Chapter XI: The Fate of the Survivors (2)

The other narrative was given to John Wentworth in 1861 by the son of Abraham Edwards, who was hospital surgeon in Hull's army at Detroit in 1812.[643] He settled at Detroit in 1816, and there the family made the acquaintance of Mrs. Burns. Her daughter, Isabella Cooper, became an inmate of the Edwards home, and thus the younger Edwards became familiar with the story. Together with her mother and sister she had been an occupant of one of the wagons when the evacuation of Fort Dearborn took place. A young Indian pulled her out of the wagon by her hair, but the child, though only about nine years of age, fought him to the best of her ability, biting and scratching. Finally he threw her down, scalped her, and was about to tomahawk her, when an old squaw who had frequently visited at her father's house intervened and saved her life. The rescuer later took the child to her wigwam where she cared for her and healed her wound, although a spot on the top of her head the size of a silver dollar remained bare. She and her mother and sister remained among the Indians two years, when they were taken to Mackinac, purchased by some traders, and sent to Detroit.

[Footnote 643: Wentworth, _Early Chicago_, 54-60.]

The narrative thus told by Edwards to Wentworth fifty years after the massacre is confirmed in part by a letter of Sergeant Griffith to Captain Heald in 1820.[644] Griffith had recently been to Detroit, and wrote to Heald, then living on his farm in Missouri, to enlist his support in procuring a pension for Mrs. Burns. She was then living in Detroit, supporting herself and her three surviving children by her own labor. A number of officers and others had interested themselves in the project of obtaining a pension for her. Her husband had been enrolled by Heald as a sergeant in the militia, in which capacity he had served for several months and finally given up his life. Of all this the government had no record or knowledge, however, and so Heald's certificate as to the nature of Burns's services was needed. In the absence of any knowledge concerning the success of the pension project, we may hope that the government ministered to the needs of the widow who had suffered so grievously in the Fort Dearborn massacre. Edwards records that Mrs. Burns died at Detroit about the year 1823. He also states that the daughters were living as late as 1828, at which time he left Detroit, and that he had since heard they were living in Mackinac. With this, except for the brief notice by Mrs. Kinzie of a meeting with one of them, which has already been mentioned, our knowledge of them comes to an end.

[Footnote 644: Letter of Griffith to Heald, January 13, 1820, cited _supra_, note 640.]

Hovering on the border between myth and history are a number of stories concerning the fate of others who went through the massacre. Some of these may be true, while some are certainly without foundation in fact; they are grouped together here because of the impossibility of confirming their claim to validity. The story of little Peter Bell will probably forever remain an unsolved mystery. In September, 1813, a British officer, Captain Bullock, addressed an inquiry from Mackinac to General Proctor concerning the disposition to be made of certain prisoners whom the Indians had surrendered to the British at that post.[645] Among others he mentioned Peter Bell, a boy of five or six years of age, "whose Father and mother were killed at Chicagoe." He had been purchased from the Indians by a trader and brought to Mackinac in July, 1813, in accordance with the orders of Robert Dickson. The mystery concerns the identity of the child. The time and manner of his rescue harmonizes with what is known of Dickson's work for the relief of the Chicago captives. But in none of the accounts of Fort Dearborn and the little settlement around its walls prior to 1812, is there any mention of a Bell family. The various accounts of the massacre establish conclusively the proposition that there were nine women among the whites on that day. Two of these were killed; the names of all of them are known, and the list contains no Mrs. Bell. Moreover, it is clear from the sources that six children survived the massacre. The names of all these are known, but that of Peter Bell is not among them. The only explanation of the child's identity which suggests itself is that he was taken captive at some other place than Chicago and that his captors for some reason, perhaps because of the ransom offered, saw fit to surrender him as one of the children taken at Fort Dearborn. Whatever the true explanation may be, a mournful interest attaches to the forlorn little waif who thus appears for a moment amidst the wreck of battle, only to sink again into oblivion.

[Footnote 645: _Michigan Pioneer Collections_, XV, 392.]

The fate of the Lee family is recorded in the pages of Wau Bun.[646] All of its members except the mother and an infant child were killed during the battle. The fate of the girl, twelve years of age, was particularly pathetic. On leaving the fort, she had been placed upon horseback, but being unused to riding she was tied to the saddle for greater security. During the battle her horse ran away and the rider, partially dismounted yet held by the bands, hung dangling as the animal ran. From this predicament she was rescued by Black Partridge, with whom she had been a great favorite; but finding her badly wounded, he terminated her sufferings with a blow of the tomahawk.

[Footnote 646: Kinzie, _Wau Bun_, 189-91.]

The mother and her infant child were taken by Black Partridge to his village. There the infant fell ill and Black Partridge fell in love, instituting a campaign for the hand of his captive. Unable to cure the sick child, he took it during the winter to Chicago, where a French trader had established himself since the massacre. The trader, M. Du Pin, not only prescribed for the child, but learning of Black Partridge's designs upon its mother, proceeded to ransom her and then in turn to marry her.[647] This story is repeated with embellishments by Matson, who, with curious disregard for consistency, includes an important feature not found in the original. He avers that the child who was dragged by the horse and afterward tomahawked was Lillian Lee, ten years of age; and that she had a sister two years older who escaped unharmed, was taken by her captors to the Kankakee, and the following spring was carried to St. Louis, where she married a man named Besson, and was still living in East St. Louis at the time Matson's book was written.[648]

[Footnote 647: In his letter to Heald, April 10, 1813 (_supra_, note 613), Forsyth stated that "Dupain and Buisson wintered at Chicago last winter with goods from Mackinaw, they have bought of[f] Mrs. Leigh and her younger child, and another woman which I expect is Mrs. Cooper or Burns."]

[Footnote 648: Matson, _Pioneers of Illinois_, 257-62. The book was published in 1882. Notwithstanding the author's statement that he had interviewed Mrs. Besson and "listened to her thrilling narrative," there is much in his account to excite distrust. It recites many details which are obviously purely imaginary, and for the rest follows, in the main, the account in _Wau Bun_.]

The story of David Kennison, a survivor of the Fort Dearborn garrison, is worthy of preservation, if only because of the remarkable career of the man.[649] Born in New Hampshire in 1736, if his own story of his age is to be accepted, a member of the Boston Tea Party, a participant in Lexington and Bunker Hill and many another battle of the Revolution, he had reached the respectable age of seventy-one when, in March, 1808, he enlisted in the army for the regular term of five years. Probably this was a re-enlistment, for Kinzie's account books show that he was at Chicago as early as May, 1804. The garrison muster-roll for May, 1812, shows that he was present for duty at that time. The supposition that he was a participant in the massacre three months later rests upon inference, for his name is nowhere expressly mentioned in connection with that event. Presumably he was one of the small number of survivors who returned from captivity concerning whom no definite record is left. In his old age Kennison told of further service in the War of 1812, but it is evident that his memory had become confused upon the subject.

[Footnote 649: The account given here of Kennison is drawn from the following sources: the _Chicago Democrat_, November 6 and 8, 1848, and February 25, 26, 27, 1852; the _Chicago Daily News_, December 19, 1903; the Fort Dearborn garrison payroll for the quarter ending December 31, 1811, and the muster-roll for the period ending May 31, 1812, both among the Heald papers in the Draper Collection (for the latter see Appendix VIII); the garrison muster-roll for December, 1810, printed in Wentworth, _Early Chicago_, 88. Many of the details concerning the career of Kennison are, of course, of doubtful validity.]

After the war Kennison settled in New York, and in the ensuing years of peace met with physical injuries far more numerous and serious than in all of his years of warfare. A falling tree fractured his skull and broke his collar bone and two ribs; the discharge of a cannon at a military review broke both of his legs; and the kick of a horse on his forehead left a scar which disfigured him for life. Notwithstanding these accidents, Kennison succeeded in becoming a husband four times and a father twenty-two, and in living to the mature age of one hundred and fifteen. Late in life he became separated from all his children, and in 1845 he came to Chicago where his last years were spent. He drew a pension of eight dollars a month for his Revolutionary services, and until 1848 eked out this means of support by manual labor. Becoming incapacitated for the latter, however, he entered the Chicago Museum; in his card to the public announcing this step he explained that the smallness of his pension obliged him to take it to provide himself with the necessary comforts of life. For the last twenty months of his life the veteran was bedridden, but his sight and hearing, which for a time had been deficient, became perfect again, and he retained his ordinary faculties to the end. His death occurred February 24, 1852.

It was fitting that such a character should receive an imposing funeral. On the day before his death, in response to a request presented in his behalf that he be saved from the potter's field, the City Council had voted that a lot and a suitable monument be provided for him in the City Cemetery. The funeral was held from the Clark Street Methodist Church, and several clergymen assisted in the services. At their conclusion a procession moved in two divisions from the church to the cemetery, to the accompaniment of cannon booming at one-minute intervals. In the procession were the mayor and the councilmen, a detachment of the United States army, the various military companies and bands of the city, companies of firemen, and others. Upon this spectacle and that of the interment, which was marked by the usual military honors, a large proportion of the population of the city gazed. The cemetery occupied a portion of the ground now included in Lincoln Park. When the use of this for burial purposes was abandoned a number of years later, nearly all of the bodies interred in it were removed. Kennison's was one of the few left undisturbed. For many years the site of his grave had practically been forgotten, when, in 1905, with appropriate ceremonies it was marked by a massive granite monument, erected by a number of patriotic societies. Thus it has come to pass that Kennison's burial place possesses a prominence of which the humble soldier in life can hardly have dared to dream. Veteran of our two wars against Great Britain, participant in the Boston Tea Party and the Fort Dearborn Massacre, he enjoys the unique distinction of a grave in Chicago's most famous park, overlooking the blue waters of Lake Michigan.

Another massacre story, concerning the mythical character of which there can be no doubt, is noticed here because of the use that has been made of it by a historian of acknowledged worth and ability. Among the beautiful sheets of water which dot the surface of the Lower Peninsula of Michigan is Diamond Lake near the town of Cassopolis. In its midst lies Diamond Lake Island, a wooded expanse of perhaps forty acres in extent. This was occupied in the early days of white settlement in Cass County by an aged recluse who bore the prosaic name of Job Wright, but who was often more romantically designated as the hermit of Diamond Lake Island. The hermit eked out a living by fishing, hunting, trapping, and basket-weaving. Since he was of an uncommunicative disposition, his neighbors were free to give rein to their imagination in constructing the story of his past, and the scars upon his face furnished a visible support for the rumor that he had been a soldier.[650]

[Footnote 650: For the story of Job Wright see Mathews, _History of Cass County, Michigan_, 65-66; _Michigan Pioneer Collections_, XIV, 265-67.]

Another character of note in Cass County three-quarters of a century ago was Shavehead, the erstwhile leader of a band of renegade Indians. Shavehead's peculiar cognomen was due to his fashion of dressing his head; the hair at the base of the head was shaved off, and the rest gathered in a bunch and tied at the top. He had been throughout his lifetime the persistent foe of the whites, and among the early settlers of Cass County he enjoyed a reputation for knavery and villainy which must, if he was aware of it, have delighted his heart.

With old age Shavehead fell upon evil days. His followers disappeared, and with the advance of white settlement and the disappearance of game the old chief was reduced to sore straits for food. At times, however, he succeeded in securing a supply of fire-water sufficient to obliterate for the time being the memory of his troubles. On one occasion the hermit, visiting Cassopolis to dispose of his wares, had his attention attracted by a group of men and boys on the village street who were being harangued by an Indian. Shavehead, for it was he, partially intoxicated, was gesticulating wildly, relating the warlike exploits of his stormy past. As the white man paused to listen, the old chief was describing the massacre at Fort Dearborn, and the slaughter of the women and children around the baggage wagons. As he proceeded with his boastings the hermit muttered words of recognition, and involuntarily drew his gun from his shoulder as though to terminate Shavehead's recital together with his life; he, too, had fought near the baggage wagons. Changing his mind, however, he listened patiently to the end, but when at sundown the Indian left the town the soldier followed on his track. "The red man and the white passed into the shade of the forest; the soldier returned alone. Chief Shavehead was never seen again. He had paid the penalty of his crime to one who could, with some fitness, exact it."[651]

[Footnote 651: Mason, _Chapters from Illinois History_, 321.]

Such is the story of Shavehead and the hermit of Diamond Lake Island. So complete is it in its tragic fitness that one would fain believe it. Yet, though it received the approval of Edward G. Mason, it must be pronounced purely mythical, at least so far as its connection with Fort Dearborn is concerned. That Shavehead and Job Wright are historical characters in the early settlement of Cass County is clear. That the former took part in the Fort Dearborn Massacre is possible, and even probable. But that he met his death at the hands of Job Wright there is no proof whatsoever. Various other accounts exist, in fact, having apparently an equal claim on our credulity with the one already cited, of the manner in which Shavehead met his end.[652] Furthermore there is no evidence that Job Wright was a member of the Fort Dearborn garrison in 1812. On the contrary, that he was not may be stated with a positiveness bordering on certainty. That he was not a member of Heald's company is shown by the muster-roll of the garrison for May 31, 1812, while the possibility of his belonging to the militia is negatived by the positive statements of both Heald and Helm that all of the latter were slain.

[Footnote 652: _Michigan Pioneer Collections_, XIV, 266-67.]

It remains to relate what is perhaps the strangest tale of all, concerning the survivors of the massacre. For it we are indebted to Moses Morgan, whose share in the building of the second Fort Dearborn has already been explained.[653] In October, 1816, two of the men detailed to select timber for the work of construction proceeded in a skiff far up the North Branch, when they came upon a half-concealed Indian hut. They were first apprised of its proximity by the shrill shrieks of the squaws, who had seen their boat as it approached. As they turned their skiff to retreat they heard the voice of a white man, imploring them to stop and talk with him. The man spoke good English, indifferent French, and poor Winnebago. He informed them that he was one of the members of Heald's company. He had been wounded in the battle, but was mercifully saved by an elderly squaw, whom he had often provided with something to eat. She prevented the Indians from scalping him, and with the help of her girls moved him across the river and put him under some bushes. Here they cared for him, attending to his wounds, although both they and he suffered much from lack of food. As soon as he could be moved the women tied him onto a flat piece of timber taken from the burnt fort, and dragged him to a small lake some forty miles to the northward. Here he found himself compelled to take the old squaw for a wife or perish from starvation. Upon her sudden death, a year before the visit of the sawyers, he had taken the two oldest girls to be his squaws. There was a third girl, younger than these, and the three women and himself comprised the inmates of the hut.

[Footnote 653: _Supra_, p. 134.]

When the sawyers reported their discovery at the encampment it was feared the squaws would spirit away their common husband. On the following day the surgeon. Doctor Gale, accompanied the sawyers to the hut, taking a boat load of presents for the squaws. It appeared that the inmates were about to change their location, and as a preliminary step the soldier had taken the youngest girl to be his third wife. She was then one hundred and fifty moons, or thirteen years old, but had desired to be married before leaving the vicinity of her mother's burial place.

Doctor Gale examined the man's wounds and found that they had healed, but with unnecessarily poor results, one leg being shortened and one arm of little use. The doctor took down his name and other personal details, and listened to his story of the massacre. He refused to return to civilization as long as the squaws would live with him and care for him; but he promised to bring them to visit the encampment, exacting, however, a promise that the little squaw should not be ridiculed by the soldiers. Nothing more was ever seen of the man, a fact not much to be wondered at. The surgeon wrote out his account of the interview and handed it, together with the memoranda he had made, to the adjutant, by whom in some manner it was lost. That the story did not, like the wounded soldier, pass into complete oblivion is owing to the quite accidental circumstance of its narration by Moses Morgan to Head, whose interest in Chicago history led him to preserve it.