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 care of the farm.

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, and,
according to the custom among savages, entered and seated themselves
without ceremony.

Something in their appearance and manner excited the suspicions of one
of the family, a Frenchman, who remarked, "I do not like the appearance
of these Indians--they are none of our folks. I know by their dress and
paint that they are not Pottowattamies."

Another of the family, a discharged soldier, then said to the boy who
was present, "If that is the case, we had better get away from them if
we can. Say nothing; but do as you see me do."

As the afternoon was far advanced, the soldier walked leisurely towards
the canoes, of which there were two tied near the bank. Some of the
Indians inquired where he was going. He pointed to the cattle which were
standing among the haystacks on the opposite bank, and made signs that
they must go and fodder them, and then they should return and get their
supper.

He got into one canoe, and the boy into the other. The stream was
narrow, and they were soon across. When they had gained the opposite
side, they pulled some hay for the cattle--made a show of collecting
them--and when they had gradually made a circuit, so that their
movements were concealed by the haystacks, they took to the woods, which
were close at hand, and made for the fort.

They had run about a quarter of a mile, when they heard the discharge of
two guns successively, which they supposed to have been levelled at the
companions they had left behind.

They stopped not nor stayed until they arrived opposite Burns's,[30]
where, as before related, they called across to advertise 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
family of Burns was at this moment exposed to the most imminent peril.
The question was, who would hazard his own life to bring them to a place
of safety? A gallant young officer, Ensign Ronan, volunteered, with a
party of five or six soldiers, to go to their rescue.

They ascended the river in a scow, and took the mother, with her infant
of scarcely a day old, upon her bed to the boat, in which they carefully
conveyed her and the other members of the family to the fort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The inhabitants outside the fort, consisting of a few discharged
soldiers and some families of half-breeds, now intrenched themselves in
the Agency House. This 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 building, with a hall running through the
centre, and one large room on each side. Piazzas extended the whole
length of the building in front and rear. These were planked up, for
greater security, port-holes were cut, and sentinels posted at night.

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

One night a sergeant and private, who were out on a patrol, came
suddenly upon a party of Indians in the pasture adjoining the esplanade.
The sergeant fired his piece, and both retreated 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
block-house immediately fired, and with effect, while the men got safely
in. The next morning it was ascertained, from traces of blood to a
considerable distance into the prairie, and from the appearance of a
body having been laid among the long grass, that some execution had been
done.

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

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

On the afternoon of the 7th of August, Winnemeg, or _Catfish_, a
Pottowattamie chief, arrived at the post, bringing despatches from
General Hull. These announced the declaration of war 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 despatches, Winnemeg requested a private
interview with Mr. Kinzie, who had taken up his residence in the fort.
He stated to Mr. K. that he was acquainted with the purport of the
communications he had brought, and begged him to ascertain if it were
the intention of Captain Heald to evacuate the post. He advised strongly
against such a step, inasmuch as the garrison was well supplied with
ammunition, and with provisions for six months. It would, therefore, be
far better, he thought, to remain until a reinforcement could be sent to
their assistance. If, however, Captain Heald should decide upon leaving
the post, it should by all means be done immediately. The
Pottowattamies, through whose country they must pass, being ignorant of
the object of Winnemeg's mission, a forced march might be made, before
those who were hostile in their feelings were prepared to interrupt
them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then jerk[31] it," said the man, "as the Indians do their venison."

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

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

Thus passed the time until the 12th of August. The feelings of the
inmates of the fort during this time may be better imagined than
described. Each morning that dawned seemed to bring them nearer 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 debarred them the consolation they might
have found in mutual sympathy and encouragement.

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

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

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

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

Mr. Kinzie also recalled to Captain Heald how that, having left home for
Detroit, the preceding autumn, on receiving, when he had proceeded as
far as De Charme's,[32] the intelligence of the battle of Tippecanoe, he
had immediately returned to Chicago, that he might dispatch orders to
his traders to furnish no ammunition to the Indians; in consequence of
which all they had on hand was secreted, and such of the traders as had
not already started for their wintering-grounds, took neither powder nor
shot with them.

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

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

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

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

Some relief to the general feeling of despondency was afforded, by the
arrival, on the 14th of August, of Captain Wells[33] with fifteen
friendly Miamis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Among the chiefs were several who, although they shared the general
hostile feeling of their tribe 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 proved to the devoted band the justice of their melancholy
anticipations. Nevertheless, they went steadily on with the necessary
preparations; and, amid the horrors of their situation, there were not
wanting gallant hearts, who strove to encourage, in their desponding
companions, the hopes of escape they were far from indulging themselves.

Of the ammunition there had been reserved but twenty-five rounds,
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.

CHAPTER XIX.

NARRATIVE OF THE MASSACRE, CONTINUED.

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

Mr. Kinzie, 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[34] on the St. Joseph's River, there to be joined by the troops,
should the prosecution of their march be permitted them.

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

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

The party in the boat consisted of Mrs. Kinzie and her four younger
children, their nurse Josette, a clerk of Mr. Kinzie's, two servants and
the boatmen, besides the two Indians who acted as their protectors. The
boat started, but had scarcely reached the mouth of the river, which, it
will be recollected, was here half a mile below the fort, when another
messenger from To-pee-nee-bee arrived to detain them where they were.
There was no mistaking the reason of this detention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Oh, I cannot die!' exclaimed he, 'I am not fit to die--if I had but a
short time to prepare--death is awful!'

"I pointed to Ensign Ronan, who, though mortally wounded and nearly
down, was still fighting with desperation on one knee.[35]

"'Look at that man!' said I. 'At least he dies like a soldier.'

"'Yes,' replied the unfortunate man, with a convulsive gasp, 'but he has
no terrors of the future--he is an unbeliever!'

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

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

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

"When the firing had nearly subsided, my preserver bore me from the
water and conducted me up the 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. They led me gently
back towards the Chicago River, along the southern bank of which was the
Pottowattamie encampment. At one time I was placed upon a horse without
a saddle, but, finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Supported
partly by my kind conductor, _Black Partridge_, and partly by another
Indian, Pee-so-tum, who held dangling in his hand a scalp, which by the
black ribbon around the queue I recognized as that of 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, and, seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle,
dipped up some water from a stream that flowed near,[36] threw into it
some maple-sugar, and, stirring it up with her hand, gave it me to
drink. This act of kindness, in the midst of so many horrors, touched me
most sensibly; but my attention was soon diverted to other objects.

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

"'Well, sir,' said the commanding officer, who overheard him, 'are you
afraid?'

"'No,' replied the high-spirited young man, 'I can march up to the enemy
where you dare not show your face.' And his subsequent gallant behavior
showed this to be no idle boast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The brave woman! do not hurt her!"

At length they overtook her again, and, while she was engaged with two
or three in front, one succeeded in seizing her by the neck behind, and
dragging her, although a large and powerful woman, from her horse.
Notwithstanding that their guns had been so hacked and injured, and even
themselves cut severely, they seemed to regard her only with admiration.
They took her to a trader on the Illinois River, by whom she was
restored to her friends, after having received every kindness during her
captivity.[37]

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

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

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

"But," said the Indian, "she is badly wounded--she will die. Will you
give me the whiskey at all events?"

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

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

She had not lain long in the boat, when a young Indian of savage aspect
was seen appapproaching 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 axe that
lay near, and signed to him that if he shot, he would cleave his skull;
telling him that the boat contained only the family of Shaw-nee-aw-kee.
Upon this, the Indian retired. It afterwards appeared that the object of
his search was Mr. Burnett, a trader from St. Joseph's, with whom he
had some account to settle.

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

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

"No, father," replied he. "I cannot do it--it makes me sick
here"--(placing his hand on his heart.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This expostulation nerved Mrs. Helm with fresh resolution.

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

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

From Ouilmette's house the party of Indians proceeded to the dwelling of
Mr. Kinzie. They entered the parlor in which the family were assembled
with their faithful protectors, and seated themselves upon the floor in
silence. Black Partridge perceived from their moody and revengeful
looks what was passing in their minds, but he dared not remonstrate with
them. He only observed in a low tone to Wau-ban-see,--

"We have endeavored to save our friends, but it is in vain--nothing will
save them now."

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

"Who are you?" demanded he.

"A man. Who are _you_?"

"A man like yourself. But tell me _who_ you are,"--meaning, Tell me your
disposition, and which side you are for.

"I am a _Sau-ga-nash_!"

"Then make all speed to the house--your friend is in danger, and you
alone can save him."

_Billy Caldwell_[38] for it was he, entered the parlor with a calm step,
and without a trace of agitation in his manner. He deliberately took off
his accoutrements and placed them with his rifle behind the door, then
saluted the hostile savages.

"How now, my friends! A good-day to you. I was told there were enemies
here, but I am glad to find only friends. Why have you blackened your
faces? Is it that you are mourning for the friends you have lost in
battle?" (purposely misunderstanding this token of evil designs.)

"Or is it that you are fasting? If so, ask our friend, here, and he
will give you to eat. He is the Indian's friend, and never yet refused
them what they had need of."

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

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

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

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

At length he determined to enter the house, and accordingly climbed up
through a small back window into the room where the family were. This
was just as the Wabash Indians 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 deer-skin, with
belt, moccasins, and pipe, like a French engagé. His dark complexion and
large black whiskers favored the disguise. The family were all ordered
to address him in French, and, although utterly ignorant of the
language, he continued to pass for a _Weem-tee-gosh_,[39] and as such to
accompany Mr. Kinzie and his family, undetected by his enemies, until
they reached a place of safety.

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

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

Captain and Mrs. Heald were sent across the lake to St. Joseph the day
after the battle. The former had received two wounds, the latter seven,
in the engagement.

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 by the intervention of Mr. Thomas Forsyth, the
half-brother of Mr. Kinzie. Mrs. Helm accompanied her parents to St.
Joseph, where they resided in the family of Alexander Robinson,[40]
receiving from them all possible kindness and hospitality for several
months.

After their arrival in Detroit, Mrs. Helm was joined by her husband,
when they were both arrested by order of the British commander, and sent
on horseback, in the dead of winter, through Canada to Fort George, on
the Niagara frontier. When they arrived at that post, there had been no
official appointed to receive them, and, notwithstanding their long and
fatiguing journey in weather the most cold and inclement, 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 them. When
Colonel Sheaffe, who had been absent at the time, was informed of this
brutal inhospitality, he expressed the greatest indignation. He waited
on Mrs. Helm immediately, apologized in the most courteous manner, and
treated both her and Lieutenant Helm with the most considerate kindness,
until, by an exchange of prisoners, they were liberated, and found means
to reach their friends in Steuben County, N.Y.

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 the
wounded and enfeebled state of Mrs. Heald, released her husband that he
might accompany his wife to St. Joseph. To the latter place they were
accordingly carried, as has been related, by Chandonnai and his party.
In the mean time, 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 the procrastinating spirit of Captain Heald, it may be
mentioned that, even after he had received certain intelligence that his
Indian captor was on his way from the Kankakee to St. Joseph to retake
him, he would still have delayed another day at that place, to make
preparation for a more comfortable journey to Mackinac.

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

Mrs. Burns, with her infant, became the 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 narrowly missed her aim of putting an end to it
altogether.[41] They were not left long in the power of the old hag
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 ran down with the discharged soldier to
give the alarm of "Indians," at the fort, on the afternoon of the 7th of
April. The father, the son, and all the other members of the family had
fallen victims on the 15th of August, except Mrs. Lee and her young
infant. These were claimed by Black Partridge, and carried to his
village on the Au Sable. He had been particularly attached to a little
girl of Mrs. Lee's, about twelve years of age. This child had been
placed on horseback for the march; and, as she was unaccustomed to the
exercise, she was tied fast to the saddle, lest by any accident she
should slip off or be thrown.

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

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

When he arrived at the residence of M. Du Pin, he entered the room where
he was, and carefully placed his 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 its complaint, 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, entertaining some fears that the chief's honorable resolution
to leave it to the lady herself whether to accept his addresses or not,
might not hold out, entered at once into a negotiation for her ransom,
and so effectually wrought upon the good feelings of Black Partridge
that he consented to bring his fair prisoner at once to Chicago, that
she might be restored to her friends.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XX.

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

It had been a stipulation of General Hull at the surrender of Detroit,
which took place the day after the massacre at Chicago, that the
inhabitants should be permitted to remain undisturbed in their homes.
Accordingly, the family of Mr. Kinzie took up their quarters with their
friends in the old mansion, which many will still recollect as standing
on the northwest corner of Jefferson Avenue and Wayne Street.

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

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

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

The last bargain made was by black Jim, and one of 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 afterwards came to Detroit, and the negro
preferred returning to servitude rather than remaining a stranger in a
strange land.

Mr. Kinzie, as has been related, joined his family at Detroit in the
month of January. A short time after, suspicions arose in the mind of
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 he wished to speak with him, on
business. Quite unsuspicious, he complied with the invitation, when to
his surprise he was ordered into confinement, and strictly guarded in
the house of his former partner, Mr. Patterson, of Sandwich. Finding
that he did not return to his home, Mrs. Kinzie informed some of the
Indian chiefs, his particular friends, who immediately repaired to the
head-quarters of the commanding officer, demanded "their friend's"
release, and brought him back to his home. After waiting a time until a
favorable opportunity presented itself, the General sent a detachment of
dragoons to arrest Mr. Kinzie. They had succeeded in carrying him away,
and crossing the river with him. Just at this moment a party of friendly
Indians made their appearance.

"Where is the Shaw-nee-aw-kee?" was the first question.

"There," replied his wife, pointing across the river, "in the hands of
the red-coats, who are taking him away again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We have met the enemy, and they are ours!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The few citizens of Chicago in those days, lived for the most part a
very quiet, unvaried life. The great abundance of game, and the immense
fertility of the lands they cultivated, furnished them with a
superabundance of all the luxuries of garden, corn-field, and dairy The
question was once asked by a friend in the "East countrie,"

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

"Why, we manage, when a vessel arrives, to persuade the captain to
accept a few kegs of butter, and stores of corn and vegetables, as a
present, and that helps us to get rid of some of our overplus."

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

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

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

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

"Oh, yes--you will find a very comfortable house, Mr. Kinzie's, about
half a mile below, near the mouth of the river."

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

"Is this the residence of Mr. Kinzie?"

"Yes, sir."

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

"Certainly, sir--walk in."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXI.

A SERMON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the pleasant afternoons which we occasionally enjoyed as the season
advanced, we found no small amusement in practising pistol-firing. The
place appropriated to this sport was outside the pickets, the mark being
placed on a panel in one of the bastions. The gentlemen must not be
offended if I record that, in process of time, the ladies acquired a
degree of skill that enabled them, as a general thing, to come off
triumphant. One of the ladies, Mrs. Hunter, was a great shot, having
brought down her grouse on the wing, to the no small delight of one of
the officers, Captain Martin Scott, of raccoon celebrity.

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

Once, upon a Sunday, we were rowed up to Wolf Point to attend a
religious service, conducted by Father See, as he was called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXII.

THE CAPTIVES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a toilsome and painful march of many days, the party reached the
Seneca village, upon the head-waters of the Alleghany, near what is now
called Olean Point. On their arrival the chief, their conductor, who was
distinguished by the name of the _Big White Man_[42] led his prisoners
to the principal lodge. This was occupied by his mother, the widow of
the head-chief of that band, and who was called by them the _Old Queen_.

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

"My mother, I bring you a child to supply the place of my brother, who
was killed by the 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 Port Niagara, on
the British side of the river of that name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, yes, they will, Maggie, and I could kill you so much easier than
they would.'"

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

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

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

With a sagacity beyond his years, the boy said,--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Having placed his family in safety at Pittsburg, 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 representation of the case warmly interested the feelings of that
benevolent officer, who promised him to spare no exertions in his
behalf. This promise he religiously performed. He went in person to the
village of the Big White Man, as soon as the opening of the spring
permitted, and offered him many splendid presents of guns and horses,
but the chief was inexorable.

Time rolled on, and every year the hope of recovering the little captive
became more faint. She, in the mean time, 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 himself, but by his mother, the _Old Queen_. All their stock of
brooches and wampum was employed in the decoration of her person. The
principal seat and the most delicate viands were invariably reserved for
her, and no efforts were spared to promote her happiness, and to render
her forgetful of her former home and kindred.

Thus, though she had beheld, with a feeling almost amounting to despair,
the departure of her parents and dear little brother, and had for a long
time resisted every attempt at consolation, preferring even death to a
life of separation from all she loved, yet time, as it ever does,
brought its soothing balm, and she at length grew contented and happy.

From her activity and the energy of her character, qualities for which
she was remarkable to the latest period of her life, the name was given
her of _The Ship under full sail_.

The only drawback to the happiness of the little prisoner, aside from
her longings after her own dear home, was the enmity she encountered
from the wife of the Big White Man. This woman, from the day of her
arrival at the village, and adoption into the family as a sister, had
conceived for her the greatest animosity, which, at first, she had the
prudence to conceal from the observation of her husband.

It was perhaps natural that a wife should give way to some feelings of
jealousy at seeing her own 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, and by the indifference with
which her husband listened to her complaints and murmurings.

As she had no children of her own to engage her attention, her mind was
the more engrossed and inflamed with her fancied wrongs, and with
devising means for their redress. An opportunity of attempting the
latter was not long wanting.

During the absence of the Big White Man upon some war-party or
hunting-excursion, his little sister 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, and thereby accomplish her purpose,
was likewise unwearied in her assiduities to the little favorite.

One afternoon, during the temporary absence of the Old Queen, 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 accent,--

"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 perceived a pair of eyes
peeping through a crevice in the lodge, and fixed upon her with a very
peculiar and significant expression. With the quick perception acquired
partly from nature and partly from her intercourse with this 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 use importunity, busied herself about in the
lodge for a short time, then withdrew to another, near at hand.
Meantime, the bright eyes continued peering through the opening, until
they had watched their object 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. No further punishment
was, however, for the present inflicted upon her, but, 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 usual custom of savages, he did
not, in his first transport at learning the attempt on the life of his
little sister, take summary vengeance on the offender. He contented
himself with banishing her from his lodge, never to return, and
condemning her to hoe corn in a distant part of the large field or
inclosure which served the whole community for a garden.

Although she would still show her vindictive disposition whenever, by
chance, the little girl with her companions wandered into that vicinity,
by striking at her with her hoe, or by some other spiteful
manifestation, 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, so that the unbounded tenderness of
those she dwelt among had called forth a corresponding feeling in her
heart. She regarded the chief and his mother with love and reverence,
and had so completely learned 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 memory; all but her
mother--her mother, whom she had loved with a strength of affection
natural to her warm and ardent character, 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 now took
place. A general pacification of the Indian tribes was the consequence,
and fresh hopes were renewed 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 readily undertook a fresh negotiation with the chief, but, in
order to make sure every chance of success, he again proceeded in person
to the village of the Big White Man.

His visit was most opportune. It was the "Feast of the Green Corn," when
he arrived among them. 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 other 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 his gala-dress. That of the little
adopted child consisted of a petticoat of blue broadcloth, bordered with
gay-colored ribbons; a sack or upper garment of black silk, ornamented
with three rows of silver brooches, the centre ones from the throat to
the hem being of large size, and those from the shoulders down being no
larger than a shilling-piece, and set as closely as possible. Around
her neck were innumerable strings of white and purple wampum--an Indian
ornament manufactured from the inner surface of the muscle-shell. Her
hair was clubbed behind and loaded with beads of various colors.
Leggings of scarlet cloth, and moccasins of deer-skin embroidered with
porcupine-quills, completed her costume.

Colonel Johnson was received with all the consideration due to his
position, and to the long friendship that had subsisted between him and
the tribe.

Observing that the hilarity of the festival had warmed and opened all
hearts, he took occasion in an interview with the chief to expatiate
upon the parental affection which had led the father and mother of his
little sister to give up their friends and home, and come hundreds of
miles away, in the single hope of sometimes looking upon and embracing
her. The heart of the chief softened as he listened to this
representation, and he was induced to promise that at the Grand Council
soon to be held at Fort Niagara, on the British side of the river, he
would attend, bringing his little sister with him.

He exacted a promise, however, from Colonel Johnson, that not only no
effort should be made to reclaim the child, but that even no proposition
to part with her should be offered 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
thus given.

As the chiefs and warriors arrived in successive bands to meet their
Father, the agent, at the council-fire, how did the anxious hearts of
the parents beat with alternate hope and fear! 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 Alleghany River.

At length they were discerned, emerging from the forest on the opposite
or American side. Boats were sent across by the commanding officer, to
bring the chief and his party. 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 _little captive_ was with
them.

When 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 should be ferried across and taken care of.

"No," said he; "let them wait."

He held his darling by the hand until the river was passed--until the
boat touched the bank--until the child sprang forward into the arms of
the mother from whom she had been so long separated.

When the chief witnessed that outburst of affection, he could withstand
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, but, having gained 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 sojourn of a few weeks at Niagara, Mr. Lytle, dreading lest the
resolution of the Big White Man should give way, and measures be taken
to deprive him once more of his child, came to the determination of
again changing his place of abode. He therefore took the first
opportunity of crossing Lake Erie with his family, and settled himself
in the neighborhood of Detroit, where he continued afterwards 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.

CHAPTER XXIII.

SECOND-SIGHT--HICKORY CREEK.

At the age of fourteen the heroine of the foregoing story married
Colonel McKillip, a British officer. This gentleman was killed near Fort
Defiance, as it was afterwards called, at the Miami Rapids, in 1794. A
detachment of British troops had been sent down from Detroit to take
possession of this post. General Wayne was then on a campaign against
the Indians, and the British Government thought proper to make a few
demonstrations in behalf of their allies. Having gone out with a party
to reconnoitre, Colonel McKillip was returning to his post after dark,
when he was fired upon and killed by one of his own sentinels. Mrs. Helm
was the daughter of this marriage.

During the widowhood of Mrs. McKillip, she resided with her parents, at
Grosse Pointe, eight miles above Detroit, and it was during this period
that an event occurred which, from the melancholy and mysterious
circumstances attending it, was always dwelt upon by her with peculiar
interest.

Her second brother, Thomas Lytle, was, from his amiable and affectionate
character, the most dearly beloved by her of all the numerous family
circle. He was paying his addresses to a young lady who resided at the
river Trench,[43] as it was then called, now the river Thames, a stream
emptying into Lake St. Clair about twenty miles above Detroit. In
visiting this young lady, it was his custom to cross the Detroit River
by the ferry with his horse, and then proceed by land to the river
Trench, which was, at some seasons of the year, a fordable stream.

On a fine forenoon, late in the spring, he had taken leave of his mother
and sister for one of these periodical visits, which were usually of two
or three days' duration.

After dinner, as his sister was sitting at work by an open window which
looked upon a little side inclosure filled with fruit-trees, she was
startled by observing some object opposite the window, between her and
the light. She raised her eyes and saw her brother Thomas. He was
without his horse, and carried his saddle upon his shoulders.

Surprised that she had not heard the gate opening for his entrance, and
also at his singular appearance, laden in that manner, she addressed
him, and inquired what had happened, and why he had returned so soon. He
made her no reply, but looked earnestly in her face, as he moved slowly
along the paved walk that led to the stables.

She waited a few moments, expecting he would reappear to give an account
of himself and his adventures, but at length, growing impatient at his
delay, she put down her work and went towards the rear of the house to
find him.

The first person she met was her mother. "Have you seen Thomas?" she
inquired.

"Thomas! He has gone to the river Trench."

"No, he has returned--I saw him pass the window not fifteen minutes
since."

"Then he will be in presently."

His sister, however, could not wait. She proceeded to the stables, she
searched in all directions. No Thomas--no horse--no saddle. She made
inquiry of the domestics. No one had seen him. She then returned and
told her mother what had happened.

"You must have fallen asleep and dreamed it," said her mother.

"No, indeed! I was wide awake--I spoke to him, and he gave me no answer,
but such a look!"

All the afternoon she felt an uneasiness she could not reason herself
out of.

The next morning came a messenger from the river Trench with dismal
tidings.

The bodies of the young man and his horse had been found drowned a short
distance below the ford of the river.

It appeared that, on arriving at the bank of the river, he found it
swollen beyond its usual depth by the recent rains. It being necessary
to swim the stream with his horse, he had taken off his clothes and made
them into a packet which he fastened upon his shoulders. It was supposed
that the strength of the rapid torrent displaced the bundle, which thus
served to draw his head under water and keep it there, without the power
of raising it. All this was gathered from the position and appearance of
the bodies when found.

From the time at which he had been seen passing a house which stood near
the stream, on his way to the ford, it was evident that he must have
met his fate at the very moment his sister saw, or thought she saw him,
passing before her.

I could not but suggest the inquiry, when these sad particulars were
narrated to me,--

"Mother, is it not possible this might have been a dream?"

"A dream? No, indeed, my child. I was perfectly wide awake--as much so
as I am at this moment. I am not superstitious. I have never believed in
ghosts or witches, but nothing can ever persuade me that this was not a
warning sent from God, to prepare me for my brother's death."

And those who knew her rational good sense--her freedom from fancies or
fears, and the calm self-possession that never deserted her under the
most trying circumstances--would almost be won to view the matter in the
light she did.

The order for the evacuation of Port Dearborn, and the removal of the
troops to Fort Howard (Green Bay), had now been received. The family
circle was to be broken up. Our mother, our sister Mrs. Helm, and her
little son, were to return with us to Fort Winnebago; the other members
of the family, except Robert, were to move with the command to Green
Bay.

The schooner Napoleon was to be sent from Detroit to convey the troops
with their goods and chattels to their destined post. Our immediate
party was to make the journey by land--we were to choose, however, a
shorter and pleasanter route than the one we had taken in coming hither.
My husband, with his Frenchmen, Petaille Grignon and Simon Lecuyer, had
arrived, and all hands were now busily occupied with the necessary
preparations for breaking up and removal.

I should be doing injustice to the hospitable settlers of Hickory Creek
were I to pass by without notice an entertainment with which they
honored our Chicago beaux about this time. The merry-making was to be a
ball, and the five single gentlemen of Chicago were invited. Mr. Dole,
who was a new-comer, declined; Lieutenant Foster was on duty, but he did
what was still better than accepting the invitation, he loaned his
beautiful horse to Medard Beaubien, who with Robert Kinzie and Gholson
Kercheval promised himself much fun in eclipsing the beaux and creating
a sensation among the belles of Hickory Creek.

Chicago was then, as now, looked upon as the City _par excellence_. Its
few inhabitants were supposed to have seen something of the world, and
it is to be inferred that the arrival of the smart and dashing young men
was an event looked forward to with more satisfaction by the fair of the
little settlement than by the swains whose rivals they might become.

The day arrived, and the gentlemen set off in high spirits. They took
care to be in good season, for the dancing was to commence at two
o'clock in the afternoon. They were well mounted, each priding himself
upon the animal he rode, and they wore their best suits, as became city
gallants who were bent on cutting out their less fashionable neighbors
and breaking the hearts of the admiring country damsels.

When they arrived at the place appointed, they were received with great
politeness--their steeds were taken care of, and a dinner was provided
them, after which they were ushered into the dancing-hall.

All the beauty of the neighboring precincts was assembled. The ladies
were for the most part white, or what passed for such, with an
occasional dash of copper color. There was no lack of bombazet gowns and
large white pocket-handkerchiefs, perfumed with oil of cinnamon; and as
they took their places in long rows on the puncheon floor, they were a
merry and a happy company.

But the city gentlemen grew more and more gallant--the girls more and
more delighted with their attentions--the country swains, alas! more and
more scowling and jealous. In vain they pigeon-winged and
double-shuffled--in vain they nearly dislocated hips and shoulders at
"hoe corn and dig potatoes"--they had the mortification to perceive that
the smart young sprigs from Chicago had their "pick and choose" among
their very sweethearts, and that they themselves were fairly danced off
the ground.

The revelry lasted until daylight, and it was now time to think of
returning. There was no one ready with obliging politeness to bring them
their horses from the stable.

"Poor fellows!" said one of the party, with a compassionate sort of
laugh, "they could not stand it. They have gone home to bed!"

"Serves them right," said another; "they'd better not ask us down among
their girls again!"

They groped their way to the stable and went in. There were some animals
standing at the manger, but evidently not their horses. What could they
be? Had the rogues been trying to cheat them, by putting these strange
nondescripts into their place?

They led them forth into the gray of the morning, and then--such a trio
as met their gaze!

There were the original bodies, it is true, but where were their manes
and tails? A scrubby, pickety ridge along the neck, and a bare stump
projecting behind, were all that remained of the flowing honors with
which they had come gallivanting down to "bear away the bell" at
Hickory Creek, or, in the emphatic language of the country, "to take the
rag off the bush."

Gholson sat down on a log and cried outright. Medard took the matter
more philosophically--the horse was none of his--it was Lieutenant
Foster's.

Robert characteristically looked around to see whom he could knock down
on the occasion; but there was no one visible on whom to wreak their
vengeance.

The bumpkins had stolen away, and, in some safe, quiet nook, were snugly
enjoying their triumph, and doubtless the deceitful fair ones were by
this time at their sides, sharing their mirth and exultation.

The unlucky gallants mounted their steeds, and set their faces homeward.
Never was there a more crestfallen and sorry-looking cavalcade. The poor
horses seemed to realize that they had met the same treatment as the
messengers of King David at the hands of the evil-disposed Hanun. They
hung their heads, and evidently wished that they could have "tarried at
Jericho" for a season. Unfortunately, there was in those days no back
way by which they could steal in, unobserved. Across the prairie, in
view of the whole community, must their approach be made; and to add to
their confusion, in the rarity of stirring events, it was the custom of
the whole settlement to turn out and welcome the arrival of any
new-comer.

As hasty a retreat as possible was beaten, amid the shouts, the jeers,
and the condolences of their acquaintances; and it is on record that
these three young gentlemen were in no hurry to accept, at any future
time, an invitation to partake of the festivities of Hickory Creek.

In due time the Napoleon made her appearance. (Alas that this great
name should be used in the feminine gender!) As there was at this period
no harbor, vessels anchored outside the bar, or tongue of land which
formed the left bank of the river, and the lading and unlading were
carried on by boats, pulling in and out, through the mouth of the river,
some distance below.

Of course it always was a matter of great importance to get a vessel
loaded as quickly as possible, that she might be ready to take advantage
of the first fair wind, and be off from such an exposed and hazardous
anchoring-ground.

For this reason we had lived _packed up_ for many days, intending only
to see our friends safe on board, and then commence our own journey back
to Fort Winnebago.

Our heavy articles of furniture, trunks, etc. had been sent on board the
Napoleon, to be brought round to us by way of Fox River. We had retained
only such few necessaries as could be conveniently carried on a
pack-horse, and in a light dearborn wagon lately brought by Mr.
Kercheval from Detroit (the first luxury of the kind ever seen on the
prairies), and which my husband had purchased as an agreeable mode of
conveyance for his mother and little nephew.

It was a matter requiring no small amount of time and labor to
transport, in the slow method described, the effects of so many families
of officers and soldiers, with the various etceteras incident to a total
change and removal. It was all, however, happily
accomplished--everything, even to the last article, sent on
board--nothing remaining on shore but the passengers, whose turn it
would be next.

It was a moment of great relief; for Captain Hinckley had been in a
fever and a fuss many hours, predicting a change of weather, and
murmuring at what he thought the unnecessary amount of boat-loads to be
taken on board.

Those who had leisure to be looking out towards the schooner, which had
continued anchored about half a mile out in the lake, had, at this
crisis, the satisfaction to see her hoist sail and leave her station for
the open lake; those who were a little later could just discern her
bearing away to a distance, as if she had got all on board that she had
any idea of taking. Here we were, and here we might remain a week or
more, if it so pleased Captain Hinckley and the schooner Napoleon, and
the good east wind which was blowing with all its might.

There was plenty of provisions to be obtained, so the fear of starvation
was not the trouble; but how were the cooking and the table to be
provided for? Various expedients were resorted to. Mrs. Engle, in her
quarters above-stairs, ate her breakfast off a shingle with her
husband's jack-knife, and when she had finished, sent them down to
Lieutenant Foster for his accommodation.

We were at the old mansion on the north side, and the news soon flew up
the river that the Napoleon had gone off with "the plunder" and left the
people behind. It was not long before we were supplied by Mrs. Portier
(our kind Victoire) with dishes, knives, forks, and all the other
conveniences which our mess-basket failed to supply.

This state of things lasted a couple of days, and then, early one fine
morning, the gratifying intelligence spread like wild-fire that the
Napoleon was at anchor out beyond the bar.

There was no unnecessary delay this time, and at an early hour in the
afternoon we had taken leave of our dear friends, and they were sailing
away from Chicago.[44]

CHAPTER XXIV.

RETURN TO FORT WINNEBAGO.

A great part of the command, with the cattle belonging to the officers
and soldiers, had, a day or two previous to the time of our departure,
set out on their march by land to Green Bay, _via_ Fort Winnebago.
Lieutenant Foster, under whose charge they were, had lingered behind
that he might have the pleasure of joining our party, and we, in turn,
had delayed in order to see the other members of our family safely on
board the Napoleon. But now, all things being ready, we set our faces
once more homeward.

We took with us a little _bound-girl,_ Josette, a bright, pretty child
of ten years of age, a daughter of Ouilmette, a Frenchman who had lived
here at the time of the Massacre, and of a Pottowattamie mother. She had
been at the St. Joseph's mission-school, under Mr. McCoy, and she was
now full of delight at the prospect of a journey all the way to the
Portage with Monsieur and Madame John.

We had also a negro boy, Harry, brought a year before from Kentucky, by
Mr. Kercheval. In the transfer at that time from a slave State to a free
one, Harry's position became somewhat changed--he could be no more than
an indentured servant. He was about to become a member of Dr. Wolcott's
household, and it was necessary for him to choose a guardian. All this
was explained to him on his being brought into the parlor, where the
family were assembled. My husband was then a young man, on a visit to
his home. "Now, Harry," it was said to him, "you must choose your
guardian;" and the natural expectation was that Harry would select the
person of his acquaintance of the greatest age and dignity. But, rolling
round his great eyes, and hanging his head on one side, he said,--

"I'll have Master John for my guardian."

From that day forward Harry felt as if he belonged, in a measure, to
Master John, and at the breaking-up of the family in Chicago he was,
naturally, transferred to our establishment.

There were three ladies of our travelling party--our mother, our sister
Mrs. Helm, and myself. To guard against the burning effect of the sun
and the prairie winds upon our faces, I had, during some of the last
days of my visit, prepared for each of us a mask of brown linen, with
the eyes, nose, and mouth fitted to our features; and, to enhance their
hideousness, I had worked eyebrows, eyelashes, and a circle around the
opening for the mouth, in black silk. Gathered in plaits under the chin,
and with strings to confine them above and below, they furnished a
complete protection against the sun and wind, though nothing can be
imagined more frightful than the appearance we presented when fully
equipped. It was who should be called the ugliest.

We left amid the good wishes and laughter of our few remaining
acquaintances. Our wagon had been provided with a pair of excellent
travelling horses, and, sister Margaret and myself being accommodated
with the best pacers the country could afford, we set off in high
spirits towards the Aux Plaines--our old friend, Billy Caldwell (the
Sau-ga-nash), with our brother Robert, and Gholson Kercheval,
accompanying us to that point of our journey.

There was no one at Barney Lawton's when we reached there, save a
Frenchman and a small number of Indians. My sister and I dismounted, and
entered the dwelling, the door of which stood open. Two Indians were
seated on the floor, smoking. They raised their eyes as we appeared, and
never shall I forget the expression of wonder and horror depicted on the
countenances of both. Their lips relaxed until the pipe of one fell upon
the floor. Their eyes seemed starting from their heads, and raising
their outspread hands, as if to wave us from them, they slowly
ejaculated, "_Manitou!"_ (a spirit.)

As we raised our masks, and, smiling, came forward to shake hands with
them, they sprang to their feet and fairly uttered a cry of delight at
the sight of our familiar faces.

"Bon-jour, bon-jour, Maman!" was their salutation, and they instantly
plunged out of doors to relate to their companions what had happened.

Our afternoon's ride was over a prairie stretching away to the northeast
No living creature was to be seen upon its broad expanse, but flying and
circling over our heads were innumerable flocks of curlews,

"Screaming their wild notes to the listening waste."

Their peculiar, shrill cry of "crack, crack, crack--rackety, rackety,
rackety," repeated from the throats of dozens, as they sometimes stooped
quite close to our ears, became at length almost unbearable. It seemed
as if they had lost their senses in the excitement of so unusual and
splendid a cortége in their hitherto desolate domain.

The accelerated pace of our horses, as we approached a beautiful,
wooded knoll, warned us that this was to be our place of repose for the
night. These animals seem to know by instinct a favorable
encamping-ground, and this was one of the most lovely imaginable.

The trees, which near the lake had, owing to the coldness and tardiness
of the season, presented the pale-yellow appearance of unfledged
goslings, were here bursting into full leaf. The ground around was
carpeted with flowers--we could not bear to have them crushed by the
felling of a tree and the pitching of our tent among them. The birds
sent forth their sweetest notes in the warm, lingering sunlight, and the
opening buds of the young hickory and sassafras filled the air with
perfume.

Nothing could be more perfect than our enjoyment of this sylvan and
beautiful retreat[45] after our ride in the glowing sun. The children
were in ecstasies. They delighted to find ways of making themselves