Chapter XXV: Elizabeth Kenton, 428 (12)

Gen. Hunt mentions an incident which may show the sanguinary spirit of the border warfare. Capt. Wells made an excursion with Lieut. McClenan and eleven men into the enemy’s country, following a trail of Indians for two days. They came in sight of them just as they were about encamping for the night, and waited till it was dark to make their attack. Wells, having then assumed the dress of an Indian warrior, advanced with his men, who, on the first alarm given by the savages, threw themselves on the ground, while the Captain continued to approach. Supposing him a friend, the Indians met and took him into their camp, he taking the precaution to seat himself on the extreme right of the war-party, and within view of McClenan. He then announced himself as from the British fort Miami, and commenced giving the party, consisting of twenty-two Indians and a squaw, the news from their British allies. The squaw meanwhile placed over the fire a kettle full of hominy, and as it began to boil, stirred it with a ladle, when the party of white men, mistaking her motions for the concerted signal of attack, fired upon the savages. The poor squaw received a shot, and fell across the fire; the Captain saw that his life depended on prompt action, and grasping his tomahawk, commenced the work of slaughter, while his men rushed into the midst. All the Indians were killed except three, who made their escape. Both the Captain and Lieutenant were wounded.

In consideration of his services, Capt. Wells was appointed Indian agent at Fort Wayne. At this post he continued until the war of 1812, soon after the outbreak of which he departed for the purpose of escorting the troops from Chicago to Fort Wayne.

The gentleman[33] to whom I am indebted for much of the information contained in this sketch, visited Capt. Wells at Fort Wayne in 1809, and there formed an acquaintance with his niece. One of his juvenile amusements was setting up a target for her to shoot at with a rifle. She and Capt. Heald were accustomed to go out with their rifles to shoot at the bunghole of a barrel at a distance of one hundred yards, and from continual practice Miss Wells had become extremely expert in that soldierlike exercise. The Captain was at that time evidently a candidate for the favor of the fair markswoman, and took great pleasure in instructing her in every species of military accomplishment which she took a fancy to learn. Shortly after this period they were married; and in 1812 Capt. Heald was in command of the garrison at Chicago. This, it will be remembered, was at that time a remote outpost of the American frontier, scarcely to be called a settlement, as the only inhabitants without the garrison were a few Canadians and the family of a gentleman engaged in the fur trade, who had removed from St. Joseph’s in 1804. He was a great favorite among the Indians, who called him by a name signifying “the Silverman,” from the circumstance of his furnishing them with rings, brooches, and other ornaments of that metal. His influence with the tribes wherever his trading-posts were dispersed, made him an object of suspicion to the British, and being at length taken prisoner, he was detained in captivity till the close of the war.

The peninsula of Michigan was then a wilderness, peopled only by savages; and intercourse between the posts of Fort Wayne, Detroit, and Chicago, was carried on by such hardy travellers as ventured occasionally to encounter the perils and fatigues of the journey, guided by a devious Indian trail, encamping at night beside a stream, or seeking shelter in some hospitable wigwam, or even lodging among the branches of the trees.[34] The fort at Chicago was constructed with two blockhouses on the southern side, and a sallyport or subterranean passage from the parade-ground to the river, designed either to facilitate an escape, or as a means of supplying the garrison with water during a siege. The chief officers at this time, besides Capt. Heald, were very young men; the command numbered about seventy-five men, not all of whom were able to do service. The garrison had maintained a constant and friendly intercourse with the neighboring Indians, and as the principal chiefs of all the bands in the vicinity seemed to be on the most amicable terms with the Americans, no interruption of their harmony was anticipated.

After the fatal event, however, many circumstances were recollected, which should have opened their eyes. One instance may be mentioned. In the spring previous, two Indians of the Calumet band came to the post, on a visit to the commanding officer. As they passed through the quarters, they saw Mrs. Heald and another lady playing at battledore, and one of the savages said to the interpreter, “The white chiefs’ wives are amusing themselves; it will not be long before they are hoeing in our cornfields.” This speech, then regarded as merely an idle threat, or an expression of jealous feeling at the contrast with the situation of their own women, was remembered mournfully some months afterwards.

The first alarm was given on the evening of the 7th of April, 1812. Near the junction of Chicago river with Lake Michigan, directly opposite the fort, from which it was separated by the river and a few rods of sloping green turf, stood the dwelling-house and trading establishment of Mr. Kinzie. This gentleman was at home, playing the violin for the amusement of his children; they were dancing merrily, awaiting the return of their mother, who had gone a short distance up the river to visit a sick neighbor. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Kinzie rushed in, pale with affright, and hardly able to articulate--“The Indians! The Indians! They are up at Lee’s place, killing and scalping!” This was a farm intersected by the river, about four miles from its mouth. Mrs. Kinzie, when she had breath enough to speak, informed her startled family that while she had been “at Burns’, a man and boy were seen running down on the opposite side of the river; and that they had called across to Burns’ family to save themselves, for the Indians were at Lee’s place, from which they had just made their escape.” The fugitives were on their way to the fort.

All was now consternation. The family were hurried into two old pirogues moored near the house, and paddled across the river to take refuge in the fort, where the man--a discharged soldier--and boy had already told their story. In the afternoon, a party of ten or twelve Indians, dressed and painted, had arrived at the house, and according to the custom among savages, entered and seated themselves without ceremony. Something in their appearance and manner had excited the suspicions of one of the family--a Frenchman--who observed, “I do not like the looks of these Indians; they are none of our folks. I know by their dress and paint that they are not Pottowattamies.” Upon this the soldier bade the boy follow him, and walked leisurely towards the two canoes tied near the bank. Some of the Indians asked where he was going; on which he pointed to the cattle standing among the haystacks on the opposite bank and made signs that they must go and fodder them; and that they would return and get their supper. He got into one canoe and the boy into the other. When they had gained the other side of the narrow stream, they pulled some hay for the cattle, making 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 near, and made for the fort. They had run about a quarter of a mile, when they heard the discharge of two guns, and when they came opposite Burns’ they called to warn the family of their danger and hastened on.

A party of five or six soldiers, commanded by Ronan, was sent from the fort to the rescue of Burns’ family: they went up the river in a scow, took the mother with her infant scarcely a day old, on her bed to the boat, and conveyed her with the rest to the fort.

The same afternoon a corporal and six soldiers had gone up the river to fish. Fearing that they might encounter the savages, the commanding officer at the fort now ordered a cannon to be fired to warn them of danger. Hearing the signal, they put out their torches and dropped down the river in silence. It will be borne in mind that the unsettled state of the country since the battle of Tippecanoe the preceding November, caused every man to be on the alert, and the slightest alarm was sufficient to ensure vigilance. When the fishing party reached “Lee’s place,” it was proposed to stop and bid the inmates be on their guard, as the signal from the fort indicated danger. All was still around the house, but they groped their way, and as the corporal leaped the fence into the small enclosure, he placed his hand upon the dead body of a man, who he soon ascertained had been scalped. The faithful dog stood guarding the lifeless remains of his master. The soldiers retreated to their canoes, and reached the fort about eleven o’clock. The next morning a party of citizens and soldiers went to Lee’s and found two dead bodies, which were buried near the fort. It was subsequently ascertained, from traders in the Indian country, that the perpetrators of this bloody deed were a party of Winnebagoes, who had come into the neighborhood determined to kill every white man without the walls of the fort. Hearing the report of the cannon, they set off on their retreat to their homes on Rock river.

The inhabitants of the place, consisting of a few discharged soldiers and some families of half-breeds, now entrenched themselves in the “agency house,” a log building standing a few rods from the fort. It had piazzas in front and rear, which were planked up; portholes were cut, and sentinels posted at night. The enemy was supposed to be still lurking in the neighborhood, and an order was issued forbidding any soldier or citizen to leave the vicinity of the garrison without a guard. One night a sergeant and private who were out on patrol, came suddenly upon a party of Indians in the pasture adjoining the esplanade, and fired upon them as they made good their retreat. The next morning traces of blood were found, extending some distance into the prairie. On another occasion the savages entered the esplanade to steal the horses, and not finding them in the stable, made themselves amends for their disappointment by stabbing the sheep and then turning them loose. The poor animals ran towards the fort; the alarm was given, and parties were sent out, but the marauders escaped.

These occurrences were enough to keep the inmates of the fort in a state of apprehension, but they were no further disturbed for many weeks. On the afternoon of August 7th, a Pottowattamie chief arrived at the post, bearing despatches from Gen. Hull, at Detroit, which announced the declaration of war between the United States and Great Britain; also that the island of Mackinaw had fallen into the hands of the British.

The orders to the commanding officer, Capt. Heald, were “to evacuate the post, if practicable, and in that event, to distribute all the United States’ property contained in the fort and the United States’ factory or agency, among the Indians in the neighborhood.” After having delivered his despatches, the chief, Winnemeg, requested a private interview with Mr. Kinzie, who had taken up his residence within the garrison, stated that he was acquainted with the purport of the communications, and earnestly advised that the post should not be evacuated, since the garrison was well supplied with ammunition and provision for six months. It would be better to remain till a reinforcement could be sent to their assistance. In case, however, Capt. Heald should decide upon leaving the fort, it should be done immediately, as the Pottowattamies, through whose country they must pass, were ignorant of the object of Winnemeg’s mission, and a forced march might be made before the hostile Indians were prepared to intercept them.

Capt. Heald was immediately informed of this advice, and replied that it was his intention to evacuate the fort; but that, inasmuch as he had received orders to distribute the United States’ property, he would not leave till he had collected the Indians in the neighborhood and made an equitable division among them. Winnemeg then suggested the expediency of marching out and leaving all things standing, for while the savages were dividing the spoils the troops might possibly effect their retreat unmolested. This counsel, though strongly seconded, was not approved by the commanding officer.

The order for evacuating the post was read the next morning upon parade, and in the course of the day, as no council was called, the officers waited upon Capt. Heald, and urged him to relinquish his design on account of the improbability that the command would be permitted to pass in safety to Fort Wayne by the savages, whose thirst for slaughter could hardly be controlled by the few individuals who were supposed to have friendly feelings towards the Americans. Their march must of necessity be slow, as a number of women and children, with some invalid soldiers, would accompany the detachment. Their advice, therefore, was to remain, and fortify themselves as strongly as possible, in hopes that succor from the other side of the peninsula would arrive before they could be attacked by the British from Mackinaw. In reply to this remonstrance Capt. Heald urged that he should be censured for remaining when there appeared a prospect of a safe march, and that on the whole he deemed it most 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 savages, from whom, as well as from the soldiers, the capture of Mackinaw had been kept a profound secret.

The project was considered a mad one, and much and increasing dissatisfaction prevailed among the officers and soldiers. The Indians became every day more unruly. Entering the fort in defiance of the sentinels, they often made their way without ceremony to the quarters of the officers. On one occasion a savage took up a rifle, and fired it in Mrs. Heald’s parlor. Some supposed this a signal for an attack, as there was vehement agitation among the old chiefs and squaws; but the manifestation of hostile feeling was suppressed, and the Captain continued to feel confidence in such an amicable disposition among the Indians, as would ensure the safety of his troops on their march to Fort Wayne.

The inmates of the fort, meanwhile, suffered greatly from apprehension, scarcely daring to yield to sleep at night, and a general gloom and distress prevailed. The Indians being assembled from the neighboring villages, a council was held with them on the 12th, Capt. Heald alone attending on the part of the military, as his officers refused to accompany him. Information had secretly been brought to them that it was the intention of the young chiefs to fall upon them and murder them while in council, but the Captain could not be persuaded of the truth of this, and therefore left the garrison, while the officers who remained 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.

“In council, the commanding officer informed the Indians of 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 upon their arrival there, in addition to the presents they were now to receive. With many professions of friendship and good-will the savages assented to all he proposed, and promised all he required.

“After the council, Mr. Kinzie, who understood well, not only the Indian character, but the present tone of feeling among them, waited upon Capt. Heald, in the hope of opening his eyes to the present posture of affairs. He reminded him that since the trouble 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 settlers on the frontier. Mr. Kinzie recalled to Capt. Heald the fact that he had himself left home for Detroit the preceding autumn, and receiving, when he had proceeded as far as De Charme’s,[35] the intelligence of the battle of Tippecanoe, he had immediately returned to Chicago, that he might despatch orders to his traders to furnish no ammunition to the Indians; all that they had on hand was therefore secreted, and such of the traders as had not already started for their wintering-grounds, took neither powder nor shot with their outfit.

“Capt. 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, excepting what should be necessary for the use of his own troops. On the 13th, the goods, consisting of blankets, broadcloths, calicos, paints, etc., were distributed, as stipulated. The same evening, part of the ammunition and liquor was carried 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, and the heads of the barrels were knocked in, and the contents poured into the river. The same fate was shared by a large quantity of alcohol which had been deposited in a warehouse opposite the fort. The Indians suspected what was going on, and crept 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 march were broken up and thrown into the well, together with bags of shot, flints, gun-screws, etc.

“Some relief to the general despondency was afforded by the arrival, on the 14th of August, of Capt. Wells, with fifteen friendly Miamies. He had heard at Fort Wayne of the order for evacuating Fort Dearborn, and knowing the hostile determination of the Pottowattamies, had made a rapid march across the country to prevent the exposure of his relative, Capt. Heald, and his troops to certain destruction. But he came too late. When he reached the post, he found that the ammunition had been destroyed, and the provisions given to the Indians. There was therefore no alternative, and every preparation was made for the march of the troops on the following morning.

“On the afternoon of the same day, a second council was held with the Indians. They expressed great indignation at the destruction of the ammunition and liquor. Notwithstanding the precautions that had been taken to preserve secrecy, the noise of knocking in the heads of the barrels had too plainly betrayed the operations of the preceding night; and so great was the quantity of liquor thrown into the river, that the taste of the water, the next morning, was, as one expressed it, ‘strong grog.’ Murmurs and threats were everywhere heard among the savages, and 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 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 last 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. 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 forbade their embarrassing themselves with a larger quantity.

“The morning of the 15th arrived. All things were in readiness, and nine o’clock was the hour named for starting. Mr. Kinzie had volunteered to accompany the troops in their march, and had entrusted his family to the care of some friendly Indians, who had promised to convey them in a boat around the head of Lake Michigan, to a point[36] 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 he received a message from a chief of the St. Joseph’s band, informing him that mischief was intended by the Pottowattamies who had promised to escort the detachment; and urging him to relinquish his design of accompanying the troops by land, promising that the boat which should contain himself and family, should be permitted to pass in safety to St. Joseph’s. Mr. Kinzie declined accepting this proposal, as he believed that his presence might operate as a restraint on the fury of the savages, so warmly were the greater part attached to himself and family. The party in the boat consisted of Mrs. Kinzie and her four younger children, a clerk, 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, when another messenger from the chief arrived to detain them.

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

“As the troops left the fort the band struck up the dead march. On they came in military array, Capt. Wells taking the lead, at the head of his little band of Miamies--his face blackened, in token of his impending fate,[37] and took their route along the lake shore. When they reached the point where commences the range of sand hill 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 Miamies. They had marched perhaps a mile and a half, when Capt. Wells, who was somewhat in advance with his Miamies, 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 years, 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 Lieut. Helm, and step-daughter of Mr. Kinzie.

“‘After we had left the bank and gained the prairie, the action became general. The Miamies 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, and return to 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 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 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 countenance 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?’

“‘Doctor,’ 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 endeavor to 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 upon one knee.

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

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

“‘At this moment, a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me. By springing aside, I avoided the blow which was intended for my skull, but which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him round 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 an older Indian, who bore me, struggling and resisting, towards the lake. Notwithstanding the rapidity with which I was hurried along, I recognised, 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, as he held me firmly in such a position as to place my head above the water. This reassured me, and regarding him attentively, I soon recognised, in spite of the paint with which he was disguised, The Black Partridge.

“‘When the firing had somewhat 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 toward 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 soon finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Supported partly by my kind conductor, and partly by another Indian, who held dangling in his hand the scalp of Capt. Wells, I dragged my fainting steps to one of the wigwams.’”

At the commencement of the action Capt. Wells was riding by the side of his niece. He said to her that he was satisfied there was not the least chance for his life, and that they must part to meet no more in this world, then started away to charge with the rest. It is said that Mrs. Heald saw him fall from his horse, struck by several rifle balls. Another account states that after the surrender, while an Indian was cruelly butchering some white children, Capt. Wells exclaimed, “then I will kill too,” and set off towards the Indian camp near the fort, where their squaws and children had been left. Several pursued him, firing as he galloped along. He laid himself flat on the neck of his horse, loading and firing in that position, but was at length severely wounded, and his horse killed. Two friendly Indians who met him endeavored to save him from his enemies, and supported him after disengaging him from his horse, but he received his death-blow from one of his pursuers, who stabbed him in the back.

The charging of the troops drove back the Indians a considerable distance into the prairie, where the Captain ordered his men, diminished by more than two thirds of their number, to halt, and after a parley with the savages, agreed to surrender, stipulating that their lives should be spared, and that they should be delivered at one of the British posts, unless ransomed by traders in the Indian country. It appeared afterwards that the savages did not consider the wounded prisoners as included in the stipulation.

The lady whose narrative has been quoted, says, after she was taken to the wigwam, “the wife of a chief from the Illinois river was standing near, and seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle, dipped up some water from a little stream that flowed near, threw into it some maple sugar, and stirring it up with her hand, gave it to me to drink. This act of kindness, in the midst of so many atrocities, touched me most sensibly, but my attention was soon diverted to other objects. 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, the chief 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 heroic resolution of one of the soldiers’ wives deserves to be recorded. She had from the first expressed a 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 prisoner, she fought with desperation, refusing to surrender, although assured of safe treatment; and literally suffered herself to be cut to pieces, rather than become their captive.

“The horse Mrs. Heald rode was a fine, spirited animal, and the Indians were desirous to possess themselves of it unwounded. They therefore aimed their shots so as to disable the rider, without injuring her steed. This was at length accomplished, and her captor was in the act of disengaging her hat from her head, in order to scalp her, when young Chandonnai, a half-breed from St. Joseph’s, ran up and offered for her ransom a mule he had just taken, adding the promise of ten bottles of whiskey, so soon as he 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. Mrs. Heald was placed in the boat with Mrs. Kinzie and her children, covered with a buffalo robe, and enjoined silence as she valued her life. In this situation the heroic woman remained, without uttering a sound that could betray her to the savages, who were continually coming to the boat in search of prisoners, but who always retired peaceably when told that it contained only the family of _Shaw-ne-au-kee_. When the boat was at length permitted to return to the mansion of Mr. Kinzie, and Mrs. Heald was removed to the house for the purpose of dressing her wounds, Mr. Kinzie applied to an old chief who stood by, and who, like most of his tribe, possessed some skill in surgery, to extract a ball from the arm of the sufferer. ‘No, father,’ replied he, ‘I cannot do it--it makes me sick here!’ placing his hand upon his heart.

“From the Pottowattamie encampment, the family of Mr. Kinzie were conveyed across the river to their own mansion. There they 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, were seen fluttering about in all directions. The ludicrous appearance of one young fellow, who had arrayed himself in a muslin gown, and the bonnet of the commanding officer’s lady, would under other circumstances have afforded matter of amusement.

“Black Partridge and Wau-ban-see, with three others of the tribe, having established themselves in the porch of the building as sentinels, to protect the family of Mr. Kinzie from any evil, 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 the most hostile and implacable of all the bands 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 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 their chief 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 residence 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, who had recently come to the post, and was personally unknown to the more remote Indians. By his advice, she assumed the ordinary dress of a Frenchwoman of the country, a short gown and petticoat, with a blue cotton handkerchief wrapped around her head; and in this disguise she was conducted by Black Partridge 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 the large feather bed and placed her under the edge of it, upon the bedstead, with her face to the wall. Mrs. Bisson, the sister of Ouilmette’s wife, then seated herself with her sewing upon the front of the bed. It was a hot day in August, and the feverish excitement of fear and agitation, together with her position, which was nearly suffocating, were so painful, 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 miseries at once.’ Mrs. Bisson replied, ‘Your death would be the signal for the destruction of us all, for Black Partridge is resolved, if one drop of the blood of your family is spilled, to 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 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 kept her seat upon the side of the bed, calmly assorting and arranging the patchwork of the quilt on which she was engaged, 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 the savages proceeded to the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie. They entered the parlor, in which were assembled the family, with their faithful protectors, and seated themselves upon the floor in profound silence. Black Partridge perceived, from their moody and revengeful looks, what was passing in their minds, but 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, and bade him make all speed to the house. Billy Caldwell, 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 the 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 Indians’ 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 friend some white cotton, in which to wrap their dead before interring them. This was given them, together with some other presents, and they took their departure from the premises.

“Little remains to be told. On the third day after the battle, the family of Mr. Kinzie, with the clerks of the establishment, were put in a boat, under the care of François, a half-breed interpreter, and conveyed to St. Joseph’s, where they remained until the following November. They were then carried to Detroit, under the escort of Chandonnai and a trusty Indian friend, and together with their negro servants, delivered up as prisoners of war to the British commanding officer. It had been a stipulation at the surrender of Detroit by Gen. Hull, that the American inhabitants should retain the liberty of remaining undisturbed in their own dwellings, and accordingly this family was permitted a quiet residence among their friends at that place. Mr. Kinzie was not allowed to leave St. Joseph’s with his family, his Indian friends insisting upon his remaining to endeavor to secure some remnant of his scattered property, but anxiety for his family induced him to follow them in January to Detroit, where he was received as a prisoner, and paroled by Gen. Proctor.

“Of the other prisoners, Capt. and Mrs. Heald had been sent across the Lake to St. Joseph’s the day after the battle. Capt. Heald had received two wounds, and Mrs. Heald seven, the ball of one of which was cut out of her arm with a pen-knife by Mr. Kinzie, after the engagement.

“Capt. Heald was 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 his prisoner, that he might accompany his wife to St. Joseph’s. To the latter place they were accordingly carried by Chandonnai and his party. In the meantime, the Indian who had so nobly released his captive, returned to his village on the Kankakee, where he had the mortification of finding that his conduct had excited great dissatisfaction among his band. So great was the displeasure manifested that he resolved to make a journey to St. Joseph’s and reclaim his prisoner. News of his intention being brought to the chiefs under whose care the prisoners were, they held a private council with Chandonnai and the principal men of the village, the result of which was a determination to send Capt. and Mrs. Heald to the island of Mackinaw, and deliver them up to the British. They were accordingly put in a bark canoe and paddled by the chief of the Pottowattamies, Robinson, and his wife, a distance of three hundred miles along the coast of Lake Michigan, and surrendered as prisoners of war to the commanding officer at Mackinaw.

“Lieut. Helm, who was likewise wounded, was carried by some friendly Indians to their village, on the _Au Sable_ and thence to St. Louis, where he was liberated by the intervention of Thomas Forsyth, a trader among them. Mrs. Helm accompanied her father’s family to Detroit. In the engagement she received a slight wound on the ancle, and had her horse shot under her.

“The soldiers, with their wives and children, were dispersed among the different villages of the Pottowattamies, upon the Illinois, Wabash, Rock River, and Milwaukie, until the following spring, when they were for the most part carried to Detroit, and ransomed. Some, however, were detained in captivity another year, during which period they experienced more kindness than was to have been expected from an enemy in most cases so merciless.”

Gen. Hunt adds, that some months after the massacre at Chicago, he met Capt. and Mrs. Heald, walking in the street in Detroit. They had just come from Mackinaw in a vessel, and were much pleased to see their old friend. Mrs. Heald had recovered from her wounds, and appeared to be as well as she had ever been. It is probable that, after the termination of the war, her life was one of quiet usefulness, like that of her sister pioneers; the occurrences in which she had borne so prominent a part serving to relate as truth more strange than fiction, to those whose fortunes had led them into less stirring scenes.

MRS. HELM was the daughter of Col. McKillip, a British officer attached to one of the companies who in 1794 were engaged in sustaining the Indian tribes in Northern Ohio against the government of the United States. He lost his life at the fort at the Miami Rapids, now Perrysburg. He had gone out at night to reconnoitre, and returning in a stealthy manner, was mistaken for an enemy, fired upon, and mortally wounded by his own sentinel. His widow afterwards became the wife of John Kinzie, with whom, in 1803, she removed to Chicago, then a mere trading post among the Pottowattamies.

At the age of eighteen, the daughter was married to Lieut. Lina J. Helm, of Kentucky. Her death took place at Watersville, in Michigan, in 1844, and was very sudden. She had just risen from the tea-table--one of the company having read to her a newspaper paragraph relating to Henry Clay; and she said, “I hope I shall live to see that man President.” Scarcely were the words uttered, than she fell backwards into the arms of an attendant and almost instantly expired. Her interest in the great statesman is an evidence of the patriotic feeling for which she was always remarkable. She was generous, high-minded, and disinterested; possessing a calm strength of nature, and was energetic and indefatigable in action. Her piety was pure and ardent, yet wholly untinctured with fanaticism; the faith and love by which the true Christian lifts his heart to God and with a sincerity and devotion rarely equalled, did she obey the precept, “thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”

Our wonder may well be excited at the heroism and the sufferings borne with such sturdy fortitude, of the pioneer women whose lot was cast in the midst of the troubles upon the frontier. Yet their attachment to this wild, unsettled life was still more remarkable; for as the country became settled, they would encourage their husbands or sons to “sell out,” and remove still further into the wilderness.

During the time of the possession of Detroit by the British, after the surrender of Gen. Hull, the frontier settlement suffered much from Indian depredation. The capture of the family of Mr. Snow, taken by the Ottawa Indians from their home on Cole Creek, in Huron County, may illustrate the experience of many unfortunates whose names tradition has not preserved. Mr. Snow chanced to be absent, when his house was surrounded by a hostile party, and his wife and nine children were made prisoners. The savages immediately started on their return, and had gone about five miles, travelling on foot, when it became evident that Mrs. Snow, whose health was delicate, could not drag herself much further. A brief council was held among the savages, and it was decided that she must be killed. Two young men were appointed to put the cruel sentence in execution, while the rest of the party moved forward; the victim being ordered to keep her seat upon a log. Here her lifeless body was found by her husband and the men in pursuit. It is a somewhat curious circumstance, that one of the Indians who killed the unfortunate woman, afterwards expressed his remorse for the deed, and said he knew the Great Spirit was angry with him, for that the ground had trembled when she screamed, and his right arm had become completely withered by a rheumatic affection. His death might have been deemed also a judgment for the crime; in a fit of intoxication he fell into the fire and burned himself so severely that he expired in a short time.

“On a beautiful Sunday morning in Detroit,” continues my informant, “I heard the scalp whoop of a war party coming up the river. When they came near, I discovered that they were carrying a woman’s scalp upon a pole, and that they had with them, as prisoners, a family of nine children, from three years old up to two girls full grown. These little captives had nothing on their heads, and their clothes were torn into shreds by the brushwood and the bushes in the way by which they had come. I went to meet them, brought them into my house, gave them and their Indian captors a meal, with a few loaves of bread for further use, and told the children not to be frightened or uneasy, for that my brother would buy them from the Indians when he should return from Canada, whither he had gone to spend the Sabbath with his father-in-law. The next day the prisoners came again, accompanied by about five hundred Indians. My brother paid five hundred dollars for their ransom, and sent them home. The girls informed me that they had been treated by the Indians with kindness and respect. Indeed, it may be recorded, to the praise of the Indian character, and in extenuation of their cruelties, that an instance has not been known of improper conduct towards a captive white woman. Their apology for the murder of Mrs. Snow was, that they feared her release might lead to their discovery by the whites in pursuit.”

The Rev. J. M. Peck of Illinois mentions the name of Catharine Lemen, as a pioneer who came to that region as early as 1786, with her husband and two children. The family were exposed to Indian depredations during the whole period of the border troubles; and many instances are remembered in which she exhibited a heroic and Christian spirit. She had ten children, four of whom became ministers of the gospel. Mrs. Edwards, the wife of Governor Edwards, is also mentioned as a matron distinguished for lofty and heroic traits of character. She sustained her husband through his public life, having the entire management of his large estate and its settlement after his death.

XVIII.

ABIGAIL SNELLING.

Thomas Hunt, the father of the subject of the present memoir was a Revolutionary officer, and a native of Watertown, Massachusetts. He entered the American army as a volunteer, and was soon commissioned in the regular service; was in the expedition against Ticonderoga commanded by Ethan Allen, and one of the party who made themselves masters of Crown Point. He was with Gen. Wayne at Stoney Point, among the volunteers of the “forlorn hope,” and was there wounded in the ankle. In 1794, he joined the army under Wayne against the Indians, and served out the campaign, returning then to his family residence at Watertown. In 1798, he was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel of the first regiment of infantry, and ordered to Fort Wayne, where he remained until the death of Col. Hamtramck at Detroit, when he became Colonel, and took the command of that post, remained there some time, and afterwards went to Mackinaw.

Our heroine was but six weeks old when the family left Watertown, and was carried on a pillow in such a vehicle as was then used for stages, over very rough roads, for many miles only rendered passable by logs placed side by side, forming what are termed corduroy roads. The severity of the exercise, as may be remembered by those who have travelled over such roads in a new country, always caused an outcry on approaching them, from man, woman, and child, with petitions to get out and walk; frequently at the risk of being bitten by rattlesnakes which were often concealed between the logs. When they arrived at Mackinaw, they went to the Government House, which they were to occupy. The English commander had left it with the furniture, even the window curtains suspended from the windows, and there was an air of comfort in and about the house. The Fort stood on the height, the town was small, the streets were very narrow, the houses built in the old French style, and the town was enclosed with pickets, with a gate at each end.

One of the little girl’s earliest recollections was visiting in the family of a Scotch gentleman, Dr. Mitchell, who had married an Indian wife. She dressed herself in silks and satins when at home, but resumed her native dress when among the Chippewas, her own people. She would sometimes be absent many months, purchasing furs to send to Montreal, for her agent there to sell; and in this way she amassed a large fortune for her husband. At one time, after she had been absent more than six months, it was reported that she had been killed by some rival trader. She heard on her way home that such news had been received, and when her flotilla appeared in sight, threw herself on the bottom of her birch canoe. Her husband, with spy-glass in hand, was on the beach, eagerly looking to see if indeed his wife was not there, and was about turning away with a heavy heart, when she leaped from her bark exclaiming, “Not dead yet!” Her two daughters were sent to Montreal to be educated, and returned home highly accomplished and very beautiful women. One of them afterwards married an officer.