them to Detroit, where, in the month of January, he was received and paroled by Gen. Proctor.

“Capt. and Mrs. Heald had been sent across the lake to St. Joseph’s the day after the battle. The former had received two wounds, the latter seven in the engagement.

“Lieut. Helm, who was likewise wounded, was carried by some friendly Indians to their village on the Au Sable, and thence to Peoria, where he was liberated by the intervention of Mr. Thomas Forsyth, the half-brother of Mr. Kinzie. Mrs. Helm had accompanied her parents to St. Joseph, where they resided in the family of Alexander Robinson,[AL] receiving from them all possible kindness and hospitality for several months.

“After their arrival in Detroit, Mrs. Helm was joined by her husband, when they were both arrested by order of the British commander, and sent on horseback, in the dead of winter, through Canada to Fort George on the Niagara frontier. When they arrived at that post, there seemed no official appointed to receive them, and notwithstanding their long and fatiguing journey, in weather the most cold and inclement, Mrs. H., a delicate woman of seventeen years, was permitted to sit waiting in her saddle without the gate for more than an hour, before the refreshment of fire or food, or even the shelter of a roof, was offered them. When Col. Sheaffe, who had been absent at the time, was informed of this brutal inhospitality, he expressed the greatest indignation. He waited on Mrs. Helm immediately, apologized in the most courteous manner, and treated both her and Lieut. H. with the most considerate kindness, until, by an exchange of prisoners, they were liberated, and found means to reach their friends in Steuben County, N. Y.

“Capt. Heald had been taken prisoner by an Indian from the Kankakee, who had a strong personal regard for him, and who, when he saw the wounded and enfeebled state of Mrs. H., released her husband that he might accompany his wife to St. Joseph’s. To the latter place they were accordingly carried, as has been related, by Chandonnai and his party. In the meantime, the Indian who had so nobly released his prisoner returned to his village on the Kankakee, where he had the mortification of finding that his conduct had excited great dissatisfaction among his band. So great was the displeasure manifested, that he resolved to make a journey to St. Joseph’s and reclaim his prisoner.

“News of his intention being brought to To-pee-nee-bee and Ke-po-tah under whose care the prisoners were, they held a private council with Chandonnai, Mr. Kinzie, and the principal men of the village, the result of which was a determination to send Capt. and Mrs. Heald to the island of Mackinac, and deliver them up to the British.

“They were accordingly put in a bark canoe, and paddled by Robinson and his wife a distance of three hundred miles along the coast of Michigan, and surrendered as prisoners of war to the Commanding Officer at Mackinac.

“As an instance of the procrastinating spirit of Capt. Heald it may be mentioned that even after he had received certain intelligence that his Indian captor was on his way from the Kankakee to St. Joseph’s to retake him, he would still have delayed another day at that place, to make preparation for a more comfortable journey to Mackinac.

“The soldiers, with their wives and surviving children, were dispersed among the different villages of the Pottowattamies upon the Illinois, Wabash, Rock River, and at Milwaukie, until the following spring, when they were, for the most part, carried to Detroit, and ransomed.

“Mrs. Burns, with her infant, became the prisoners of a chief, who carried her to his village and treated her with great kindness. His wife, from jealousy of the favor shown to “the white woman” and her child, always treated them with great hostility. On one occasion she struck the infant with a tomahawk, and narrowly missed her aim of putting an end to it altogether.[AM] They were not left long in the power of the old hag, after this demonstration, but on the first opportunity carried to a place of safety.

“The family of Mr. Lee had resided in a house on the Lake shore, not far from the fort. Mr. Lee was the owner of Lee’s Place, which he cultivated as a farm. It was his son who ran down with the discharged soldier to give the alarm of “Indians” at the fort on the afternoon of the 7th of April. The father, the son, and all the other members of the family had fallen victims on the 15th of August, except Mrs. Lee and her young infant. These were claimed by Black Partridge, and carried to his village on the Au Sable. He had been particularly attached to a little girl of Mrs. Lee’s, about twelve years of age. This child had been placed on horseback for the march, and as she was unaccustomed to the exercise, she was tied fast to the saddle, lest by any accident she should slip off or be thrown.

“She was within reach of the balls at the commencement of the engagement, and was severely wounded. The horse set off on a full gallop, which partly threw her, but she was held fast by the bands which confined her, and hung dangling as the animal ran violently about. In this state she was met by Black Partridge, who caught the horse and disengaged her from the saddle. Finding her so much wounded that she could not recover, and that she was suffering great agony, he put the finishing stroke to her at once with his tomahawk. He afterward said that this was the hardest thing he ever tried to do, but he did it because he could not bear to see her suffer.

“He took the mother and her infant to his village, where he became warmly attached to the former—so much so that he wished to marry her, but, as she very naturally objected, he treated her with the greatest respect and consideration. He was in no hurry to release her, for he was in hopes of prevailing on her to become his wife. In the course of the winter her child fell ill. Finding that none of the remedies within their reach were effectual. Black Partridge proposed to take the little one to Chicago, where there was now a French trader living in the mansion of Mr. Kinzie, and procure some medical aid from him. Wrapping up his charge with the greatest care, he sat out on his journey.

“When he arrived at the residence of M. Du Pin, he entered the room where he was, and carefully placed his burthen on the floor.

“‘What have you there?’ asked M. Du Pin.

“‘A young raccoon, which I have brought you as a present,’ was the reply, and opening the pack, he showed the little sick infant.

“When the trader had prescribed for its complaint, and Black Partridge was about to return to his home, he told his friend his proposal to Mrs. Lee to become his wife and the manner in which it had been received.

“M. Du Pin entertained some fears that the chief’s honorable resolution might not hold out, to leave it to the lady herself whether to accept his addresses or not, so he entered at once into a negotiation for her ransom, and so effectually wrought upon the good feelings of Black Partridge that he consented to bring his fair prisoner at once to Chicago, that she might be restored to her friends.

“Whether the kind trader had at the outset any other feeling in the matter than sympathy and brotherly kindness we cannot say—we only know that in process of time Mrs. Lee became Madame Du Pin, and that they lived together in great happiness for many years after.

“The fate of Nau-non-gee, one of the chiefs of the Calumet village, and who is mentioned in the early part of the narrative, deserves to be recorded.

“During the battle of the 15th of August the chief object of his attack was one Sergeant Hays, a man from whom he had received many acts of kindness.

“After Hays had received a ball through the body, this Indian ran up to him to tomahawk him, when the Sergeant, collecting his remaining strength, pierced him through the body with his bayonet. They fell together. Other Indians running up soon dispatched Hays, and it was not until then that his bayonet was extracted from the body of his adversary.

“The wounded chief was carried after the battle to his village on the Calumet, where he survived for several days. Finding his end approaching, he called together his young men and enjoined them in the most solemn manner, to regard the safety of their prisoners after his death, and to take the lives of none of them from respect to his memory, as he deserved his fate from the hands of those whose kindness he had so ill-requited.”

CHAPTER XX

CAPTIVITY OF J. KINZIE, SEN.—AN AMUSING MISTAKE

It had been a stipulation of Gen. Hull at the surrender of Detroit that the inhabitants of that place should be permitted to remain undisturbed in their homes. Accordingly the family of Mr. Kinzie took up their quarters with their friends in the old mansion, which many will still recollect as standing on the north-east corner of Jefferson avenue and Wayne street.

The feelings of indignation and sympathy were constantly aroused in the hearts of the citizens during the winter that ensued. They were almost daily called upon to witness the cruelties practiced upon the American prisoners brought in by their Indian captors. Those who could scarcely drag their wounded, bleeding feet over the frozen ground, were compelled to dance for the amusement of the savages, and these exhibitions sometimes took place before the Government House, the residence of Col. McKee. Some of the British officers looked on from their windows at these heart-rending performances; for the honor of humanity we will hope such instances were rare.

Everything that could be made available among the effects of the citizens was offered to ransom their countrymen from the hands of these inhuman beings. The prisoners brought in from the River Raisin—those unfortunate men who were permitted after their surrender to Gen. Proctor to be tortured and murdered by inches by his savage allies, excited the sympathies and called for the action of the whole community. Private houses were turned into hospitals, and every one was forward to get possession of as many as possible of the survivors. To effect this, even the articles of their apparel were bartered by the ladies of Detroit, as they watched from their doors or windows the miserable victims carried about for sale.

In the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie one large room was devoted to the reception of the sufferers. Few of them survived. Among those spoken as objects of the deepest interest were two young gentlemen of Kentucky, brothers, both severely wounded, and their wounds aggravated to a mortal degree by subsequent ill-usage and hardships. Their solicitude for each other, and their exhibition in various ways of the most tender fraternal affection, created an impression never to be forgotten.

The last bargain made was by black Jim, and one of children, who had permission to redeem a negro servant of the gallant Col. Allen, with an old white horse, the only available article that remained among their possessions.

A brother of Col. Allen afterwards came to Detroit, and the negro preferred returning to servitude rather than remaining a stranger in a strange land.

Mr. Kinzie, as has been related, joined his family at Detroit in the month of January. A short time after suspicions arose in the mind of Gen. Proctor that he was in correspondence with Gen. Harrison, who was now at Fort Meigs, and who was believed to be meditating an advance upon Detroit. Lieut. Watson of the British army waited upon Mr. Kinzie one day with an invitation to the quarters of Gen. Proctor on the opposite side of the river, saying he wished to speak with him, on business. Quite unsuspicious, he complied with the invitation, when to his surprise he was ordered into confinement, and strictly guarded in the house of his former partner, Mr. Patterson of Sandwich. Finding that he did not return to his home, Mrs. Kinzie informed some of the Indian chiefs, his particular friends, who immediately repaired to the headquarters of the Commanding Officer, demanded their “friend’s” release, and brought him back to his home. After waiting a time until a favorable opportunity presented itself, the General sent a detachment of dragoons to arrest him. They had succeeded in carrying him away, and crossing the river with him. Just at this moment a party of friendly Indians made their appearance.

“Where is the Shaw-nee-aw-kee?” was the first question. “There,” replied his wife, pointing across the river, “in the hands of the red-coats, who are taking him away again.”

The Indians ran to the river, seized some canoes that they found there, and crossing over to Sandwich, compelled Gen. Proctor a second time to forego his intentions.

A third time this officer was more successful, and succeeded in arresting Mr. Kinzie and conveying him heavily ironed to Fort Maiden, in Canada, at the mouth of the Detroit River. Here he was at first treated with great severity, but after a time the rigor of his confinement was somewhat relaxed, and he was permitted to walk on the bank of the river for air and exercise.

"On the 10th of September, as he was taking his promenade under the close supervision of a guard of soldiers, the whole party were startled by the sound of guns upon Lake Erie, at no great distance below. What could it mean? It must be Commodore Barclay firing into some of the Yankees. The firing continued. The time allotted the prisoner for his daily walk expired, but neither he nor his guard observed the lapse of time, so anxiously were they listening to what they now felt sure was an engagement between ships of war. At length Mr. Kinzie was reminded that the hour for his return to confinement had arrived. He petitioned for another half-hour.

“Let me stay,” said he, “till we can learn how the battle has gone.”

Very soon a sloop appeared under press of sail, rounding the point, and presently two gun-boats in chase of her.

“She is running—she bears the British colors,” cried he—“yes, yes, they are lowering—she is striking her flag! Now,” turning to the soldiers, “I will go back to prison contented—I know how the battle has gone.”

The sloop was the Little Belt, the last of the squadron captured by the gallant Perry on that memorable occasion which he announced in the immortal words:

“We have met the enemy, and they are ours!”

Matters were growing critical, and it was necessary to transfer all prisoners to a place of greater security than the frontier was now likely to be. It was resolved therefore to send Mr. Kinzie to the mother country. Nothing has ever appeared, which would explain this course of Gen. Proctor, in regard to this gentleman. He had been taken from the bosom of his family, where he was living quietly under the parole which he had received, and protected by the stipulations of the surrender. He was kept for months in confinement. Now he was placed on horseback under a strong guard, who announced that they had orders to shoot him through the head, if he offered to speak to a person upon the road. He was tied upon the saddle in a way to prevent his escape, and thus they sat out for Quebec. A little incident occurred, which will help to illustrate the course invariably pursued towards our citizens at this period, by the British army on the North-western frontier.

The saddle on which Mr. Kinzie rode had not been properly fastened, and owing to the rough motion of the annual on which it was, it turned, so as to bring the rider into a most awkward and painful position. His limbs being fastened, he could not disengage himself, and in this manner he was compelled by those who had charge of him to ride until he was nearly exhausted, before they had the humanity to release him.

Arrived at Quebec, he was put on board a small vessel to be sent to England. The vessel when a few days out at sea was chased by an American frigate and driven into Halifax. A second time she set sail, when she sprung a leak and was compelled to put back.

The attempt to send him across the ocean was now abandoned, and he was returned to Quebec. Another step, equally inexplicable with his arrest, was now taken. This was his release and that of Mr. Macomb, of Detroit, who was also in confinement in Quebec, and the permission given them to return to their friends and families, although the war was not yet ended. It may possibly be imagined that in the treatment these gentlemen received, the British Commander-in-chief sheltered himself upon the plea of their being “native born British subjects,” and perhaps when it was ascertained that Mr. Kinzie was indeed a citizen of the United States, it was thought safest to release him.

In the meantime. General Harrison at the head of his troops had reached Detroit. He landed on the 29th September. All the citizens went forth to meet him—Mrs. Kinzie, leading her children by the hand, was of the number. The General accompanied her to her home, and took up his abode there. On his arrival he was introduced to Kee-po-tah, who happened to be on a visit to the family at that time. The General had seen the chief the preceding year, at the Council at Vincennes, and the meeting was one of great cordiality and interest.

In 1816, Mr. Kinzie and his family again returned to Chicago. The fort was rebuilt on a somewhat larger scale than the former one. It was not until the return of the troops that the bones of the unfortunate Americans who had been massacred four years before, were collected and buried.

An Indian Agency, under the charge of Charles Jewett, Esq., of Kentucky, was established. He was succeeded in 1820 by Dr. Alexander Wolcott, of Connecticut, who occupied that position until his death in 1830.

The troops were removed from the garrison in 1823, but restored in 1828, after the Winnebago war. This was a disturbance between the Winnebagoes and white settlers on and near the Mississippi. After some murders had been committed, the young chief. Red Bird, was taken and imprisoned at Prairie du Chien to await his trial, where he died of chagrin and the irksomeness of confinement. It was feared that the Pottowattamies would make common cause with the Winnebagoes, and commence a general system of havoc and bloodshed on the frontier. They were deterred from such a step, probably, by the exertions of Billy Caldwell, Robinson, and Shau-bee-nay, who made an expedition among the Rock River bands, to argue and persuade them into remaining tranquil.[69]

The few citizens of Chicago in these days, lived for the most part a very quiet unvaried life. The great abundance of game, and the immense fertility of the lands they cultivated, furnished them with a superabundance of all the luxuries of garden, cornfield, and dairy. The question was once asked by a friend in the “east countrie:”

“How do you dispose of all the good things you raise? You have no market?” “No.” “And yet cannot consume it all yourselves?” “No.” “What then do you do with it?”

“Why, we manage, when a vessel arrives to persuade the Captain to accept a few kegs of butter, and stores of corn and vegetables, as a present, and that helps us to get rid of some of it.”

The mails arrived, as may be supposed, at very rare intervals. They were brought occasionally from Fort Clark (Peoria), but more frequently from Fort Wayne, or across the peninsula of Michigan, which was still a wilderness peopled with savages. The hardy adventurer who acted as express was, not unfrequently, obliged to imitate the birds of heaven and “lodge among the branches,” in order to ensure the safety of himself and his charge.

Visitors were very rare, unless it was a friend who came to sojourn some time, and share a life in the wilderness. A traveller, however, occasionally found his way to the spot, in passing to or from “parts unknown,” and such a one was sure of a hospitable and hearty welcome.

A gentleman journeying from the southern settlements once arrived late in the evening at Wolf Point, where was then the small establishment of George hunt and a Mr. Wallace. He stopped and inquired if he could have accommodation for the night for himself and his horse. The answer was, that they were ill provided to entertain a stranger—the house was small, and they were keeping “bachelor’s hall.”

“Is there no place,” inquired the traveller, “where I can obtain a lodging?”

“Oh! yes—you will find a very comfortable house, Mr. Kinzie’s, about half a mile below, near the mouth of the river.”

SHAUBENA. (Chief of the Pottawattomies.) From photograph of oil portrait in possession of Chicago Historical Society.

The stranger turned his horse’s head and took the road indicated. Arrived at the spot, his first inquiry was:

“Is this the residence of Mr. Kinzie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I should be glad to get accommodation for myself and horse.”

“Certainly, sir—walk in.”

The horse was taken to the stable, while the gentleman was ushered into a parlor where were two ladies. The usual preliminary questions and answers were gone through, for in a new country people soon become acquainted, and the gentleman ere long found himself seated at a comfortable hot supper—we will venture to say a fine supper—since the table in this domestic establishment has always been somewhat famous.

Apparently, the gentleman enjoyed it, for he made himself quite at home. He even called for a boot-jack after tea, and drew off his boots. The ladies were a little surprised, but they had lived a good while out of the world, and they did not know what changes in etiquette might have taken place during their retirement.

Before taking his leave for the night, the traveller signified what it would please him to have for breakfast, which was duly prepared. The next day proved stormy. The gentleman was satisfied with his quarters, and having taken care to ascertain that there was no neglect, or deficiency of accommodation so far as his horse was concerned, he got through the day very comfortably.

Now and then, when he was tired of reading, he would converse with the family, and seemed, upon the whole, by no means disposed to hold himself aloof, but to indulge in a little becoming sociability, seeing they were all there away in the woods.

The second day the weather brightened. The traveller signified his intention to depart. He ordered his horse to the door—then he called for his bill.

“My house is not a tavern, sir,” was the astounding reply.

“Not a tavern! Good heavens! have I been making myself at home in this manner in a private family?”

The gentleman was profuse in his apologies, which, however, were quite unnecessary, for the family had perceived from the first the mistake he had fallen into, and they had amused themselves during his whole visit in anticipating the consternation of their guest when he should be undeceived.

It was in the year 1816 (the same year of the rebuilding of the fort, after its destruction by the Indians), that the tract of land on which Chicago stands, together with the surrounding country, was ceded to the United States, by the Pottowattamies.[70] They remained the peaceful occupants of it, however, for twenty years longer. It was not until 1836 that they were removed by Government to lands appropriated for their use on the Upper Missouri.[71]

In the year 1830 the town of Chicago was laid out into lots by commissioners appointed by the State. At this time the prices of these lots ranged from ten to sixty dollars.[72]

Mr. Kinzie, who from the geographical position of this place, and the vast fertility of the surrounding country, had always foretold its eventual prosperity and importance, was not permitted to witness the realization of his predictions. He closed his useful and energetic life on the 6th of January, 1828, having just completed his sixty-fifth year.

CHAPTER XXI

A SERMON

Chicago was not, at the period of my first visit, the cheerful, happy place it had once been. The death of Dr. Wolcott, of Lieut. Furman, and of a promising young son of Mr. Beaubien, all within a few weeks of each other, had thrown a gloom over all the different branches of the social circle.

The weather, too, was inclement and stormy, beyond anything that had been known before. Only twice, during a period of two months, did the sun shine out through the entire day. So late as the second week in April, when my husband had left to return to Fort Winnebago, the storms were so severe that he and his men were obliged to lie by two or three days in an Indian lodge.

Robert Kinzie, Medard Beaubien, and Billy Caldwell had gone at the same time to the Calumet to hunt, and as they did not make their appearance for many days, we were persuaded they had perished with cold. They returned at length, however, to our infinite joy, having only escaped freezing by the forethought of Robert and Caldwell, in carrying each two blankets instead of one.

Our only recreation was an occasional ride on horseback when the weather would permit, through the woods on the north side of the river, or across the prairie, along the lake shore on the south.

When we went in the former direction, a little bridle-path took us along what is now Rush street. The thick boughs of the trees arched over our heads, and we were often compelled, as we rode, to break away the projecting branches of the shrubs which impeded our path. The little prairie west of Wright’s Woods was the usual termination of our ride in this direction.

When we chose the path across the prairie towards the south, we generally passed Dr. Harmon, superintending the construction of a sod fence, at a spot he had chosen, near the shore of the lake. In this inclosure he occupied himself, as the season advanced, in planting fruit stones of all descriptions, to make ready a garden and orchard for future enjoyment.

We usually stopped to have a little chat. The two favorite themes of the Doctor were horticulture, and the certain future importance of Chicago. That it was destined to be a great city, was his unalterable conviction; and indeed, by this time, all forest and prairie as it was, we half began to believe it ourselves.

On the pleasant afternoons which we occasionally enjoyed as the season advanced, we found no small amusement in practising pistol-firing. The place appropriated to this sport was outside the pickets, the mark being placed on a panel in one of the bastions. The gentlemen must not be offended if I record that, in process of time, the ladies acquired a degree of skill that enabled them, as a general thing, to come off triumphant. One of the ladies was a great shot, having brought down her grouse on the wing, to the no small delight of Captain Scott[73]—with regard to the others I am afraid it was more politeness than want of skill, which induced the gentlemen to yield the palm to them.

Now and then there was a little excitement within the fort, aroused by the discovery that a settler had been engaged in selling milk-punch, instead of milk, to the soldiers, thereby interfering in no small degree with the regularity and perfect discipline of the service. The first step was to “drum out” the offender with all the honors of war—that is, with a party-colored dress, and the Rogue’s March played behind him. The next, to place all the victims of this piece of deception in the guard-house, where the Commanding Officer’s lady supplied them bountifully with coffee and hot cakes, by way of opening their eyes to the enormity of their offence. It was not to be wondered at that the officers sometimes complained of its being more of a strife with the soldiers who should get into the guard-house, than who should keep out of it. The poor fellows knew when they were well off.

Once, upon a Sunday, we were rowed up to “the point” to attend a religious service, conducted by Father S——, as he was called.

We saw a tall, slender man, dressed in a green frock coat, from the sleeves of which dangled a pair of hands giving abundant evidence, together with the rest of his dress, that he placed small faith in the axiom—“cleanliness is a part of holiness.”

He stepped briskly upon a little platform behind a table, and commenced his discourse. His subject was, “The fear of God.”

“There was a kind of fear,” he told us, “that was very nearly alee-a-nated to love: so nearly, that it was not worth while splitting hairs for the difference.” He then went on to describe this kind of fear. He grew more and more involved as he proceeded with his description, until at length, quite bewildered, he paused and exclaimed, “Come, let’s stop a little while, and clear away the brush.” He unravelled, as well as he was able, the tangled thread of his ideas, and went on with his subject. But soon again losing his way, he came to a second halt. “Now,” said he, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a red cotton handkerchief many degrees from clean, “now, suppose we drive back a little piece.” Thus he recapitulated what he wished to impress upon us, of the necessity of cherishing a fear that maketh wise unto salvation, “which fear,” said he, “may we all enjoy, that together we may soar away, on the rolling clouds of æther, to a boundless and happy eternity, which is the wish of your humble servant.” And, flourishing abroad his hands, with the best of dancing-school bows, he took seat.

It will be readily imagined that we felt our own religious exercises at home to be more edifying than such as this, and that we confined ourselves to them for the future.

The return of our brother, Robert Kinzie, from Palestine (not the Holy Land, but the seat of the Land Office), with the certificate of the title of the family to that portion of Chicago since known as “Kinzie’s Addition,” was looked upon as establishing a home for us at some future day, if the glorious dreams of good Dr. Harmon, and a few others, should come to be realized. One little incident will show how moderate were, in fact, the anticipations of most persons at that period.

The certificate, which was issued in Robert’s name, he representing the family in making the application, described only a fractional quarter section of one hundred and two acres, instead of one hundred and sixty acres, the river and Lake Michigan cutting off fifty-eight acres on the southern and eastern lines of the quarter. The applicants had liberty to select their complement of fifty-eight acres out of any unappropriated land that suited them.

“Now, my son,” said his mother, to Robert, “lay your claim on the cornfield at Wolf Point. It is fine land, and will always be valuable for cultivation—besides, as it faces down the main river, the situation will always be a convenient one.”

The answer was a hearty laugh. “Hear mother,” said Robert. “We have just got a hundred and two acres—more than we shall ever want, or know what to do with, and now she would have me go and claim fifty-eight acres more!”

“Take my advice, my boy,” repeated his mother, “or you may live one day to regret it.”

“Well, I cannot see how I can ever regret not getting more than we can possibly make use of.” And so the matter ended. The fifty-eight acres were never claimed, and there was, I think, a very general impression that asking for our just rights in the case would have a very grasping, covetous look. How much wiser five and twenty years have made us!

During my sojourn of two months at Chicago, our mother often entertained me with stories of her early life and adventures. The following is her history of her captivity among the Senecas, which I have put in the form of a tale, although without the slightest variation from the facts as I received them from her lips, and those of her sister, Mrs. William Forsyth, of Sandwich (C. W.), the little Maggie of the story.

CHAPTER XXII

THE CAPTIVES

It is well known that previous to the war of the Revolution, the whole of the western portion of Pennsylvania was inhabited chiefly by different Indian tribes. Of these, the Delawares were the friends of the whites, and after the commencement of the great struggle, took part with the United States. The Iroquois, on the contrary, were the friends and allies of the mother country.

Very few white settlers had ventured beyond the Susquehannah. The numerous roving bands of Shawanoes, Nanticokes, &c., although sometimes professing friendship with the Americans, and acting in concert with the Delawares or Lenapé as allies, at others suffered themselves to be seduced by their neighbors, the Iroquois, to show a most sanguinary spirit of hostility.

For this reason, the life of the inhabitants of the frontier was one of constant peril and alarm. Many a scene of dismal barbarity was enacted, as the history of the times testifies, and even those who felt themselves in some measure protected by their immediate neighbors, the Delawares, never lost sight of the caution required by their exposed situation.

The vicinity of the military garrison at Pittsburgh, or Fort Pitt, as it was then called, gave additional security to those who had pushed further west, among the fertile valleys of the Alleghany and Monongahela. Among these were the family of Mr. Lytle, who, about two years previous to the opening of our story, had removed from Path Valley, near Carlisle, and settled himself on the banks of Plum River, a tributary of the Alleghany. Here, with his wife and five children, he had continued to live in comfort and security, undisturbed by any hostile visit, and only annoyed by occasional false alarms from his more timorous neighbors, who having had more experience in frontier life, were prone to anticipate evil, as well as to magnify every appearance of danger.

On a bright afternoon in the autumn of 1779, two children of Mr. Lytle, a girl of nine, and her brother, two years younger, were playing in a little dingle or hollow in the rear of their father’s house. Some large trees, which had been recently felled, were lying here and there still untrimmed of their branches, and many logs, prepared for fuel, were scattered around. Upon one of these the children, wearied with their sports, seated themselves, and to beguile the time they fell into conversation upon a subject that greatly perplexed them.

While playing in the same place a few hours previous, they had imagined they saw an Indian lurking behind one of the fallen trees. The Indians of the neighborhood were in the habit of making occasional visits to the family, and they had become familiar and even affectionate with many of them, but this seemed a stranger, and after the first hasty glance they fled in alarm to the house.

Their mother chid them for the report they brought, which she endeavored to convince them was without foundation. “You know,” said she, “you are always alarming us unnecessarily—the neighbors' children have frightened you to death. Go back to your play and learn to be more courageous.”

So the children returned to their sports, hardly persuaded by their mother’s arguments. While they were thus seated upon the trunk of the tree, their discourse was interrupted by the note, apparently, of a quail not far off.

“Listen,” said the boy, as a second note answered the first, “do you hear that?”

“Yes,” was the reply, and after a few moments' silence, “do you not hear a rustling among the branches of the tree yonder?”

“Perhaps it is a squirrel—but look! what is that? Surely I saw something red among the branches. It looked like a fawn popping up its head.”

At this moment, the children who had been gazing so intently in the direction of the fallen tree that all other objects were forgotten, felt themselves seized from behind and pinioned in an iron grasp. What was their horror and dismay to find themselves in the arms of savages, whose terrific countenances and gestures plainly showed them to be enemies!

They made signs to the children to be silent, on pain of death, and hurried them off, half dead with terror, in a direction leading from their father’s habitation. After travelling some distance in profound silence, the severity of their captors somewhat relaxed, and as night approached the party halted, after adopting the usual precautions to secure themselves against a surprise.

In an agony of uncertainty and terror, torn from their beloved home and parents, and anticipating all the horrors with which the rumors of the times had invested a captivity among the Indians—perhaps even a torturing death—the poor children could no longer restrain their grief, but gave vent to sobs and lamentations.

Their distress appeared to excite the compassion of one of the party, a man of mild aspect, who approached and endeavored to soothe them. He spread them a couch of the long grass which grew near the encamping place, offered them a portion of his own stock of dried meat and parched corn, and gave them to understand by signs that no further evil was intended them.

These kindly demonstrations were interrupted by the arrival of another party of the enemy, bringing with them the mother of the little prisoners with her youngest child, an infant of three months old.

It had so happened that the father of the family, with his serving-men, had gone early in the day to a raising at a few miles' distance, and the house had thus been left without a defender. The long period of tranquillity which they had enjoyed, free from all molestation or alarm from the savages, had quite thrown them off their guard, and they had recently laid aside some of the caution they had formerly found necessary.

These Indians, by lying in wait, had found the favorable moment for seizing the defenceless family and making them prisoners. Judging from their paint, and other marks by which the early settlers learned to distinguish the various tribes, Mrs. Lytle conjectured that those into whose hands she and her children had fallen were Senecas. Nor was she mistaken. It was a party of that tribe who had descended from their village with the intention of falling upon some isolated band of their enemies, the Delawares, but failing in this, had made themselves amends by capturing a few white settlers.

It is to be attributed to the generally mild disposition of this tribe, together with the magnanimous character of the chief who accompanied the party, that their prisoners in the present instance escaped the fate of most of the Americans who were so unhappy as to fall into the hands of the Iroquois.

The children learned from their mother that she was profoundly ignorant of the fate of their remaining brother and sister, a boy of six and a little girl of four years of age, but she was in hopes they had made good their escape with the servant girl, who had likewise disappeared from the commencement.

After remaining a few hours to recruit the exhausted frames of the prisoners, the savages again started on their march, one of the older Indians proffering to relieve the mother from the burden of her infant, which she had hitherto carried in her arms. Pleased with the unexpected kindness, she resigned to him her tender charge.

Thus they pursued their way, the savage who carried the infant lingering somewhat behind the rest of the party, until finding a spot convenient for his purpose, he grasped his innocent victim by the feet, and with one whirl, to add strength to the blow, dashed out its brains against a tree. Leaving the body upon the spot, he rejoined the party.

The mother, unsuspicious of what had passed, regarded him earnestly as he reappeared without the child—then gazed wildly around on the rest of the group. Her beloved little one was not there. Its absence spoke its fate, yet, suppressing the shriek of agony, for she knew that the lives of the remaining ones depended upon her firmness in that trying hour, she drew them yet closer to her and pursued her melancholy way without a word spoken or a question asked.

From the depths of her heart she cried unto Him who is able to save, and He comforted her with hopes of deliverance for the surviving ones, for she saw that if blood had been their sole object the scalps of herself and her children would have been taken upon the spot where they were made prisoners.

She read too in the eyes of one who was evidently the commander of the party an expression more merciful than she had even dared to hope. Particularly had she observed his soothing manner and manifest partiality towards her eldest child, the little girl of whom we have spoken, and she built many a bright hope of escape or ransom upon these slender foundations.

After a toilsome and painful march of many days, the party reached the Seneca village, upon the headwaters of the Alleghany, near what is now called Olean Point. On their arrival the chief, their conductor, who was distinguished by the name of the Big-White-Man,[AN] led his prisoners to the principal lodge. This was occupied by his mother, the widow of the head-chief of that band, and who was called by them the Old Queen.

On entering her presence, her son presented her the little girl, saying:

“My mother—I bring you a child to supply the place of my brother, who was killed by the Lenapé six moons ago. She shall dwell in my lodge, and be to me a sister. Take the white woman and her children and treat them kindly—our father will give us many horses and guns to buy them back again.”

He referred to the British Indian agent of his tribe. Col. Johnson,[74] an excellent and benevolent gentleman, who resided at Fort Niagara, on the British side of the river of that name.

The old queen fulfilled the injunctions of her son. She received the prisoners, and every comfort was provided them that her simple and primitive mode of life rendered possible.

We must now return to the place and period at which our story commences.

Late in the evening of that day the father returned to his dwelling. All within and around was silent and desolate. No trace of a living creature was to be found throughout the house or grounds. His nearest neighbors lived at a considerable distance, but to them he hastened, frantically demanding tidings of his family.

As he aroused them from their slumbers, one and another joined him in the search, and at length, at the house of one of them, was found the servant-maid who had effected her escape. Her first place of refuge, she said, had been a large brewing-tub in an outer kitchen, under which she had, at the first alarm, secreted herself until the departure of the Indians, who were evidently in haste, gave her an opportunity of fleeing to a place of safety. She could give no tidings of her mistress and the children, except that they had not been murdered in her sight or hearing.

At length, having scoured the neighborhood without success, Mr. Lytle remembered an old settler who lived alone, far up the valley. Thither he and his friends immediately repaired, and from him they learned that, being at work in his field just before sunset, he had seen a party of strange Indians passing at a short distance from his cabin. As they wound along the brow of the hill, he could perceive that they had prisoners with them—a woman and child. The woman he knew to be a white, as she carried her infant in her arms instead of upon her back, after the manner of the savages.

Day had now begun to break, for the night had been passed in fruitless researches, and the agonized father after a consultation with his kind friends and neighbors, accepted their offer to accompany him to Fort Pitt to ask advice and assistance of the Commandant and Indian Agent at that place.

Proceeding down the valley, as they approached a hut which the night before they had found apparently deserted, they were startled by observing two children standing upon the high bank in front of it. The delighted father recognized two of his missing flock, but no tidings could they give him of their mother and the other lost ones. Their story was simple and touching.

They were playing in the garden, when they were alarmed by seeing the Indians enter the yard near the house. Unperceived by them, the brother, who was but six years of age, helped his little sister over the fence into a field overrun with bushes of the blackberry and wild raspberry. They concealed themselves among these for a while, and then, finding all quiet, they attempted to force their way to the side of the field furthest from the house. Unfortunately the little girl in her play in the garden had pulled off her shoes and stockings, and the briars tearing and wounding her tender feet, she with difficulty could refrain from crying out. Her brother took off his stockings and put them on her feet. He attempted, too, to protect them with his shoes, but they were too large, and kept slipping off, so that she could not wear them. For a time, they persevered in making what they considered their escape from certain death, for, as I have said, the children had been taught by the tales they had heard to regard all strange Indians as ministers of torture, and of horrors worse than death. Exhausted with pain and fatigue, the poor little girl at length declared she could go no further.

“Then, Maggie,” said her brother, “I must kill you, for I cannot let you be killed by the Indians.”

“Oh! no, Thomas,” pleaded she, “do not, pray do not kill me—I do not think the Indians will find us!”

“Oh! yes they will, Maggie, and I could kill you so much easier than they would!”

For a long time he endeavored to persuade her, and even looked about for a stick sufficiently large for his purpose, but despair gave the little creature strength, and she promised her brother that she would neither complain nor falter, if he would assist her in making her way out of the field.

The idea of the little boy that he could save his sister from savage barbarity by taking her life himself, shows what tales of horror the children of the early settlers were familiar with.

After a few more efforts they made their way out of the field, into an unenclosed pasture-ground, where to their great delight they saw some cows feeding. They recognized them as belonging to Granny Myers, an old woman who lived at some little distance, but in what direction from the place they then were, they were utterly ignorant.

With a sagacity beyond his years, the boy said:

“Let us hide ourselves till sunset, when the cows will go home, and we will follow them.”

They did so, but to their dismay, when they reached Granny Myers' they found the house deserted. The old woman had been called by some business down the valley and did not return that night.

Tired and hungry they could go no further, but after an almost fruitless endeavor to get some milk from the cows, they laid themselves down to sleep under an old bedstead that stood behind the house. Their father and his party had caused them additional terror in the night. The shouts and calls which had been designed to arouse the inmates of the house, they had mistaken for the whoop of the Indians, and not being able to distinguish friends from foes, they had crept close to one another, as far out of sight as possible. When found the following morning, they were debating what course to take next, for safety.

The commandant at Fort Pitt entered warmly into the affairs of Mr. Lytle, and readily furnished him with a detachment of soldiers, to aid him and his friends in the pursuit of the marauders. Some circumstances having occurred to throw suspicion upon the Senecas, the party soon directed their search among the villages of that tribe.

Their inquiries were prosecuted in various directions, and always with great caution, for all the tribes of the Iroquois, or, as they pompously called themselves, the Five Nations, being allies of Great Britain, were consequently inveterate in their hostility to the Americans. Thus, some time had elapsed before the father with his attendants reached the village of the Big-White-Man.

A treaty was immediately entered into for the ransom of the captives, which was easily accomplished in regard to Mrs. Lytle and the younger child. But no offers, no entreaties, no promises, could procure the release of the little Eleanor, the adopted child of the tribe. “No,” the chief said, “she was his sister; he had taken her to supply the place of his brother who was killed by the enemy—she was dear to him, and he would not part with her.”

Finding every effort unavailing to shake this resolution the father was at length compelled to take his sorrowful departure with such of his beloved ones as he had the good fortune to recover.

We will not attempt to depict the grief of parents compelled thus to give up a darling child, and to leave her in the hands of savages, whom until now they had too much reason to regard as merciless. But there was no alternative. Commending her to the care of their Heavenly Father, and cheered by the manifest tenderness with which she had thus far been treated, they sat out on their melancholy journey homeward, trusting that some future effort would be more effectual for the recovery of their little girl.