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Title: The Fort Dearborn Massacre
Written in 1814 by Lieutenant Linai T. Helm, One of the Survivors, with Letters and Narratives of Contemporary Interest
Author: Linai Taliaferro Helm
Editor: Nelly Kinzie Gordon
Release Date: December 19, 2012 [eBook #41663]
Language: English
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[Illustration: _Monument commemorating the Fort Dearborn Massacre_]
THE FORT DEARBORN MASSACRE
Written in 1814 by
LIEUTENANT LINAI T. HELM
One of the survivors
With Letters and Narratives of Contemporary Interest
Edited by Nelly Kinzie Gordon
Rand Mcnally & Company
Chicago New York
Copyright, 1912, by
Nelly Kinzie Gordon
[Illustration: _Old Fort Dearborn_]
To my Native City Chicago
WHOSE MARVELOUS GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT
I HAVE WATCHED WITH PRIDE AND UNFAILING
INTEREST SINCE THE YEAR 1835
I dedicate this book
THE CONTENTS
PAGE
_Introduction_ 5
Judge Woodward's Letter to Colonel Proctor 9
Lieutenant Helm's Letter to Judge Woodward 13
Lieutenant Helm's Narrative 15
The Massacre at Chicago 27
John Kinzie 85
The Capture by the Indians of Little Eleanor
Lytle 109
THE ILLUSTRATIONS
Monument commemorating the Fort
Dearborn Massacre _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Old Fort Dearborn 15
The old Kinzie house 85
Cornplanter, a Seneca chief 109
INTRODUCTION
The narrative of Lieutenant Linai T. Helm, one of the two officers who
survived the Chicago Massacre, mysteriously disappeared nearly one
hundred years ago. This manuscript has lately been found and is now in
the possession of the Michigan Pioneer and Historical Society, by whose
kind permission it is here presented to the public, together with
letters explaining its loss and its recovery. It is the earliest extant
account given by a participator in the fearful tragedy of August 15,
1812. It was written by Lieutenant Helm in 1814, at the request of Judge
Augustus B. Woodward, of Detroit, and was accompanied by a letter asking
Judge Woodward's opinion as to whether the strictures made in the
narrative upon the conduct of Captain Heald would result in Helm's being
court-martialed for disrespect to his commanding officer.
Judge Woodward evidently advised Lieutenant Helm not to take the risk,
for the manuscript was found many years later among the Judge's papers.
That Lieutenant Helm was a soldier rather than a scholar is evidenced by
the faulty construction of his narrative. Its literary imperfections,
however, in no way detract from its value as a truthful account of the
events he describes.
In the records of the Michigan Pioneer and Historical Society, volume
12, page 659, is a letter concerning the survivors of the Chicago
Massacre, written October, 1812, to Colonel Proctor by Judge Woodward,
in which he says:
"First, there is one officer, a lieutenant of the name of Linai T. Helm,
with whom I had the happiness of a personal acquaintance. His father is
a gentleman, originally of Virginia, and of the first society of the
city, who has since settled in the State of New York. He is an officer
of great rank, and unblemished character. The lady of this gentleman, a
young and amiable victim of misfortune, was separated from her husband.
She was delivered up to her father-in-law, who was present. Mr. Helm was
transported into the Indian country a hundred miles from the scene of
action, and has not since been heard of at this place."
She was captured during the fight and delivered to her stepfather, Mr.
John Kinzie. Her own account is given in the extract from "Waubun."
Lieutenant Helm's feeling against Captain Heald was due to the latter's
refusal to take any advice from those who thoroughly understood the
Indians with whom they had to deal, and his failure to consult any of
his junior officers as to what course might be pursued to save the
garrison.
Kirkland, in his "Story of Chicago," chapter 8, page 66, says: "Captain
Heald's conduct seems like that of a brave fool." Captain Heald was by
no means a fool, but he was afraid to take any responsibility. He
considered a soldier's first duty obedience to orders. If in carrying
out the orders he had received from General Hull he sacrificed his
command, it would not be his fault, but Hull's; whereas, if he disobeyed
instructions and remained in the fort awaiting reinforcements, any
disastrous results would be visited upon him alone. He was willing,
however, to accept John Kinzie's offer to provide a forged order,
purporting to come from General Hull, authorizing the destruction of all
arms, ammunition, and liquor before evacuating the fort, instead of
giving them to the savages.
Lieutenant Helm was promoted to a captaincy, but as his wound continued
very troublesome he resigned from the army soon afterward, and retired
to private life.
The experiences of Mrs. Helm and of her mother, Mrs. John Kinzie, were
related by them personally to Mrs. Juliette A. Kinzie, the author of
"Waubun."
The little captive stolen by the Senecas and adopted into the tribe by
their famous chief, "The Corn Planter," was Eleanor Lytle. She
afterwards was rescued and became the wife of John Kinzie. To her
daughter-in-law, Mrs. Juliette A. Kinzie, she told the story of her
captivity among the Senecas, and her experiences during the Chicago
Massacre.
It seems proper in giving Lieutenant Helm's account of Fort Dearborn
Massacre to preface it with a letter written by Judge Augustus B.
Woodward of Detroit, of which two copies exist: one of the original
draft, and one of the letter sent. They differ only in some unimportant
details.
Detroit was surrendered the day before the Chicago Massacre took place.
As soon as information of the tragedy reached Detroit, Judge Woodward
appealed to Colonel Proctor in behalf of the prisoners and possible
survivors of the Massacre at Fort Dearborn.
The information given by Judge Woodward in this letter to Colonel
Proctor probably came from William Griffith, a survivor who had reached
Detroit. It could not have come from Lieutenant Helm, who had been sent
as a prisoner to Peoria, Illinois, and did not reach St. Louis until
October 14.
NELLY KINZIE GORDON.
JUDGE WOODWARD'S LETTER TO COLONEL PROCTOR
"Territory of Michigan,"
October 8th, 1812.
Sir:
It is already known to you that on Saturday the fifteenth day of August
last, an order having been given to evacuate Fort Dearborn an attack was
made by the savages of the vicinity on the troops and persons
appertaining to that garrison on their march, at the distance of about
three miles from the Fort, and the greater part of the number
barbarously and inhumanly massacred.
Three of the survivors of that unhappy and terrible disaster having
since reached this country, I have employed some pains to collect the
number and names of those who were not immediately slain and to
ascertain whether any hopes might yet be entertained of saving the
remainder.
It is on this subject that I wish to interest your feelings and to
solicit the benefit of your interposition; convinced that you estimate
humanity among the brightest virtues of the soldier.
I find, sir, that the party consisted of ninety-three persons. Of these
the military, including officers, non-commissioned officers and
privates, amounted to fifty-four--the citizens, not acting in a military
capacity, consisted of twelve. The number of women was nine, and that of
the children eighteen.
The whole of the citizens were slaughtered, two women and twelve
children.
Of the military, twenty-six were killed at the time of the attack, and
accounts have arrived of at least five of the surviving prisoners having
been put to death in the course of the same night.
There will remain then twenty-three of the military, seven women and six
children, whose fate, with the exception of the three who have come in,
and of two others who are known to be in safety at St. Joseph's, remains
to be yet ascertained.
Of these, amounting in all to thirty-one persons, I will furnish you
with the names of all that I have been able to identify.
First: there is one officer, a lieutenant, of the name of Linai T. Helm,
with whom I have had the honor of a personal acquaintance. He is an
officer of great merit, and of the most unblemished character. His
father is a gentleman originally of Virginia, and of the first
respectability, who has since settled in the State of New York. The lady
of this gentleman, a young and amiable victim of misfortune, was
separated from her husband during the fight. She is understood to be now
at St. Joseph's. Mr. Helm was conveyed a hundred miles into the Indian
country, and no accounts of his fate have yet reached this quarter.
Second: of the six non-commissioned officers, four survived the action:
John Crozier, a sergeant; Daniel Dougherty, a corporal; one other
corporal by the name of Bowen, and William Griffin (Griffith), sergeant,
now here.
Third: of the privates it is said that five, and it is not known how
many more, were put to death in the night after the action. Of those who
are said to have thus suffered, I have been able to collect only the
names of two; Richard Garner and James Latta. Mr. Burns, a citizen,
severely wounded, was killed by an Indian woman, in the daytime, about
an hour after the action. Micajah Dennison and John Fury were so badly
wounded in the action that little hope was indulged of their recovery.
There will thus remain twenty to be accounted for, of whom I can only
give the following names: Dyson Dyer, William Nelson Hunt, Duncan
McCarty, Augustus Mott, John Smith, John Smith, his son, a fifer, James
Van Horn.
Four: of the five women whose fate remains to be ascertained, I am
enabled to give the names of them all. They were Mrs. Burns, wife to the
citizen before mentioned as killed after the attack; Mrs. Holt, Mrs.
Lee, Mrs. Needs, and Mrs. Simmons. Among these women six children saved
out of the whole number, which was eighteen; part of them belonging to
the surviving mothers, and part to those who were slain.
As to the means of preserving these unhappy survivors from the
distressing calamities which environ them, if they have preserved their
lives, and which the rigors of the approaching season cannot fail to
heighten, I would beg leave to suggest the following:
First: to send a special messenger to that quarter, overland, and with
such safeguard of Indians or others, as can be procured, charged with
collecting the prisoners who may yet survive, and accounts of those who
may have ultimately suffered, and supplied with the means of conveying
them either to Detroit or Michillimackinac.
Second: to communicate to Captain Roberts, who now commands at
Michillimackinac, the circumstances of the same in full, and to request
his co-operation in effecting the humane object of their ultimate
preservation.
I am not authorized by my Government to make the assurance, but I shall
not doubt their cheerfully defraying such expense of ransom, or
conveyance, as circumstances will justify; and private funds are also
ready to be applied to the same purpose. I do not less doubt your
willing and zealous assistance, and with a confident hope of it, permit
me, sir, to assure you of the high respect with which I have the honor
to be
Your obedient servant,
A. B. WOODWARD.
To Col. Henry Proctor.
LIEUTENANT HELM'S LETTER TO JUDGE WOODWARD
Flemington, New Jersey,
6th June, 1814.
Dear Sir:--
I hope you will excuse the length of time I have taken to communicate
the history of the unfortunate massacre of Chicago. It is now nearly
finished, and in two weeks you may expect it. As the history cannot
possibly be written with truth without eternally disgracing Major Heald,
I wish you could find out whether I shall be cashiered or censured for
bringing to light the conduct of so great a man as many think him. You
know I am the only officer that has escaped to tell the news. Some of
the men have got off, but where they are I know not; they would be able
to testify to some of the principal facts. I have waited a long time
expecting a court of inquiry on his conduct but see plainly it is to be
overlooked. I am resolved now to do myself justice even if I have to
leave the service to publish the history. I shall be happy to hear from
you immediately on the receipt of this.
I have the honor to be sir,
with great respect,
Your obedient servant,
L. T. HELM.
Augustus B. Woodward, Esqr.
Washington City
(Addressed:) Flemington, Jan. 6th.
Augustus B. Woodward, Esq.
Milton, Va.
(Endorsed:) Helm, Mr. Linah T.
letter from
Dated Flemington,
New Jersey, June 6th, 1814.
Received at Washington.
June 14th, 1814.
R. June 14th, 1814.
LIEUTENANT HELM'S NARRATIVE
Some time in April, about the 7th-10, a party of Winnebagoes came to
Chicago and murdered 2 men. This gave sufficient ground to suppose the
Indians hostile, as they have left every sign by scalping them and
leaving a weapon, say a war mallet, as a token of their returning in
June. Mr. Kinzie sent a letter from the Interior of the Indian Country
to inform Capt. Heald that the Indians were hostile inclined and only
waiting the Declaration of War to commence open hostilities. This they
told Kinzie in confidence on the 10th of July. Capt. Heald got the
information of War being declared, and on the 8th of August got Gen.
Hull's order to evacuate the Post of Fort Dearborn by the route of
Detroit, or Fort Wayne, if practicable. This letter was brought by a
Potowautemie Chief Winnemeg, and he informed Capt. Heald, through
Kenzie, to evacuate immediately the next day, if possible, as the
Indians were hostile and that the troops should change the usual routes
to go to Fort Wayne. On the 12th August, Capt. William Wells arrived
from Fort Wayne with 27 Miamis, and after a council being held by him
with the tribes there assembled to amount of 500 warriors 179 women and
children. He after council declared them hostile and that his opinion
was that they would interrupt us on our route. Capt. Wells enquired into
the State of the arms, ammunition and provisions. We had 200 stand of
arms, four pieces of artillery, 6,000 lbs. of powder and a sufficient
quantity of shot lead, etc. 3 months provisions taken in Indian corn and
all this on the 12th of August, having prior to this expended 3 months
provisions at least in the interval between the 7th and 12th of August,
exclusive of this we had at our command 200 head of horned cattle and 27
barrels of salt. After this survey, Wells demanded of Capt. Heald if he
intended to evacuate. His answer was he would. Kenzie then, with Lt.
Helm, called on Wells and requested him to call on Capt. Heald and cause
the ammunition and arms to be destroyed, but Capt. Wells insisted on
Kenzie and Helm to join with him. This being done, Capt. Heald hesitated
and observed that it was not sound policy to tell a lie to an Indian;
that he had received a positive order from Gen. Hull to deliver up to
those Indians all the public property of whatsoever nature particularly
to those Indians that would take in the Troops and that he could not
alter it, and that it might irritate the Indians and be the means of the
destruction of his men. Kenzie volunteered to take the responsibility on
himself, provided Capt. Heald would consider the method he would point
out a safe one, he agreed. Kenzie wrote an order as if from Genl. Hull,
and gave it into Capt. Heald. It was supposed to answer and accordingly
was carried into effect. The ammunition and muskets were all destroyed
the night of the 13th. The 15th, we evacuated the Garrison, and about
one and half mile from the Garrison we were informed by Capt. Wells that
we were surrounded and the attack by the Indians began about 10 of the
clock morning. The men in a few minutes were, with the exception of 10,
all killed and wounded. The Ensign and Surgeons Mate were both killed.
The Capt. and myself both badly wounded during the battle. I fired my
piece at an Indian and felt confident I killed him or wounded him badly.
I immediately called to the men to follow me in the pirara, or we would
be shot down before we could load our guns. We had proceeded under a
heavy fire about an hundred and five paces when I made a wheel to the
left to observe the motion of the Indians and avoid being shot in the
back, which I had so far miraculously escaped. Just as I wheeled I
received a ball through my coat pocket, which struck the barrel of my
gun and fell in the lining of my coat. In a few seconds, I received a
ball in my right foot, which lamed me considerably. The Indians happened
immediately to stop firing and never more renewed it. I immediately
ordered the men that were able to load their guns and commenced loading
for them that were not able. I now discovered Capt. Heald for the first
time to my knowledge during the battle. He was coming from towards the
Indians and to my great surprise they never offered to fire on him. He
came up and ordered the men to form; that his intentions were to charge
the body of Indians that were on the bank of the Lake where we had just
retreated from. They appeared to be about 300 strong. We were 27,
including all the wounded. He advanced about 5 steps and not at all to
my surprise was the first that halted. Some of the men fell back instead
of advancing. We then gained the only high piece of ground there was
near. We now had a little time to reflect and saw death in every
direction. At this time an interpreter from the Indians advanced towards
us and called for the Captain, who immediately went to meet him (the
interpreter was a half Indian and had lived a long time within a few
yards of the fort and bound to Mr. Kinzie; he was always very friendly
with us all). A chief by the name of Blackbird advanced to the
interpreter and met the Captain, who after a few words conversation
delivered him his sword, and in a few minutes returned to us and
informed me he had offered 100 dollars for every man that was then
living. He said they were then deciding on what to do. They, however, in
a few minutes, called him again and talked with him some time, when he
returned and informed me they had agreed if I and the men would
surrender by laying down our arms they would lay down theirs, meet us
half way, shake us by the hand as friends and take us back to the fort.
I asked him if he knew what they intended doing with us then. He said
they did not inform him. He asked me if I would surrender. The men were
at this time crowding to my back and began to beg me not to surrender. I
told them not to be uneasy for I had already done my best for them and
was determined not to surrender unless I saw better prospects of us all
being saved and then not without they were willing. The Captain asked me
the second time what I would do, without an answer. I discovered the
interpreter at this time running from the Indians towards us, and when
he came in about 20 steps the Captain put the question the third time.
The Interpreter called out, "Lieut. don't surrender for if you do they
will kill you all, for there has been no general council held with them
yet. You must wait, and I will go back and hold a general council with
them and return and let you know what they will do." I told him to go,
for I had no idea of surrender. He went and collected all the Indians
and talked for some time, when he returned and told me the Indians said
if I would surrender as before described they would not kill any, and
said it was his opinion they would do as they said, for they had already
saved Mr. Kinzie and some of the women and children. This enlivened me
and the men, for we well knew Mr. Kinzie stood higher than any man in
that country among the Indians, and he might be the means of saving us
from utter destruction, which afterwards proved to be the case. We then
surrendered, and after the Indians had fired off our guns they put the
Captain and myself and some of the wounded men on horses and marched us
to the bank of the lake, where the battle first commenced. When we
arrived at the bank and looked down on the sand beach I was struck with
horror at the sight of men, women and children lying naked with
principally all their heads off, and in passing over the bodies I was
confident I saw my wife with her head off about two feet from her
shoulders. Tears for the first time rushed in my eyes, but I consoled
myself with a firm belief that I should soon follow her. I now began to
repent that I had ever surrendered, but it was too late to recall, and
we had only to look up to Him who had first caused our existence. When
we had arrived in half a mile of the Fort they halted us, made the men
sit down, form a ring around them, began to take off their hats and
strip the Captain. They attempted to strip me, but were prevented by a
Chief who stuck close to me. I made signs to him that I wanted to drink,
for the weather was very warm. He led me off towards the Fort and, to my
great astonishment, saw my wife sitting among some squaws crying. Our
feelings can be better judged than expressed. They brought some water
and directed her to wash and dress my wound, which she did, and bound
it up with her pocket handkerchief. They then brought up some of the men
and tommyhawked one of them before us. They now took Mrs. Helm across
the river (for we were nearly on its banks) to Mr. Kinzie's. We met
again at my fathers in the State of New York, she having arrived seven
days before me after being separated seven months and one week. She was
taken in the direction of Detroit and I was taken down to Illinois River
and was sold to Mr. Thomas Forsyth, half brother of Mr. Kinzie's, who, a
short time after, effected my escape. This gentleman was the means of
saving many lives on the warring (?) frontier. I was taken on the 15th
of August and arrived safe among the Americans at St. Louis on the 14th
of October.
Capt. Heald, through Kenzie, sending his two negroes, got put on board
an Indian boat going to St. Joseph, and from that place got to Makenac
by Lake Michigan in a birch canoe.
The night of the 14th, the Interpreter and a Chief (Black Partridge)
waited on Capt. Heald. The Indian gave up his medal and told Heald to
beware of the next day, that the Indians would destroy him and his men.
This Heald never communicated to one of his officers. There was but
Capt. Wells that was acquainted with it. You will observe, sir, that I
did, with Kenzie, protest against destroying the arms, ammunition and
provisions until that Heald told me positively that he would evacuate at
all hazards.
15th of August, we evacuated the Fort. The number of soldiers was 52
privates and musicians (2), 4 officers and physicians, 14 citizens, 18
children and 9 women, the baggage being in front with the citizens,
women and children and on the margin of the lake, we having advanced to
gain the Prairie. I could not see the massacre, but Kinzie, with Doctor
Van Vorees, being ordered by Capt. Heald to take charge of the women and
children, remained on the beach, and Kinzie since told me he was an eye
witness to the horrid scene. The Indians came down on the baggage
waggons for plunder. They butchered every male citizen but Kinzie, two
women and 12 children in the most inhuman manner possible, opened them,
cutting off their heads and taken out their hearts; several of the women
were wounded but not dangerously.
LIST OF GARRISON
Nathan Heald 1 Released.
Lina T. Helm 2 "
Nathan Edson 3 ----
Elias Mills 4 ----
Thos. Point Dexter 5 ----
August Mort 6 Died natural.
James Latta 7 Killed.
Michael Lynch 8 Killed.
John Sullinfield 9 Killed.
John Smith, Senr. 10 Released.
John Smith, Junr. 11 ----
Nathan Hunt 12 Deserted.
Richard Garner 13 Killed.
Paul Greene 14 ----
James V__tworth (?) 15 ----
John Griffiths 16 { Supposed to be a
{ Frenchman and
Joseph Bowen 17 { released.
John Ferry (or Fury) 18 ----
John Crozier 19 Deserted.
John Needs 20 ----
Daniel Daugherty 21 ----
Dyson Dyer 22 Killed.
John Andrews 23 Killed.
James Stone (or Starr
or Storr) 24 Killed.
Joseph Nolis (or Notts) 25 ----
James Corbin 26 ----
Fielding Corbin 27 ----
Citizens:
Jos. Burns 28 Mortally wounded;
since killed.
(Names of women on reverse page)
Women taken prisoners:
Mrs. Heald Released.
Mrs. Helm "
Mrs. Holt }
Mrs. Burns }
Mrs. Leigh } Prisoners
Mrs. Simmons }
Mrs. Needs }
Killed in action:
Mrs. Corbin.
Mrs. Heald's Negro woman.
Children yet in captivity:
Mrs. Leigh's 2, one since dead N D.
Mrs. Burns' 2.
Mrs. Simmons' 1.
13 children killed during the action.
11 citizens including Captain Wells.
John Kinzie taken, but not considered as a prisoner
of war.
54 Rank and file left the Garrison.
THE MASSACRE AT CHICAGO[1]
It was the evening of April 7, 1812. The children were dancing before
the fire to the music of their father's violin. The tea table was
spread, and they were awaiting the return of their mother, who had gone
to visit a sick neighbor about a quarter of a mile up the river.
Suddenly their sports were interrupted. The door was thrown open, and
Mrs. Kinzie rushed in, pale with terror, and scarcely able to speak.
"The Indians! the Indians!" she gasped.
"The Indians? What? Where?" they all demanded in alarm.
"Up at Lee's Place, killing and scalping!"
With difficulty Mrs. Kinzie composed herself sufficiently to say that,
while she was at Burns', a man and a boy had been seen running down with
all speed on the opposite side of the river. They had called across to
the Burns family to save themselves, for the Indians were at Lee's
Place, from which the two had just made their escape. Having given this
terrifying news, they had made all speed for the fort, which was on the
same side of the river.
All was now consternation and dismay in the Kinzie household. The family
were hurried into two old pirogues that lay moored near the house, and
paddled with all possible haste across the river to take refuge in the
fort.
All that the man and boy who had made their escape were able to tell was
soon known; but, in order to render their story more intelligible, it is
necessary to describe the situation.
Lee's Place, since known as Hardscrabble, was a farm intersected by the
Chicago River, about four miles from its mouth. The farmhouse stood on
the west bank of the south branch of this river. On the north side of
the main stream, but near its junction with Lake Michigan, stood the
dwelling house and trading establishment of Mr. Kinzie.
The fort was situated on the southern bank, directly opposite this
mansion, the river and a few rods of sloping green turf on either side
being all that intervened between them.
The fort was differently constructed from the one erected on the same
site in 1816. It had two blockhouses on the southern side, and on the
northern a sally port, or subterranean passage from the parade ground to
the river. This was designed to facilitate escape in case of an
emergency or as a means of supplying the garrison with water during a
siege.
In the fort at this period were three officers, Captain Heald, who was
in command, Lieutenant Helm, the son-in-law of Mr. Kinzie, and Ensign
Ronan--the last two very young men--and the surgeon, Dr. Van Voorhees.
The garrison numbered about seventy-five men, very few of whom were
effective.
A constant and friendly intercourse had been maintained between these
troops and the Indians. It is true that the principal men of the
Potowatomi nation, like those of most other tribes, went yearly to Fort
Malden, in Canada, to receive the large number of presents with which
the British Government, for many years, had been in the habit of
purchasing their alliance; and it was well known that many of the
Potowatomi, as well as Winnebago, had been engaged with the Ottawa and
Shawnee at the battle of Tippecanoe, the preceding autumn; yet, as the
principal chiefs of all the bands in the neighborhood appeared to be on
the most amicable terms with the Americans, no interruption of their
harmony was at any time anticipated.
After August 15, however, many circumstances were recalled that might
have opened the eyes of the whites had they not been blinded by a false
security. One incident in particular may be mentioned.
In the spring preceding the destruction of the fort, two Indians of the
Calumet band came to the fort on a visit to the commanding officer. As
they passed through the quarters, they saw Mrs. Heald and Mrs. Helm
playing at battledoor.
Turning to the interpreter, one of them, Nau-non-gee, remarked, "The
white chiefs' wives are amusing themselves very much; it will not be
long before they are hoeing in our cornfields!"
At the time this was considered an idle threat, or, at most, an
ebullition of jealous feeling at the contrast between the situation of
their own women and that of the "white chiefs' wives." Some months
after, how bitterly was it remembered!
The farm at Lee's Place was occupied by a Mr. White and three persons
employed by him.
In the afternoon of the day on which our narrative commences, a party of
ten or twelve Indians, dressed and painted, arrived at the house.
According to the custom among savages, they entered and seated
themselves without ceremony.
Something in their appearance and manner excited the suspicion of one of
the household, a Frenchman, who remarked, "I do not like the looks of
these Indians--they are none of our folks. I know by their dress and
paint that they are not Potowatomi."
Another of the men, a discharged soldier, then said to a boy who was
present, "If that is the case, we'd better get away from them if we can.
Say nothing; but do as you see me do."
There were two canoes tied near the bank, and the soldier walked
leisurely towards them. Some of the Indians inquired where he was going.
He pointed to the cattle standing among the haystacks on the opposite
bank, making signs that they must go and fodder them, and that they
would then return and get their supper.
As the afternoon was far advanced, this explanation was accepted without
question.
The soldier got into one canoe, and the boy into the other. The stream
was narrow, and they were soon across. Having gained the opposite side,
they pulled some hay for the cattle, made a show of herding them, and
when they had gradually made a circuit, so that their movements were
concealed by the haystacks, took to the woods, close at hand, and then
started for the fort.
They had run about a quarter of a mile when they heard two guns
discharged in succession. These guns they supposed to have been leveled
at the companions they had left.
They ran without stopping until they arrived opposite Burns',[2] where,
as before related, they called across to warn the family of their
danger, and then hastened on to the fort.
It now occurred to those who had secured their own safety that the Burns
family was still exposed to imminent peril. The question was, who would
hazard his life to bring them to a place of security? The gallant young
officer, Ensign Ronan, with a party of five or six soldiers, volunteered
to go to their rescue.
They ascended the river in a scow, took the mother, with her infant,
scarcely a day old, upon her bed to the boat, and carefully conveyed her
with the other members of the family to the fort.
The same afternoon a party of soldiers, consisting of a corporal and
six men, had obtained leave to go fishing up the river. They had not
returned when the fugitives from Lee's Place arrived at the fort. It was
now night and, fearing they might encounter the Indians, the commanding
officer ordered a cannon fired, warning them of their danger.
It will be remembered that the unsettled state of the country after the
battle of Tippecanoe, the preceding November, had rendered every man
vigilant, and the slightest alarm was an admonition to "beware of the
Indians."
At the time the cannon was fired the fishing party were about two miles
above Lee's Place. Hearing the signal, they put out their torches and
dropped down the river towards the garrison, as silently as possible.
When they reached Lee's Place, it was proposed to stop and warn the
inmates to be on their guard, as the signal from the fort indicated some
kind of danger. All was still as death around the house. The soldiers
groped their way along, and as the corporal jumped over the small
inclosure he placed his hand upon the dead body of a man. 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 told. The men retreated to their canoes, and reached the
fort unmolested about eleven o'clock at night.
The next morning a party of 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, with eleven stabs in the breast.
The Frenchman also lay dead, his dog still beside him. The bodies were
brought to the fort and buried in its immediate vicinity.
Later it was learned from traders out in the Indian country that the
perpetrators of the deed were a party of Winnebago who had come into the
neighborhood to "take some white scalps." Their plan had been to proceed
down the river from Lee's Place and kill every white man outside the
walls of the fort. However, hearing the report of the cannon, and not
knowing what it portended, they thought it best to retreat to their
homes on Rock River.
The settlers outside the fort, a few discharged soldiers and some
families of half-breeds, now intrenched themselves in the Agency House.
This building stood west of the fort, between the pickets and the river,
and distant about twenty rods from the former.
It was an old-fashioned log house, with a hall running through the
center, and one large room on each side. Piazzas extended the whole
length of the building, in front and rear. These were now planked up,
for greater security; portholes were cut, and sentinels posted at night.
As the enemy were believed to be still lurking in the neighborhood, or,
emboldened by former success, were 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 a private, who were out on patrol, came
suddenly upon a party of Indians in the pasture adjoining the esplanade.
The sergeant fired his piece, and both retreated towards 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
blockhouse immediately fired while the men got safely in. The next
morning traces of blood were found for a considerable distance into the
prairie, and from this and the appearance of the long grass, where it
was evident a body had lain, it was certain some execution had been
done.
On another occasion Indians entered the esplanade to steal horses. Not
finding any in the stable, as they had expected to, they relieved their
disappointment by stabbing all the sheep in the stable and then letting
them loose. The poor animals flocked towards the fort. This gave the
alarm. The garrison was aroused, and 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 August 7, Winnemeg, or Catfish, a Potowatomi chief,
arrived at the post, bringing dispatches from General Hull. These
announced that war had been declared between the United States and
Great Britain, and that General Hull, at the head of the Northwestern
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 dispatches, Winnemeg requested a private
interview with Mr. Kinzie, who had taken up his residence in the fort.
He told Mr. Kinzie 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 reinforcements could be sent.
If, however, Captain Heald should decide to leave the post, it should
by all means be done immediately. The Potowatomi, through whose country
they must pass, being ignorant of the object of Winnemeg's mission, a
forced march might be made before the hostile Indians 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 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, strongly seconded by Mr. Kinzie, did not meet
the approbation of the commanding officer.
The order to evacuate the post was read next morning upon parade. It is
difficult to understand why, in such an emergency, Captain Heald
omitted the usual form of holding a council of war with his officers.
It can be accounted for only by the fact of a want of harmonious
feeling between him 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, no council having been called, the officers
waited on Captain Heald, seeking information regarding the 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 personal regard for one family,
that of Mr. Kinzie, and not by any general friendly feeling towards the
Americans; and that, in any event, 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. 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. Succor from the other side of the peninsula
might arrive before they could be attacked by the British from Mackinac;
and even should help not come, it were far better to fall into the hands
of the British 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 them for 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 Captain Heald's project little
short of madness. The dissatisfaction among the soldiers increased
hourly, until it reached a high pitch of insubordination.
On one occasion, when conversing with Mr. Kinzie upon the parade,
Captain Heald 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 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. One day an Indian took up a rifle and fired it in
the parlor of the commanding officer, as an expression of defiance. Some
believed 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, evidently prepared for
some fearful scene.
Any further manifestation of ill feeling was, however, suppressed for
the time and, strange as it may seem, Captain Heald continued to
entertain a conviction of having created so amicable a disposition among
the Indians as to insure the safety of the command on their march to
Fort Wayne.
Thus passed the time until August 12. 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 to 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 prevented 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 August 12. Captain Heald alone
attended on the part of the military. He had requested his officers to
accompany him, but they had declined. They had been secretly informed
that the young chiefs intended 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,
accompanied by Mr. Kinzie, he had left the garrison, when they took
command of the blockhouses overlooking the esplanade on which the
council was held, opened the portholes, 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
the Potowatomi to furnish him an escort to Fort Wayne, promising them,
in addition to the presents they were now about to receive, a liberal
reward on arriving there. 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 well understood 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 real
state of affairs.
He reminded him that since the trouble with the Indians along the Wabash
and in the vicinity, there had appeared to be a settled plan of
hostilities towards the whites, in consequence of which it had been the
policy of the Americans to withhold from the Indians whatever would
enable them to carry on their warfare upon the defenseless inhabitants
of the frontier.
Mr. Kinzie also recalled to Captain Heald how, having left home for
Detroit, the preceding autumn, on receiving news at De Charme's[3] 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. As a result, all the ammunition the traders had on hand was
secreted, and those traders who had not already started for their
wintering grounds took neither powder nor shot with them.
Captain Heald was struck with the inadvisability 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 August 13 the goods, consisting of blankets, broadcloths, calicoes,
paints, and miscellaneous supplies were distributed, as stipulated. The
same evening part of the ammunition and liquor was carried into the
sally port, and there thrown into a well which had been dug 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 were 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 bags of shot, flints, gunscrews;
in short, everything relating to weapons of defense.
Some relief to the general feeling of despondency was afforded by the
arrival, on August 14, of Captain Wells[4] with fifteen friendly Miami.
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 resided from
boyhood among the Indians, and hence possessed a perfect knowledge of
their character and habits.
At Fort Wayne he had heard of the order to evacuate the fort at Chicago,
and, knowing the hostile determination of the Potowatomi, 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, 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; indeed, so
great was the quantity of liquor thrown into the river that next morning
the water 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 towards 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 have
sufficiently justified the devoted band in their melancholy
anticipations. Nevertheless, they went steadily on with the necessary
preparations; and, amid the horrors of the situation there were not
wanting gallant hearts who strove to encourage in their desponding
companions the hopes of escape they themselves were far from indulging.
Of the ammunition there had been reserved but twenty-five rounds,
besides 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.
The morning of August 15 arrived. Nine o'clock was the hour named for
starting and all things were in readiness.
Mr. Kinzie, having volunteered to accompany the troops in their march,
had intrusted his family to the care of some friendly Indians, who
promised to convey them in a boat around the head of Lake Michigan to a
point[5] on the St. Joseph River, there to be joined by the troops,
should their march be permitted.
Early in the morning Mr. Kinzie received a message from To-pee-nee-bee,
a chief of the St. Joseph band, informing him that mischief was intended
by the Potowatomi who had engaged to escort the detachment, and urging
him to relinquish his plan of accompanying the troops by land, promising
him that the boat containing his family should be permitted to pass in
safety to St. Joseph.
Mr. Kinzie declined this proposal, as he believed his presence might
restrain the fury of the savages, so warmly were the greater number of
them attached to him and his family.
Seldom does one find a man who, like John Kinzie, refuses safety for
himself in order to stand or fall with his countrymen, and who, as stern
as any Spartan, bids farewell to his dear ones to go forward to almost
certain destruction.
The party in the boat consisted of Mrs. Kinzie and her four younger
children, their nurse Josette, a clerk of Mr. Kinzie's, two servants,
and the boatmen, besides the two Indians who were to act as their
protectors. The boat started, but had scarcely reached the mouth of the
river, which, it will be recalled, was here half a mile below the fort,
when another messenger from To-pee-nee-bee arrived to detain it. There
was no mistaking the meaning of this detention.
In breathless anxiety sat the wife and mother. She was a woman of
unusual energy and strength of character, yet her heart died within her
as she folded her arms about her helpless infants and gazed upon the
march of her husband and eldest child to what seemed certain death.
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 in the lead
at the head of his little band of Miami. He had blackened his face
before leaving the garrison, in token of his impending fate. The troops
took their route along the lake shore; but when they reached the point
where the range of sand hills intervening between the prairie and the
beach commenced, the escort of Potowatomi, in number about five hundred,
took the level of the prairie, instead of continuing along the shore
with the Americans and Miami.
They had marched perhaps a mile and a half when Captain Wells, who had
kept somewhat in advance with his Miami, 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, brought hastily into line, 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 eyewitness
and participator in the tragedy, Mrs. Helm,[6] the wife of Captain (then
Lieutenant) Helm, and stepdaughter of Mr. Kinzie.
"After we had left the bank the firing became general. The Miami fled at
the outset. Their chief rode up to the Potowatomi, and said: 'You have
deceived us and the Americans. 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 scurrying 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 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.[7]
"'Look at that man!' said I. 'At least he dies like a soldier.'
"'Yes,' replied the unfortunate surgeon, with a convulsive gasp, 'but he
has no terrors of the future--he is an atheist.'
"At this moment a young Indian raised his tomahawk over me. Springing
aside, I partially avoided the blow, which, intended for my skull, fell
on my shoulder. I seized the Indian around the neck, and while exerting
my utmost strength to get possession of his scalping-knife, hanging in a
scabbard over his breast, I was dragged from his grasp by another and
older Indian.
"The latter bore me struggling and resisting towards the lake. Despite
the rapidity with which I was hurried along, I recognized, as I passed,
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 keep 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 sand banks. 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. I was led gently back
towards the Chicago River, along the southern bank of which was the
Potowatomi encampment. Once I was placed upon a horse without a saddle,
but, finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Assisted 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 Captain 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. Seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle,
dipped up some water from a stream that flowed near,[8] threw into it
some maple sugar, and, stirring it with her hand, gave it to me to
drink. This act of kindness, in the midst of so many horrors, touched me
deeply. But my attention was soon diverted to other things.
"The fort, since the troops marched out, had become a scene of plunder.
The cattle had been shot as they ran at large, and lay about, dead or
dying. This work of butchery had commenced just as we were leaving the
fort. I vividly recalled 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 behavior
showed this was no idle boast.
"As the noise of the firing grew gradually fainter and the stragglers
from the victorious party came dropping in, I received confirmation of
what my father had hurriedly communicated in our meeting on the lake
shore: the whites had surrendered, after the loss of about two thirds of
their number. They had stipulated, through the interpreter, Peresh
Leclerc, that their lives and those of the remaining women and children
be spared, and that they be delivered in safety at certain 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 upon their being brought into camp an awful scene
ensued.
"An old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends, or perhaps excited by
the sanguinary scenes around her, seemed possessed by a demoniac
ferocity. Seizing a stable fork she assaulted one miserable victim,
already groaning and writhing in the agony of 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 in
some degree shielded from its horrors, though I could not close my ears
to the cries of the sufferer. The following night five more of the
wounded prisoners were tomahawked."
After the first attack, it appears the Americans charged upon a band of
Indians concealed in a sort of ravine between the sand banks and the
prairie. The Indians gathered together, and after hard fighting, in
which the number of whites was reduced to twenty-eight, their band
succeeded in breaking through the enemy and gaining a rise of ground not
far from Oak Woods. Further contest now seeming hopeless, Lieutenant
Helm sent Peresh Leclerc, the half-breed boy in the service of Mr.
Kinzie, who had accompanied the troops and fought manfully on their
side, to propose terms of capitulation. It was stipulated, as told in
Mrs. Helm's narrative, that the lives of all the survivors should be
spared, and a ransom permitted as soon as practicable.
But in the meantime horrible scenes had indeed been enacted. During the
engagement near the sand hills one young savage climbed into the baggage
wagon which sheltered the twelve children of the white families, and
tomahawked the entire group. Captain Wells, who was fighting near,
beheld the deed, and 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 the braves had left their squaws and children.
Several Indians followed him as he galloped along. Lying flat on the
neck of his horse, and loading and firing in that position, he turned
occasionally on his pursuers. But at length their balls took effect,
killing his horse, and severely wounding the Captain. 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 helped him along, after
having disengaged him from his horse, he received his deathblow from
Pee-so-tum, who stabbed him in the back.
The heroic resolution shown during the fight by the wife of one of the
soldiers, a Mrs. Corbin, deserves to be recorded. She had from the first
expressed the determination never to fall into the hands of the savages,
believing that their prisoners were invariably subjected to tortures
worse than death.
When, therefore, a party came upon her to make her prisoner, she fought
with desperation, refusing to surrender, although assured, by signs, of
safety and kind treatment. Literally, she 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 the hope 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 that. Finally, she broke
loose and dashed out into the prairie, where 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, and while she was engaged with two or three
in front, one succeeded in seizing her by the neck from behind, and in
dragging her from her horse, large and powerful woman though she was.
Notwithstanding their guns had been so hacked and injured, and they
themselves severely cut, her captors seemed to regard her only with
admiration. They took her to a trader on the Illinois River, who showed
her every kindness during her captivity, and later restored her to her
friends.
Meanwhile those of Mr. Kinzie's family 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 had sounded in
their ears. Then all was confusion. They knew nothing of the events of
the battle until they saw an Indian coming 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."
Mrs. Heald's captor, by this time, was in the act of disengaging her
bonnet from her head, in order to scalp her. Chandonnai ran up and
offered the mule as a ransom, with the promise of ten bottles of whisky
as soon as they should reach his village. The whisky was a strong
temptation.
"But," said the Indian, "she is badly wounded--she will die. Will you
give me the whisky 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 in her arms.
Having wished to possess themselves of her horse uninjured, the Indians
had aimed their shots so as to disable the rider, without in any way
harming her steed.
Mrs. Heald had not lain long in the boat when a young Indian of savage
aspect was seen approaching. A buffalo robe was hastily drawn over her,
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 ax 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 afterwards appeared that the object
of his search was Mr. Burnett, a trader from St. Joseph with whom he had
some account to settle.
When the boat was at length permitted to return to the house of Mr.
Kinzie, and Mrs. Heald was removed there, it became necessary to dress
her wounds.
Mr. Kinzie 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 the Indian. "I cannot do it--it makes me sick
here," placing his hand on his heart.
Mr. Kinzie himself then performed the operation with his penknife.
At their own house, 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.
On 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 arrayed in a muslin gown and a lady's bonnet would, under other
circumstances, have been a matter of great amusement.
Black Partridge, Wau-ban-see, and Kee-po-tah, with two other Indians,
established themselves in the porch of the Kinzie house as sentinels, to
protect the family from any evil that the young men might be incited to
commit, and 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 Potowatomi.
Being more remote, they had shared less than some of their brethren in
the kindness of Mr. Kinzie and his family, and consequently their
friendly regard was not so strong.
Runners had been sent to the villages to apprise these Indians of the
intended evacuation of the post, as well as of the plan to attack the
troops.
Thirsting to participate in such an event, they had hurried to the
scene, and great was their mortification, on arriving at the river Aux
Plaines, to meet a party of their friends with their chief,
Nee-scot-nee-meg, badly wounded, and learn that the battle was over, the
spoils divided, and the scalps all taken. Arriving at Chicago they
blackened their faces, and proceeded toward 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 stepdaughter, 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 Frenchwoman of the country--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 as 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, a half-breed
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 courage.
The Indians entered, and from her hiding place she could occasionally
see them 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 patchwork 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 who were 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 newcomers on
the opposite bank of the river. As the canoes in which they had hastily
embarked touched the bank near the house, Black Partridge sprang to meet
their leader.
"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 a Sau-ga-nash!"
"Then make all speed to the house--your friend is in danger, and you
alone can save him."
Billy Caldwell,[9] 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 accouterments 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 had come 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 peaceably took their departure from the premises.
With Mr. Kinzie's party was a non-commissioned officer who had made his
escape in a singular manner. As the troops had been about to leave the
fort, it was found that the baggage horses of the surgeon had strayed
off. The quartermaster sergeant, Griffith, was sent to find 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.
For a long time Griffith had been on the sick report and for this reason
was given charge of the baggage, instead of being placed with the
troops. His efforts to recover the horses proved unsuccessful, and,
alarmed at certain appearances of disorder and hostile intention among
the Indians, he was hastening to rejoin his party when he was met and
made prisoner by To-pee-nee-bee.
Having taken his arms and accouterments from him, the chief put him
into a canoe and paddled him across the river, bidding him make for the
woods and secrete himself. This Griffith did; and in the afternoon of
the following day, seeing from his lurking place that all appeared
quiet, he ventured to steal cautiously into Ouilmette's garden, 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,
entering just as the Wabash Indians had 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
deerskin, with belt, moccasins, and pipe, like a French _engagé_. His
dark complexion and heavy black whiskers favored the disguise. The
family were all ordered to address him in French, and, although
utterly ignorant of this language, he continued to pass for a
_Weem-tee-gosh_,[10] and as such remained with Mr. Kinzie and his
family, undetected by his enemies, until they reached a place of
safety.
On the third day after the battle, Mr. Kinzie and his family, 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, where
they remained until the following November, under the protection of
To-pee-nee-bee's band. With the exception of Mr. Kinzie they were then
conducted to Detroit, under the escort of Chandonnai and their trusty
Indian friend, Kee-po-tah, and delivered as prisoners of war to Colonel
McKee, the British Indian Agent.
Mr. Kinzie himself was held at St. Joseph and did not succeed in
rejoining his family until some months later. On his arrival at Detroit
he was paroled by General Proctor.
Lieutenant 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 through the intervention of Mr. Thomas Forsyth, the half
brother of Mr. Kinzie. Mrs. Helm accompanied her parents to St. Joseph,
where they resided for several months in the family of Alexander
Robinson,[11] receiving from them all possible kindness and hospitality.
Later Mrs. Helm was joined by her husband in Detroit, where they both
were 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 had been no official
appointed to receive them, and, notwithstanding their long and fatiguing
journey in the coldest, most inclement weather, Mrs. Helm, a delicate
woman of seventeen years, was permitted to sit waiting in her saddle,
outside the gate, for more than an hour, before the refreshment of fire
or food, or even the shelter of a roof, was offered her. When Colonel
Sheaffe, who was 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 Lieutenant Helm with the greatest consideration and
kindness, until, by an exchange of prisoners, they were liberated and
found means of reaching their friends in Steuben County, N. Y.
Captain and Mrs. Heald were sent across the lake to St. Joseph the day
after the battle. The Captain had received two wounds in the engagement,
his wife seven.
Captain Heald had been taken prisoner by an Indian from the Kankakee,
who had a strong personal regard for him, and who, when he saw Mrs.
Heald's wounded and enfeebled state, released her husband that he might
accompany her to St. Joseph. To the latter place they were accordingly
carried 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 and reclaim
his prisoner.
News of his intention being brought to To-pee-nee-bee and Kee-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 Captain 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 Captain Heald's procrastinating spirit it may be
mentioned that, even after he had received positive word that his Indian
captor was on the way from the Kankakee to St. Joseph to retake him, he
would still have delayed at that place another day, to make preparation
for a more comfortable journey to Mackinac.
The soldiers from Fort Dearborn, with their wives and surviving
children, were dispersed among the different villages of the Potowatomi
upon the Illinois, Wabash, and Rock rivers, and at Milwaukee, until the
following spring, when the greater number of them were carried to
Detroit and ransomed.
Mrs. Burns, with her infant, became the prisoner 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 barely failed in her attempt to put it to
death.[12] Mrs. Burns and her child were not left long in the power of
the old squaw after this demonstration, but on the first opportunity
were 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 had run down with the discharged soldier
to give the alarm of "Indians," at the fort, on the afternoon of April
7. The father, the son, and all the other members of the family except
Mrs. Lee and her young infant had fallen victims to the Indians on
August 15. The two survivors were claimed by Black Partridge, and
carried by him to his village on the Au Sable. He had been particularly
attached to a little twelve-year-old girl of Mrs. Lee's. This child had
been placed on horseback for the march; and, as she was unaccustomed to
riding, she was tied fast to the saddle, lest she should slip or be
thrown off.
She was within reach of the balls at the commencement of the engagement,
and was severely wounded. The horse, setting off at a full gallop,
partly threw her; but held fast by the bands which confined her, she
hung dangling as the animal ran wildly about. In this state she was met
by Black Partridge, who caught the horse and disengaged the child from
the saddle. Finding her so badly wounded that she could not recover, and
seeing that she was in great agony, he at once put an end to her pain
with his tomahawk. This, he afterwards said, was the hardest thing he
had ever done, but he did it because he could not bear to see the child
suffer.
Black Partridge soon became warmly attached to the mother--so much so,
that he wished to marry her; and, though she very naturally objected, he
continued to treat her with the greatest respect and consideration. He
was in no hurry to release her, for he was still in hopes of prevailing
upon her to become his wife. In the course of the winter her child fell
ill. Finding that none of the remedies within their reach was effectual,
Black Partridge proposed to take the little one to Chicago, to a French
trader then living in the house of Mr. Kinzie, and procure medical aid
from him. Wrapping up his charge with the greatest care, he set out on
his journey.
Arriving at the residence of M. Du Pin, he entered the room where the
Frenchman was, and carefully placed his burden 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 the child, and Black Partridge was
about to return to his home, he told his friend of the proposal he had
made to Mrs. Lee to become his wife, and the manner in which it had been
received.
M. Du Pin entertained some fear that the chief's honorable resolution to
allow the lady herself to decide whether or not to accept his addresses
might not hold out, and at once entered into a negotiation for her
ransom. So effectually were the good feelings of Black Partridge wrought
upon that he consented to bring his fair prisoner to Chicago
immediately, 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 course of time Mrs. Lee became Madame Du Pin, and that the
worthy couple lived together in great happiness for many years after.
The fate of Nau-non-gee, a chief of the Calumet village, deserves to be
recorded.
During the battle of August 15, the principal object of his attack was
one Sergeant Hays, a man from whom he had accepted many kindnesses.
After Hays had received a ball through the body, this Indian ran up to
tomahawk him, when the sergeant, summoning his remaining strength,
pierced him through the body with his bayonet. The two fell together.
Other Indians running up soon dispatched Hays, and not until then was
his bayonet extracted from the body of his adversary.
After the battle the wounded chief was carried 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 out of respect to his memory to take the lives of none of
them; for he himself fully deserved his fate at the hands of the man
whose kindness he had so ill requited.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This narrative related by two of the survivors, Mrs. John Kinzie and
Mrs. Helm, to Mrs. Juliette A. Kinzie, is taken from "Waubun." It was
first published in pamphlet form in 1836; was transferred, with little
variation, to Brown's "History of Illinois," and to a work called
"Western Annals." Major Richardson likewise made it the basis of his two
tales, "Hardscrabble," and "Wau-nan-gee."
[2] Burns' house stood near the spot where the Agency Building, or
"Cobweb Castle," was afterwards erected, at the foot of North State
Street.
[3] A trading-establishment--now Ypsilanti.
[4] Captain Wells, when a boy, was stolen by the Miami Indians from the
family of Hon. Nathaniel Pope in Kentucky. Although recovered by them,
he preferred to return and live among his new friends. He married a
Miami woman, and became a chief of the nation. He was the father of Mrs.
Judge Wolcott of Maumee, Ohio.
[5] The spot now called Bertrand, then known as _Parc aux Vaches_, from
its having been a favorite "stamping-ground" of the buffalo which
abounded in the country.
[6] Mrs. Helm is represented by the female figure in the bronze group
erected by George M. Pullman, at the foot of 18th Street, to commemorate
the massacre which took place at that spot.
[7] The exact spot of this encounter was about where 21st Street crosses
Indiana Avenue.
[8] Along the present State Street.
[9] Billy Caldwell was a half-breed, and a chief of the nation. In his
reply, "I am a Sau-ga-nash," or Englishman, he designed to convey, "I am
a white man." Had he said, "I am a Potowatomi," it would have been
interpreted to mean, "I belong to my nation, and am prepared to go all
lengths with them."
[10] Frenchman.
[11] The Potowatomi chief, so well known to many of the early citizens
of Chicago.
[12] Twenty-two years after this, as I [Mrs. Juliette A. Kinzie] was on
a journey to Chicago in the steamer "Uncle Sam," a young woman, hearing
my name, introduced herself to me, and, raising the hair from her
forehead, showed me the mark of the tomahawk which had so nearly been
fatal to her.
[Illustration: _The old Kinzie house_]
JOHN KINZIE
A SKETCH
John McKenzie, or, as he was afterwards called, John Kinzie, was the son
of Surgeon John McKenzie of the 60th Royal American Regiment of Foot,
and of Anne Haleyburton, the widow of Chaplain William Haleyburton of
the First or Royal American Regiment of Foot.
Major Haleyburton died soon after their arrival in America, and two
years later his widow married Surgeon John McKenzie. Their son John was
born in Quebec, December 3, 1763.
In the old family Bible the "Mc" is dropped in recording the birth of
"John Kinsey" (so spelled), thus indicating that he was known as John
Kinsey, or, as he himself spelled it, "Kinzie," from early childhood.
Major McKenzie survived the birth of his son but a few months, and his
widow took for her third husband Mr. William Forsyth, of New York City.
Young John grew up under the care and supervision of his stepfather, Mr.
Forsyth, until at the age of ten he began his adventurous career by
running away.
He and his two half brothers attended a school at Williamsburg, L. I.,
escorted there every Monday by a servant, who came to take them home
every Friday. One fine afternoon when the servant came for the boys
Master Johnny was missing. An immediate search was made, but not a trace
of him could be found. His mother was almost frantic. The mysterious
disappearance of her bright, handsome boy was a fearful blow.
Days passed without tidings of the lost one, and hope fled. The only
solution suggested was, that he might have been accidentally drowned and
his body swept out to sea.
Meantime Master John was very much alive.
He had determined to go to Quebec to try, as he afterwards explained, to
discover some of his father's relatives.
He had managed to find a sloop which was just going up the Hudson, and
with the confidence and audacity of a child, stepped gaily on board and
set forth on his travels.
Most fortunately for him, he attracted the notice of a passenger who was
going to Quebec, and who began to question the lonely little lad. He
became so interested in the boy that he took him in charge, paid his
fare, and landed him safely in his native city.
But here, alas, Master Johnny soon found himself stranded. Very cold,
very hungry, and very miserable, he was wandering down one of the
streets of Quebec when his attention was attracted by a glittering array
of watches and silver in a shop window, where a man was sitting
repairing a clock.
Johnny stood gazing wistfully in. His yellow curls, blue eyes, and
pathetic little face appealed to the kind silversmith, who beckoned him
into the shop and soon learned his story.
"And what are you going to do now?" asked the man.
"I am going to work," replied ten-year-old valiantly.
"Why, what could you do?" laughed the man.
"I could do anything you told me to do, if you just showed me how to do
it," said John.
The result was that John got a job.
The silversmith had no children, and as the months rolled on he grew
more and more fond of John. He taught him as much of his trade as the
lad could acquire in the three years of his stay in Quebec. Later in his
life this knowledge was of great value to him, for it enabled him to
secure the friendship and assistance of the Indians by fashioning for
them various ornaments and "tokens" from the silver money paid them as
annuities by the United States Government. The Indians called him
"Shaw-nee-aw-kee" or the Silver Man, and by that name he was known among
all the tribes of the Northwest.
These happy and useful years drew to a close. As John was one day
walking down the street, a gentleman from New York stopped him and
said: "Are you not Johnny Kinzie?" John admitted that he was, and the
gentleman, armed with the astonishing news and the boy's address,
promptly communicated with Mr. Forsyth, who at once came to Quebec and
took the runaway home.
His rejoicing mother doubtless saved him from the sound thrashing he
richly deserved at the hands of his stepfather.
John had now had enough of running away, and was content to stay at home
and buckle down to his books. The few letters of his which remain and
are preserved in the Chicago Historical Society give evidence of an
excellent education.
The roving spirit was still alive in him, however. Mr. Forsyth had moved
West and settled in Detroit, and when John was about eighteen years old
he persuaded his stepfather to fit him out as an Indian trader.
This venture proved a great success. Before he was one and twenty, young
Kinzie had established two trading posts, one at Sandusky and one at
Maumee, and was pushing towards the west, where he later started a
depot at St. Joseph, Michigan.
John Kinzie's success as an Indian trader was almost phenomenal. He
acquired the language of the Indians with great facility; he respected
their customs, and they soon found that his "word was as good as his
bond." He was a keen trader, not allowing himself to be cheated, nor
attempting to cheat the Indians. He quickly gained the confidence and
esteem of the various tribes with which he dealt, and the personal
friendship of many of their most powerful chiefs, who showed themselves
ready to shield him in danger, and to rescue him from harm at the risk
of their lives.
When in the neighborhood of Detroit, he stayed with his half brother,
William Forsyth, who had married a Miss Margaret Lytle, daughter of
Colonel William Lytle of Virginia. In their home he was always a welcome
guest; and here he met Mrs. Forsyth's younger sister, Eleanor. She was
the widow of a British officer, Captain Daniel McKillip, who had been
killed in a sortie from Ft. Defiance. Since her husband's death, she
and her little daughter Margaret had made their home with the Forsyths.
John Kinzie fell desperately in love with the handsome young widow, and
on January 23, 1798, they were married.
In all of his new and arduous career he had been greatly aided and
protected by John Harris, the famous Indian scout and trader mentioned
by Irving in his Life of Washington (Volume 1, Chapter XII). It was in
grateful appreciation of these kindnesses that he named his son "John
Harris," after this valued friend.
Mr. Kinzie continued to extend his business still farther west, until in
October, 1803, when his son John Harris was but three months old, he
moved with his family to Chicago, where he purchased the trading
establishment of a Frenchman named Le Mai.
Here, cut off from the world at large, with no society but the garrison
at Fort Dearborn, the Kinzies lived in contentment, and in the quiet
enjoyment of all the comforts, together with many of the luxuries of
life. The first white child born outside of Fort Dearborn was their
little daughter Ellen Marion, on December 20, 1805. Next came Maria,
born September 28, 1807. Then, last, Robert Allan, born February 8,
1810.
By degrees, Mr. Kinzie established still more remote posts, all
contributing to the parent post at Chicago; at Milwaukee, with the
Menominee; at Rock River with the Winnebago and the Potowatomi; on the
Illinois River and the Kankakee with the Prairie Potowatomi; and with
the Kickapoo in what was called "Le Large," the widely extended district
afterwards converted into Sangamon County. He was appointed Sub-Indian
Agent and Government Interpreter, and in these capacities rendered
valuable service.
About the year 1810, a Frenchman named Lalime was killed by John Kinzie
under the following circumstances: Lalime had become insanely jealous of
Mr. Kinzie's success as a rival trader, and was unwise enough to
threaten to take Kinzie's life. The latter only laughed at the reports,
saying "Threatened men live long, and I am not worrying over Lalime's
wild talk." Several of his stanchest Indian friends, however, continued
to warn him, and he at last consented to carry some sort of weapon in
case Lalime really had the folly to attack him. He accordingly took a
carving knife from the house and began sharpening it on a grindstone in
the woodshed.
Young John stood beside him, much interested in this novel proceeding.
"What are you doing, father?" he asked.
"Sharpening this knife, my son," was the reply.
"What for?" said John.
"Go into the house," replied his father, "and don't ask questions about
things that don't concern you."
A few days passed. Nothing happened; but Mr. Kinzie carried the knife.
Mrs. Kinzie's daughter by her first marriage was now seventeen years
old, and was the wife of Lieutenant Linai Thomas Helm, one of the
officers stationed at Fort Dearborn, and Mr. Kinzie frequently went
over there to spend the evening. One very dark night he sauntered over
to the fort, and was just entering the inclosure, when a man sprang out
from behind the gate post and plunged a knife into his neck. It was
Lalime. Quick as a flash, Mr. Kinzie drew his own knife and dealt Lalime
a furious blow, and a fatal one. The man fell like a log into the river
below. Mr. Kinzie staggered home, covered with blood from the deep
wound.
The late Gurdon S. Hubbard, in a letter to a grandson of John Kinzie's,
gives the following account of the affair:
143 Locust St., Chicago, Ill.,
Feb. 6th, 1884.
Arthur M. Kinzie, Esq.,
My Dear Sir,
I have yours of 5th. You corroborate what I have said about your
grandfather killing Lalime as far as you state. I am glad you do. I
cannot forget what I heard from your grandmother and Mrs. Helm.
They said your grandfather, coming in bloody, said "I have killed
Lalime. A guard will be sent from the Fort to take me. Dress my
neck quickly!" Your grandmother did so, remarking "They shall not
take you to the fort--come with me to the woods." She hid him, came
home, and soon a Sergeant with guard appeared. Could not find your
grandfather.
After the excitement was over, the officers began to reason on the
subject calmly, for Lalime was highly respected, good social
company, educated. They came to the conclusion that the act was in
self defence. The history of Chicago, by Mr. Andreas will soon be
out. He sent me the account relating to your grandfather to revise.
Much in it incorrect, which I have explained.
Can't you come and see me?
Your friend,
G. S. Hubbard.
As far as it goes this account agrees with the facts as held by the
family. The Kinzies, however, always stated that after the excitement
subsided, as it did in a few weeks, Mr. Kinzie sent word to the
commanding officer at the fort that he wished to come in, give himself
up, and have a fair trial. This was granted. The fresh wounds in his
neck--the thrust had barely missed the jugular vein--and the testimony
given as to the threats Lalime had uttered, resulted in an immediate
verdict of justifiable homicide.
In the meantime some of Lalime's friends conceived the idea that it
would be a suitable punishment for Mr. Kinzie to bury his victim
directly in front of the Kinzie home, where he must necessarily behold
the grave every time he passed out of his own gate. Great was their
chagrin and disappointment, however, when Mr. Kinzie, far from being
annoyed at their action, proceeded to make Lalime's grave his special
care.
Flowers were planted on it and it was kept in most beautiful order. Many
a half hour the Kinzie children longed to spend in play, was occupied by
their father's order in raking the dead leaves away from Lalime's grave
and watering the flowers there.
About two years subsequent to this event the Fort Dearborn Massacre
occurred. John Kinzie's part in that tragedy has already been given in
Helm's narrative.
After the massacre Mr. Kinzie was not allowed to leave St. Joseph with
his family, his Indian friends insisting that he remain and endeavor 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.
His anxiety for his family at length became so great that he followed
them to Detroit, where he was paroled by General Proctor in January.
At the surrender of Detroit, which took place the day before the
massacre at Chicago, General Hull had stipulated that the inhabitants
should be permitted to remain undisturbed in their homes. Accordingly,
the family of Mr. Kinzie took up their residence among their friends in
the old mansion which many will recollect as standing on the northwest
corner of Jefferson Avenue and Wayne Street, Detroit.
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 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
Colonel McKee. Sometimes 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 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 General Proctor, to be tortured
and murdered by inches by his savage allies--excited the sympathy 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 accomplish this, even articles of
apparel were bartered by the ladies of Detroit, as from doors or windows
they watched 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 of
as arousing 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 by the Kinzies was effected by black Jim and one
of the children, who had permission to redeem a negro servant of the
gallant Colonel Allen with an old white horse, the only available
article that remained among their possessions. A brother of Colonel
Allen's 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 his arrival suspicion arose in the
mind of General Proctor that he was in correspondence with General
Harrison, who was now at Fort Meigs, and who was believed to be
meditating an advance upon Detroit. Lieutenant Watson, of the British
army, waited upon Mr. Kinzie one day with an invitation to the quarters
of General Proctor on the opposite side of the river, saying the General
wished to speak with him on business.
Quite unsuspecting, Mr. Kinzie complied with the request, when to his
surprise he was ordered into confinement, and strictly guarded in the
house of his former partner, Mr. Patterson, of Sandwich.
Finding he did not return home, Mrs. Kinzie informed some Indian chiefs,
Mr. Kinzie's 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 until a
favorable opportunity presented itself, the General sent a detachment of
dragoons to arrest Mr. Kinzie. They 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 Shaw-nee-aw-kee?" was the first question.
"There," replied his wife, pointing across the river, "in the hands of
the redcoats, who are taking him away again."
The Indians ran down to the river, seized some canoes they found there,
and, crossing over to Sandwich, a second time compelled General Proctor
to forego his intentions.
A third time this officer attempted to imprison Mr. Kinzie, and this
time succeeded in conveying him heavily ironed to Fort Malden, 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 September 10, 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 hour allotted to 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 must be an engagement between
ships of war. At length Mr. Kinzie was reminded that he must return to
confinement. 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 gunboats in pursuit of her.
"She is running--she bears the British colors!" cried Kinzie. "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 in any way explain the course of
General Proctor in regard to this gentleman. He had been taken from the
bosom of his family, where he was living quietly under the parole he had
received, protected by the stipulations of the surrender. For months he
had been kept 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 to prevent his escape, and thus set out for Quebec. A
little incident occurred which will illustrate the course invariably
pursued towards our citizens at this period by the British army on the
Northwestern frontier.
The saddle on which Mr. Kinzie rode had not been properly fastened, and,
owing to the rough motion of the animal it turned, bringing 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 to ride
until nearly exhausted, before those in charge had the humanity to
release him.
Arrived at Quebec, he was put on board a small vessel to be sent to
England. When a few days out at sea the vessel 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 Mr. Kinzie across the ocean was now abandoned, and
he was returned to Quebec. Another step, equally inexplicable with his
arrest, was soon after taken.
Although the War of 1812 was not yet ended, Mr. Kinzie, together with a
Mr. Macomb, of Detroit, who was also in confinement in Quebec, was
released and given permission to return to his friends and family. It
may possibly be imagined that in the treatment these gentlemen received,
the British commander-in-chief sheltered himself under the plea of their
being "native born British subjects," and that 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 September 29. All the citizens went forth to meet
him. Mrs. Kinzie, leading her children, 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.
Fort Dearborn was rebuilt in 1816, on a larger scale than before, and,
on the return of the troops, the bones of the unfortunate Americans who
had been massacred four years previously were collected and buried.
In this same year Mr. Kinzie and his family again returned to Chicago,
where he at once undertook to collect the scattered remnants of his
property--a most disheartening task. He found his various trading-posts
abandoned, his clerks scattered, and his valuable furs and goods lost or
destroyed.
In real estate, however, he was rich--for he owned nearly all the land
on the north side of the Chicago River, and many acres on the south and
west sides, as well as all of what was known as "Kinzie's Addition."
At the present day the "Kinzie School," and the street which bears his
name, are all that remain to remind this generation of the pioneer on
whose land now stands the wonderful City of Chicago.
Mr. Kinzie, recognizing the importance of the geographical position of
Chicago, and the vast fertility of the surrounding country, had always
foretold its eventual prosperity. Unfortunately, he was not permitted to
witness the fulfillment of his predictions.
On January 6, 1828, he was stricken with apoplexy, and in a few hours
death closed his useful and energetic career.
He lies buried in Graceland Cemetery, Chicago. Loyal in life, death has
mingled his ashes with the soil of the city whose future greatness he
was perhaps the first to foresee.
John Kinzie was not only the sturdy, helpful pioneer, but also the
genial, courteous gentleman.
To keen business ability he united the strictest honesty, and to the
most dauntless courage, a tender and generous heart.
As the devoted friend of the red man, tradition has handed down the name
of Shaw-nee-aw-kee throughout all the tribes of the Northwest.
[Illustration: _Cornplanter, a Seneca chief_]
THE CAPTURE BY THE INDIANS OF LITTLE ELEANOR LYTLE[13]
It is well known that previous to the War of the Revolution the whole of
western Pennsylvania was inhabited by various 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 Susquehanna. The
numerous roving bands of Shawano, Nanticoke, and other Indians, although
at times professing friendship for the Americans and acting in concert
with the Delawares or Lenape as allies, at other times suffered
themselves to be seduced by their neighbors, the Iroquois, into showing
a most sanguinary spirit of hostility.
For this reason the life of the settlers on the frontier was one of
constant peril and alarm. Many a dismal scene of 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
farther west among the fertile valleys of the Allegheny and Monongahela.
Among these was the family of Mr. Lytle, who, some years previous to the
opening of our story, had removed from Baltimore to Path Valley, near
Carlisle, and subsequently had settled on the banks of Plum River, a
tributary of the Allegheny. Here, with his wife and five children, he
had lived in comfort and security, undisturbed by any hostile visit, and
annoyed only by occasional false alarms from his more timorous
neighbors, who, having had sad experience in frontier life, were prone
to anticipate evil, and magnify every appearance of danger.
On a bright afternoon in the autumn of 1779, two of Mr. Lytle's
children, a girl of eight and her brother, two years younger, were
playing in a little hollow in the rear of their father's house. Some
large trees which had recently been felled were lying here and there,
still untrimmed, and many logs, prepared for fuel, were scattered
around. Upon one of these logs the children, wearied with their sport,
seated themselves, and 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 the children had become familiar and even affectionate with
many of them, but this Indian had seemed to be a stranger, and after the
first hasty glance they had fled in alarm to the house.
Their mother had chid them for bringing such a report, which she had
endeavored to convince them was without foundation. "You know," said
she, "you are always alarming us unnecessarily: the neighbors' children
have frightened you nearly to death. Go back to your play, and learn to
be more courageous."
So, hardly persuaded by their mother's arguments, the children had
returned to their sports. Now as they sat upon the trunk of the tree,
their discourse was interrupted by what seemed to be the note of a quail
not far off.
"Listen," said the boy, as a second note answered the first; "do you
hear that?"
"Yes," replied his sister, 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 home. After traveling some distance in profound silence, their
captors somewhat relaxed their severity, and as night approached the
party halted, adopting the usual precautions to secure themselves
against a surprise.
Torn from their beloved home and parents, in an agony of uncertainty and
terror, and anticipating all the horrors with which the rumors of the
times had invested captivity among the Indians--perhaps even torture and
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 camping place,
offered them a portion of his own stock of dried meat and parched corn,
and made them understand by signs that no further evil was intended.
These kindly demonstrations were interrupted by the arrival of another
party of Indians, bringing with them the mother of the little prisoners,
with her youngest child, an infant three months old.
It had so happened that early in the day the father of the family, with
his serving men, had gone to a "raising" a few miles distant, and the
house had thus been left without a defender. The long period of
tranquillity they had enjoyed, free from all molestation or even alarm
from the savages, had thrown the settlers quite off their guard, and
they had recently laid aside some of the caution they had formerly
deemed necessary.
By lying in wait, the Indians had found a favorable moment for seizing
the defenseless 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 the savages into whose
hands she and her children had fallen were Senecas. Nor was she
mistaken. They were 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, they 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 the 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 could learn nothing from their mother as to the fate of
their other brother and sister, a boy of six and a little girl of four
years of age, though she was in hopes they had escaped with the servant
girl, who had likewise disappeared.
After delaying a few hours in order to revive the exhausted prisoners,
the savages again started on their march, one of the older Indians
offering to relieve the mother of the burden of her infant, which she
had hitherto carried in her arms. Pleased with the unexpected kindness,
she resigned the child to him.
Thus they pursued their way, the savage who carried the infant lingering
somewhat behind the rest of the party. At last, finding a spot
convenient for his evil 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 then rejoined
the party.
The mother, unaware of what had happened, regarded him suspiciously as
he reappeared without the child--then gazed wildly around the group. Her
beloved little one was not there. Its absence spoke its fate; but,
knowing the lives of her remaining children depended upon her firmness
in that trying hour, she suppressed a shriek of agony and, drawing them
yet closer to her, pursued her melancholy way without word or question.
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 survivors; for she
saw that if blood had been the sole object of their enemies her scalp
and the scalps of 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 dared to hope for.
Particularly had she observed his soothing manner and manifest
partiality towards her eldest child, her little Eleanor, and upon these
slender foundations she built many bright hopes of either escape or
ransom.
After a toilsome and painful march of many days, the party reached the
Seneca village, upon the headwaters of the Allegheny, near what is now
Olean Point. On their arrival their conductor, a chief distinguished by
the name of the Big White Man,[14] led his prisoners to the principal
lodge. This was occupied by his mother, the widow of the head chief of
the band, who was called the Old Queen.
On entering her presence, her son presented the little girl, saying, "My
mother, I bring you a child to take the place of my brother who was
killed by the Lenape 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, Colonel Johnson,
an excellent and benevolent gentleman, who resided at Fort Niagara, on
the British side of the Niagara River.
The Old Queen carried out the injunctions of her son. She received the
prisoners, and every comfort that her simple and primitive mode of life
made possible was provided them.
We must now return to the time and place at which our story commences.
Late in the evening of that day the father returned to his dwelling. All
around and within was silent and desolate. No trace of a living
creature was to be found in the house or throughout the 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 after another joined him in
the search. At length, at one of the houses, the maid servant who had
effected her escape was found. Her first place of refuge, she said, had
been a large brewing tub in an outer kitchen, under which she had
secreted herself until the Indians, who were evidently in haste,
departed and gave her the opportunity of fleeing to a place of greater
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 last, having scoured the neighborhood without success, Mr. Lytle
thought of an old settler who lived alone, far up the valley. Thither he
and his friends immediately repaired, and from him they learned that,
while 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 perceived that they had prisoners
with them--a woman and a child. The woman he knew to be 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. The night had been passed in fruitless
search, and, after consultation with kind friends and neighbors, the
agonized father accepted their offer to accompany him to Fort Pitt that
they might ask advice and assistance of the commandant and Indian Agent
there.
Proceeding down the valley, they approached a hut which the night before
they had found apparently deserted, and were startled by seeing two
children standing in front of it. In them the delighted father
recognized two of his missing flock, but no tidings could they give him
of their mother or of the other members of his family.
Their story was simple and touching. They had been playing in the garden
when they were alarmed by seeing Indians enter the yard near the house.
Unperceived, the brother, who was but six years of age, helped his
little sister over the fence into a field overrun with wild blackberry
and raspberry bushes. Among these they concealed themselves for awhile,
and then, finding all quiet, attempted to force their way to the side of
the field farthest from the house. Unfortunately, in her play in the
garden the little girl had pulled off her shoes and stockings, and now
with the briers pricking and tearing her tender feet, she could with
difficulty refrain from crying out. Her brother took off his stockings
and put them on her feet, and attempted to protect her with his shoes,
also; but they were too large, and kept slipping off, so that she could
not wear them. For a time the children persevered in making their escape
from what they considered certain death, for, as was said, they 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 that she
could not go any farther.
"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, 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 child
strength, and she promised her brother she would neither complain nor
falter if he would help her make her way out of the field.
The little boy's idea that he could save his sister from savage
barbarity only by taking her life shows with what tales of horror the
children of the early settlers were familiar.
After a few more efforts, they made their way out of the field into an
open pasture ground where, to their great delight, they saw some cows
feeding. They recognized the animals as belonging to Granny Myers, an
old woman who lived at some little distance from the place where they
then were, but in what direction they were utterly ignorant.
With a sagacity beyond his years the boy said, "Let us hide ourselves
till sunset. Then the cows will go home, and we will follow them."
This they did; but, to their dismay, when they reached Granny Myers's
they found the house deserted. The old woman had been called down the
valley by some business, and did not return that night.
Tired and hungry, the children could go no farther, and after an almost
fruitless endeavor to get some milk from the cows, lay down to sleep
under an old bedstead that stood behind the house. During the night
their father and his party caused them additional terror. The shouts and
calls which had been designed to arouse the inmates of the house the
children mistook for the whoop of the Indians, and, unable to
distinguish friends from foes, crept close to each other, as far out of
sight as possible. When found the following morning, they were debating
what course for safety to take next.
The commandant at Fort Pitt entered warmly into the affairs of Mr.
Lytle, and readily furnished a detachment of soldiers to aid him and his
friends in the pursuit of the marauders. Circumstances having thrown
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
inveterate in their hostility toward the Americans. Thus some time
elapsed before the father with his assistants reached the village of the
Big White Man.
Negotiations for the ransom of the captives were immediately begun and
in the case of Mrs. Lytle and the younger child easily carried into
effect. But no offers, no entreaties, no promises could procure the
release of 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 to shake this resolution unavailing, the father was
compelled to take his sorrowful departure with the loved ones he had had
the good fortune to recover.
We will not attempt to depict the grief of parents thus compelled to
give up a darling child, leaving her in the hands of savages whom until
now they had had too much reason to regard as merciless. But there was
no alternative; so commending her to the care of their heavenly Father,
and cheered by the manifest tenderness with which she had thus far been
treated, they set out on their melancholy journey homeward, trusting
that some future effort for her recovery would be more effectual.
Having placed his family in safety in Pittsburgh, Mr. Lytle, still
assisted by the commandant and the Indian Agent, undertook an expedition
to the frontier to the residence of the British Agent, Colonel Johnson.
His account of the case warmly interested that benevolent officer, who
promised to spare no exertion in his behalf. This promise was
religiously fulfilled. As soon as the opening of spring permitted,
Colonel Johnson went in person to the village of the Big White Man, and
offered the chief many splendid presents of guns and horses; but he was
inexorable.
Time rolled on, and every year the hope of recovering the little captive
became more faint. She, in the meantime, continued to wind herself more
and more closely around the heart of her Indian brother. Nothing could
exceed the consideration and affection with which she was treated, not
only by him, but by his mother, the Old Queen. All their brooches and
wampum were employed in the decoration of her person. The chief seat and
the most delicate viands were invariably reserved for her, and no
efforts were spared to promote her happiness and banish from her mind
memories of her former home and kindred.
Thus, though she had beheld the departure of her parents and her dear
little brother with a feeling amounting almost to despair, and had for a
long while resisted every attempt at consolation, time at length, as it
ever does, brought its soothing balm, and she grew contented and happy.
From her activity and forcefulness, characteristics for which she was
remarkable to the end of her life, she was given the name, "The Ship
under Full Sail."
The only drawback to the happiness of the little prisoner, aside from
her longing for her own dear home, was the enmity of the wife of the Big
White Man. This woman, from the day of Eleanor's arrival at the village
and her adoption as a sister into the family, had conceived for the
child the greatest animosity, which she at first had the prudence to
conceal from her husband.
It was perhaps natural that a wife should give way to some feeling of
jealousy at seeing her place in the heart of her husband usurped by the
child of their enemy, the American. But these feelings were aggravated
by a bad and vindictive temper, as well as by the indifference with
which her husband listened to her complaints and murmurings.
As the woman had no children of her own to engage her attention, her
mind was the more easily engrossed and inflamed by her fancied wrongs,
and the devising of means for their redress. An apparent opportunity for
revenge was not long wanting.
During the absence of the Big White Man upon some war party or hunting
excursion, little Eleanor was taken ill with fever and ague. She was
nursed with the utmost tenderness by the Old Queen; and the wife of the
chief, to lull suspicion, was likewise unwearied in her attentions to
the little favorite.
One afternoon while the Old Queen was absent for a short time, her
daughter-in-law entered the lodge with a bowl of something she had
prepared, and, stooping down to the mat on which the child lay, said, in
an affectionate tone, "Drink, my sister. I have brought you that which
will drive this fever far from you."
On raising her head to reply, the little girl saw a pair of eyes
peeping through a crevice in the lodge, fixed upon her with a peculiar
and significant expression. With the quick perception due partly to
instinct and partly to her intercourse with the red people, she replied
faintly, "Set it down, my sister. When this fit of the fever has passed,
I will drink your medicine."
The squaw, too cautious to importune, busied herself about the lodge for
a short time; then withdrew to another near at hand. Meantime the bright
eyes continued to peer through the opening until they had watched the
object of their gaze fairly out of sight. Then a low voice, the voice of
a young friend and playfellow, spoke: "Do not drink that which your
brother's wife has brought you. She hates you, and is only waiting an
opportunity to rid herself of you. I have watched her all the morning,
and have seen her gathering the most deadly roots and herbs. I knew for
whom they were intended, and came hither to warn you."
"Take the bowl," said the little invalid, "and carry it to my mother's
lodge."
This was accordingly done. The contents of the bowl were found to
consist principally of a decoction of the root of the May-apple, the
most deadly poison known among the Indians.
It is not in the power of language to describe the indignation that
pervaded the little community when this discovery was made known. The
squaws ran to and fro, as is their custom when excited, each vying with
the other in heaping invectives upon the culprit. For the present,
however, no further punishment was inflicted upon her, and, the first
burst of rage over, she was treated with silent abhorrence.
The little patient was removed to the lodge of the Old Queen and
strictly guarded, while her enemy was left to wander in silence and
solitude about the fields and woods, until the return of her husband
should determine her punishment.
In a few days, the excursion being over, the Big White Man and his party
returned to the village. Contrary to the custom of savages, he did not,
in his first passion at learning the attempt on the life of his little
sister, take summary vengeance on the offender. Instead, he contented
himself with banishing the squaw from his lodge, never to return, and in
condemning her to hoe corn in a distant part of the large field or
inclosure which served the whole community for a garden.
Although thereafter she would still show her vindictiveness toward the
little girl by striking at her with her hoe, or by some other spiteful
action whenever, by chance, Eleanor and her companions wandered into
that vicinity, yet she was either too well watched or stood too much in
awe of her former husband to repeat the attempt upon his sister's life.
Four years had now elapsed since the capture of little Nelly. Her heart
was by nature warm and affectionate, and the unbounded tenderness of
those among whom she dwelt called forth in her a corresponding feeling.
She regarded the chief and his mother with love and reverence, and had
so completely acquired their language and customs as almost to have
forgotten her own.
So identified had she become with the tribe that the remembrance of her
home and family had nearly faded from her mind--all but the memory of
her mother, her mother, whom she had loved with a strength of affection
natural to her warm and ardent disposition, and to whom her heart still
clung with a fondness that no time or change could destroy.
The peace of 1783 between Great Britain and the United States was now
effected, in consequence of which there was a general pacification of
the Indian tribes, and fresh hopes were aroused in the bosoms of Mr. and
Mrs. Lytle.
They removed with their family to Fort Niagara, near which, on the
American side, was the Great Council Fire of the Senecas. Colonel
Johnson again readily undertook negotiations with the chief in their
behalf, and, in order to lose no chance of success, he again proceeded
in person to the village of the Big White Man.
His visit was most opportune. He arrived among the Senecas during the
Feast of the Green Corn. This observance, which corresponds so
strikingly with the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles that, together with
other customs, it has led many to believe the Indian nations the
descendants of the lost ten tribes of Israel, made it a season of
general joy and festivity. All occupations were suspended to give place
to social enjoyment in the open air or in arbors formed of the green
branches of the trees. Every one appeared in gala dress. That of the
little adopted child consisted of a petticoat of blue broadcloth,
bordered with gay-colored ribbons, and a sack or upper garment of black
silk, ornamented with three rows of silver brooches, the center ones
from the throat to the hem being large, while those from the shoulders
down were as small as a shilling piece and as closely set as possible.
Around her neck were innumerable strings of white and purple wampum--an
Indian ornament manufactured from the inner surface of the mussel shell.
Her hair was clubbed behind and loaded with beads of various colors,
while leggings of scarlet cloth and moccasins of deerskin embroidered
with porcupine quills completed her costume.
Colonel Johnson was received with all the consideration due his position
and the long friendship that existed between him and the tribe.
Observing that the hilarity of the festival had warmed and opened all
hearts, the Colonel took occasion in an interview with the chief to
expatiate upon the parental affection which had led the father and
mother of little Eleanor to give up friends and home and come hundreds
of miles, in the single hope of looking upon their child and embracing
her. The heart of the chief softened as he listened to this recital, and
he was induced to promise that he would attend the Grand Council soon to
be held at Fort Niagara, on the British side of the river, and bring his
little sister with him.
He exacted a promise from Colonel Johnson, however, that not only should
no effort be made to reclaim the child, but that even no proposition to
part with her should be made to him.
The time at length arrived when, her heart bounding with joy, little
Nelly was placed on horseback to accompany her Indian brother to the
Great Council of the Senecas. She had promised him that she would never
leave him without his permission, and he relied confidently on her word.
How anxiously the hearts of the parents beat with alternate hope and
fear as the chiefs and warriors arrived in successive bands to meet
their Father, the agent, at the Council Fire! The officers of the fort
had kindly given them quarters for the time being, and the ladies, whose
sympathies were strongly excited, had accompanied the mother to the
place of council and joined in her longing watch for the first
appearance of the band from the Allegheny River.
At length the Indians were discerned emerging from the forest on the
opposite or American side. Boats were sent by the commanding officer to
bring the chief and his party across. The father and mother, attended by
all the officers and ladies, stood upon the grassy bank awaiting their
approach. They had seen at a glance that the Indians had the little
captive with them.
As he was about to enter the boat, the chief said to some of his young
men, "Stand here with the horses and wait until I return."
He was told that the horses would be ferried across and taken care of.
"No," said he; "let them wait."
He held little Eleanor by the hand until the river was crossed, until
the boat touched the bank, until the child sprang forward into the arms
of the mother from whom she had so long been separated.
Witnessing that outburst of affection, the chief could resist no longer.
"She shall go," said he. "The mother must have her child again. I will
go back alone."
With one silent gesture of farewell he turned and stepped on board the
boat. No arguments or entreaties could induce him to remain at the
council. Reaching the other side of the Niagara, he mounted his horse,
and with his young men was soon lost in the depths of the forest.
After a few weeks' sojourn at Niagara, Mr. Lytle, dreading lest the
resolution of the Big White Man should be shaken, and he should once
more be deprived of his child, determined again to change his place of
abode. Accordingly, he took the first opportunity of crossing Lake Erie
with his family, and settled in the neighborhood of Detroit, where he
afterwards continued to reside.
Little Nelly saw her friend the chief no more. But she never forgot him.
To the day of her death she remembered with tenderness and gratitude her
brother the Big White Man, and her friends and playfellows among the
Senecas.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] Afterward the wife of John Kinzie.
[14] Although this is the name of her benefactor, preserved by our
mother, it seems evident that this chief was in fact Corn Planter, a
personage well known in the history of the times. There could hardly
have been two such prominent chiefs of the same name in one village.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully
as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other
inconsistencies.
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