Chapter XXV: Elizabeth Kenton, 428 (14)

In 1823, news was brought by the traders that two white children were with a party of Sioux, on the St. Peter’s. It appeared from what they could learn, that a family from Red River--Selkirk’s settlement--had been on their way to the Fort, when a war party of Sioux met them, murdered the parents and an infant, and made the boys prisoner. Col. Snelling sent an officer with a party of soldiers to rescue the children. After some delay in the ransom, they were finally brought. An old squaw, who had the youngest, was very unwilling to give him up, and indeed the child did not wish to leave her. The oldest, about eight years old, said his name was John Tully, and his brother, five years old, Abraham. His mother had an infant, but he saw the Indians dash its brains out against a tree, then kill his father and mother. Because he cried, they took him by his hair, and cut a small piece from his head, which was a running sore when he was re-taken. Col. Snelling took John into his family, Major Clark the other, but he was afterwards sent to an orphan asylum in New York. The eldest died of lockjaw, occasioned by a cut in the ankle while using an axe. His deathbed conversion was affecting and remarkable. One day, after he had been ill several weeks, he said, “Mrs. Snelling, I have been a very wicked boy; I once tried to poison my father because he said he would whip me. I stole a ring from you, which you valued much, and sold it to a soldier, and then I told you a lie about it. I have given you a great deal of trouble. I have been very wicked. I am going to die the day after to-morrow, and don’t know where I shall go. Oh, pray for me.”

His benefactress answered, “John, God will forgive you, if you repent; but you must pray, too, for yourself. God is more willing to hear than we are to pray. Christ died to save just such a sinner as you are, and you must call upon that Saviour to save you.” All his sins appeared to rise before him as he confessed them, and he seemed to feel that he was too great a sinner to hope for pardon. Mrs. Snelling read to him, and instructed him. He never had received any religious instruction, except in the Sunday school taught by Mrs. Clark and herself, and being accustomed to say his prayers with her children, and always to be present when she read the church service on Sundays. The next morning after the above conversation, when she asked him how he had rested during the night, he said, “I prayed very often in the night; I shall die to-morrow, and I know not what will become of me.” For several hours he remained tranquil, with his eyes closed, but would answer whenever spoken to; then suddenly he exclaimed, “Glory! glory!” His friend said, “John, what do you mean by that word?” “Oh! Mrs. Snelling, I feel so good--I feel so good! Oh! I cannot tell you how good I feel.” She knew not that he ever heard that word unless from her prayer-book. He lost all consciousness on the day he said he should die, and expired at the succeeding dawn.

During this year the commandant was visited by Gen. Scott and suite, and the fort was completed. Heretofore it had been called Fort St. Anthony, but Gen. Scott issued an order giving it the name of Fort Snelling. He expressed his approbation of the construction and site of the fort, etc., spent a week with his friends, and visited the falls and a chain of lakes where they were used to amuse themselves fishing, and where the water was so clear they could see the fish playing about the hook. One of the lakes Mrs. Snelling named Scott Lake.

Another of her amusements was riding on horseback. When a child she had been accustomed to ride every morning with her father, and acquired great confidence in the management of a horse. Her husband seldom would ride with her, but Capt. Martin Scott was in the regiment, and often accompanied her. One day they saw a wolf; the dogs gave chase, and they followed until they ran down the poor creature, the bonnet of the fair huntress having fallen back, and her hair streaming loose in the wind.

In 1825, the family left Fort Snelling to visit their friends in Detroit. It was late in the season, October, before they set out homeward, by the way of Green Bay, where Mrs. Snelling’s brother, Lieut. Wellington Hunt, was stationed. They spent a week in his family, and when they reached Lake Pepin the ice was running so rapidly they were compelled to stop; the ice had cut through the cabin so that it leaked. A small log cabin was put up, and an express sent to the fort, one hundred miles, for sleighs to convey them thither, and provisions, as they had nothing but corn, which they boiled in ash-water with a little salt. Fears were entertained by Col. Snelling that the express might not reach the fort, and another was sent a week after. One day, after two weeks, there was a sound of sleigh bells, and Henry, who was the first to hear, ran to meet them, and soon returned with two loaves of bread, which he threw into his mother’s lap, crying, “eat, mother, eat.” The children ate bread as if famished, and even the little Marion, but eight months old, partook of the general joy. They had seen no Indians, who had all gone to their winter grounds. Some of the officers came to meet the Colonel’s family, and they were soon on the move again. They were welcomed back joyfully by all their friends, and many of their favorite Indians came to see them. One poor savage, who always furnished them with game, came leaning on his staff, looking pale and emaciated; he was very sick, he said, and came to see them once more before he died. He could scarcely crawl back to his lodge, and the next day expired.

At this time a party of the Chippewas and Sioux held a council with the Indian agent. There had been war between the two nations for a long time; the agent desired to act as mediator between them, and sent for them to meet him. After the council the two parties smoked the pipe of peace. The Chippewas killed a dog, made a feast, and invited the Sioux to their lodges, which were under the guns of the fort. In the evening, about nine o’clock, the firing of guns was heard; the sentinel called “corporal of the guard” repeatedly, in quick succession. The wild cries of women and children were heard, for the Chippewas had their families with them, and several Indians came rushing into the hall of the commanding officer, trying to tell what was the matter. The officer of the day reported that the Sioux, after partaking of the hospitalities of the Chippewas, and being apparently good friends, had some of them returned, placed their guns under the wigwams, and fired, killing some and wounding others. The wounded were conveyed into the hospital to have their wounds dressed. Other particulars of this occurrence, with the determination of the Chippewas to have vengeance, the action of the commanding officer, and the surrender and punishment of the perpetrators of the deed, are related in another memoir. The traders said the Sioux were perfectly satisfied, much more so than if the offenders had been imprisoned and sent to St. Louis.

In 1826, Capt. Thomas Hunt, who was residing at Washington, wrote to his sister, urging her and the Colonel to send their two eldest children to him to be educated. Their daughter Mary was now fourteen, and as Capt. Plympton and his wife were going, her parents got her in readiness to accompany them. Her mother thought not it would cost so many tears to part with her child; but when she returned home from the boat, she told Mrs. Clark it “seemed like a death in the family.” Soon an opportunity offered, and they sent Henry also.

In 1827 the Indians began to show signs of hostility near Prairie du Chien; they murdered two white men and a young girl, the daughter of one of them, and attacked two boats with supplies for Fort Snelling, killing and wounding several of the crew. Col. Snelling ordered out as many of his command as could be spared from the fort, and with his officers descended the river to the relief of Fort Crawford, or to attack any hostile force of Indians he might meet. There were two large villages of Indians between the two forts, and it was expected, when they approached, they would be attacked, but there was not an Indian to be seen. When they reached Prairie du Chien, they ascertained that the outrage had been committed by Winnebagoes and not Sioux. When Gen. Atkinson heard this at St. Louis, he sent and seized the chief, Red Bird, and one or two others, who were tried, convicted, and executed. After an absence of six weeks, the party returned without being obliged to fire a gun.

One day soon after his return, the Colonel came in to tell his wife the express had brought them a mail, holding in his hand a letter sealed with black. She exclaimed, “My Mary is dead.” “No,” said her husband, “the letter is from Detroit.” It brought the intelligence of her much loved brother Henry’s death. He was much loved and respected by all who knew him; was mayor of the city and colonel of the militia, and his funeral was the largest ever known in Michigan. After the massacre at Frenchtown by the Indians, in 1813, he had spent a great deal of money in ransoming prisoners, many of whom still affectionately cherish his memory. He had proved a father to his sister and family, and was mourned by them deeply and long.

In the fall of 1827, the regiment was ordered to Jefferson Barracks. When the family arrived at St. Louis, they took lodgings for the winter. Colonel Snelling having obtained leave to go to Washington to settle some public accounts and to bring home his daughter. He wrote to her mother in glowing terms of her improvement in person and mind, and that she received much attention for one of her age, not yet sixteen. “As Mary will not again,” he concluded, “have so good an opportunity, I have encouraged her to accept invitations to the different soirées; she has had cards for the season from all.” Mary wrote, “I have attended many parties, but I do not enjoy them, for my dear mother is not with me, and I am so impatient to embrace her.” Alas! the All Wise Disposer of events had ordered it otherwise. One more letter her mother received from her, and hoped before many weeks to see her, but at the time she was expecting her arrival, a letter was written to her sister, Mrs. Soulard, that Mary was dead!

Col. Snelling wrote afterwards, that on the 2d of February she had been at Mrs. Clay’s party and danced, and had taken cold while standing to wait for the carriage; the cold terminating in a brain fever. Mrs. Adams, the wife of the President, showed great interest in the young stranger, as did many others, and every attention was paid her that could be desired; but there was no solace for the deep wound in the mother’s heart. She had felt a presentiment that she should never more see her daughter, and was in some measure prepared for the stroke which almost crushed her: she was enabled to look with faith to Him from whose hand it came, to feel that He was too wise to err--too good to afflict willingly, and to bow in humble submission to the most painful dispensation of his Providence. Her husband wrote that he should be obliged to remain still longer in Washington; it would improve her health to travel, and she must join him without delay. In May she left St. Louis with her three children and nurse, found her husband and son well, the latter much grown, and received a cordial welcome from her brother and sister-in-law.

Her cup of affliction was not yet full; in two months her husband was seized with inflammation of the brain and died in three weeks. In communicating the sad event to the army, the General-in-Chief thought it but an act of justice to make a public acknowledgment of his services.[38]

At this period of distress Mrs. Snelling’s youngest child, Josiah, was not expected to live. She resigned him willingly; but he was spared to her, and lived to be her great comfort. In a month she was on her way to Detroit. A farm three miles up the river belonged to her, and thither she took her children. Her brother, George Hunt, took charge of the farm and lived in her family. After residing two years upon it, Mrs. Snelling found it necessary to remove into the city, where she took a few boarders, and rented her farm. In 1835 she sold it for nine thousand dollars, purchased a lot in the city and built a brick house. Her son Henry, who had gone to New York on business, became acquainted with Miss Putnam, the sister of the publisher, a lady of high literary ability and intelligence, and they were soon afterwards married. Capt. Thomas Hunt was at this time residing in Detroit. He died very suddenly in consequence of a fall, leaving a very interesting family. Gov. Mason offered Mrs. Snelling a high rent for her house, and she consented to let it, provided he would purchase her new furniture, which he did. She then accepted an invitation from her brother, Gen. Hunt, at Maumee city, to reside in his family, having now only her daughter Marion (afterwards Mrs. Hazard) and her youngest son with her. Her son James had gone to West Point.

In 1841 Mrs. Snelling was married to the Rev. J. E. Chaplin, the grandson of President Edwards. He was appointed principal to one of the branches of the Michigan State Institution, and they removed to White Pigeon in Michigan, where Mr. Chaplin died in 1846, much beloved and lamented. For five years his wife had lived with him in great happiness, and she felt that he had only gone home a little before her.

In 1844 her son James graduated, and was ordered to Texas in Gen. Worth’s regiment. He was at the battle of Palo Alto and Reseca, in all the battles with Gen. Taylor excepting Buena Vista. At that time Gen. Worth’s regiment was with Gen. Scott’s division. He was at the siege of Vera Cruz and Cherubusco, at which time Gen. Scott mentions him in his dispatches. At Molino del Rey he was severely wounded; the ball entering the left breast passed under his arm, and was cut out from his back. He received two brevets, making him _passed_ captain. Although his father had been in eleven skirmishes and battles he had never lost a drop of blood, but the son was less fortunate, and at twenty-three nearly lost his life. It was six weeks after seeing his name published among those who were severely wounded before his mother heard from him direct, and during that time, her state of suspense was terrible. One day as she left home for a walk, she noticed the stage approaching her house, and as it was passing, Mr. Hazard put his head out and said, “You had better go back, there is some one here you would like to see.” She turned to go back, saw the stage stop, and her son get out, and sank on her knees returning thanks to God that her eyes again beheld him. He afterwards went to Texas with his regiment.

In 1849 Mrs. Chaplin travelled with her nephew, Major Hunt, and her two nieces up the Mississippi to Fort Snelling. She found twenty-one years had made great changes and great improvements; the party went in a splendid steamboat, beautifully furnished, with table sumptuously supplied, and either side of the river was dotted with cultivated fields and large towns--the transformation seemed almost magical. When they arrived at the Fort, she met an old friend in Col. Loomis, who was very polite in taking her about the country that she might see all she could in the short time they had to stay. She visited the grave of her little daughter, and could decipher the name on the stone although much defaced. The Colonel promised to have a new one put up. An old Indian woman recognized her, saying she had seen her a long time ago, and she was much delighted to find she had been remembered. She also went over the house so long occupied by her family. On their return they stopped at St. Paul’s, where the governor of the territory resides, and there found a niece who had married Mr. Welsh of Michigan.

One of the passengers taken in at that place, in conversation with one of the ladies, related the story of the murder of the Chippewas by the Sioux after the treaty, and the punishment of the guilty persons, with some fanciful embellishment, by way of exemplifying the Indian traits of generosity and self-devotion, stating that the friend of one of the culprits had offered himself a voluntary victim in his place, the other being a married man, and that the innocent substitute had been delivered up to the Chippewas by the commanding officer. His strictures on the conduct of Col. Snelling were interrupted by a mild rebuke from Mrs. Chaplin, who informed him the account he had given of the transaction was incorrect. “You seem to speak knowingly on the subject, madam,” said the stranger. “I should be happy to get the right story.” “I was the wife of that commanding officer,” she replied, “and remember well all the circumstances;” which she then related, and was told by the gentleman that he was writing a book, “and had received the story from a trader.” His experience in this instance might be a lesson to those who rely on floating traditions unsupported by competent authority.

Mrs. Chaplin is now happily at home with her daughter, Mrs. Hazard, and resides in Cincinnati. Her life has been a chequered and eventful one, and many sorrows have fallen to her lot; but these have been borne with resignation and submission to the will of her Heavenly Father, to whose guidance she committed her youth, and who has blessed her with the enjoyment of the peace and prosperity won through a period of hardship and distress. Her family connections are numerous, and a very large circle of friends and acquaintances admire her talents and love her virtues.

XIX.

MARY McMILLAN.

Lanman, the author of a pleasing History of Michigan, says it embraces three epochs; the first a romantic one, extending to 1760, when the dominion over the small portion of inhabited territory passed from France to Great Britain. The earliest gleam of civilization at that period had scarcely penetrated its forests, and the boat-songs of the French furtraders, as they swept its lakes, alone awoke the echoes. The second epoch may be called a military one. It commenced with the Pontiac war, and extends through the struggles of the British, Indians, and Americans to obtain undisputed possession of the country; terminating with the victory of Commodore Perry, the defeat of Proctor, etc. The third and last period comprises the enterprising, mechanical, and working age of Michigan, commencing with the introduction of the public lands into market; it is the epoch of agriculture, manufactures, and commerce; the day of harbors, cities, canals, and railroads, in which forests have been surveyed and cleared, streams and lakes covered with sails, States founded, and their internal resources developed.

A few small settlements were made along the lakes at a very early period. Sault Ste. Marie, like the other French posts, had a fort and chapel in 1688, and was a favorite resort for traders and savages on their way to the forests of Lake Superior, its settlers being a few Indians, called the Salteurs, who lived by fishing in the rapids. A goldsmith, who went there afterwards, wrought from the pure copper found in that region, bracelets, candlesticks, crosses, and censers, for sale among the savages. From time to time Jesuit missionaries were sent from Quebec and Montreal to these distant posts, but they remained without any organized colonial government, or any connected history, forming a part of the Canadian domain, inhabited only by wandering Indians or migrating traders, whose headquarters were at Montreal or Quebec. The vast tracts extending from the St. Lawrence to the Mississippi, fertile, and watered by noble streams, with inland seas offering facilities for commerce, were thus wandered over by herds of deer, elk, and buffalo, or tribes as wild as the beasts of the forest.

Baron La Hontan, who came at a very early period, says, describing Lake Erie, “It is assuredly the finest on earth; its banks decked with oak trees, elms, and chestnuts, entwined with vines bearing rich clusters to their tops, and its forests abounding with turkeys, deer, and wild beeves, frequented too by warlike hunters.” The French scattered along the lake border, were there for the purpose of pushing the fur trade into the Indian territory, and except the commandants at the posts, were chiefly merchants engaged in this traffic. The coureurs des bois, or, rangers of the woods, were often half-breeds, and were hardy and skilled in propelling the canoe, fishing, hunting, or sending a rifle-ball to the “right eye” of the buffalo. They procured cargoes of furs from the Indians, and carried large packs of goods across portages in the interior, by straps suspended from their foreheads or shoulders. They were familiar with every rock and island, bay and shoal, of the western waters. The ordinary dress of a Canadian furtrader, was a cloth fastened about the middle, a loose shirt, a “molton” or blanket-coat, a red worsted or leathern cap, and sometimes a surtout of coarse blue cloth, and cap of the same material; elk-skin trowsers, with seams adorned with fringe; a scarlet woollen sash tied round the waist, in which a broad hunting-knife was stuck, and buck-skin moccasins. In later years they wore a shirt of striped cotton, trowsers of cloth or leather, leggins like the Indians, deer-skin moccasins, colored belt of worsted, with knife and tobacco-pouch, and blue woollen cap with red feather. The half breeds were demi-savage, and were employed as guides or rangers, to manage the canoes in remote trading excursions. European goods were exchanged for peltries, which were taken to the depôts on the lakes, and thence transported eastward. The individuals who devoted their attention to agriculture usually wore a long surtout and sash, with red cap and deer-skin moccasins, while the gentlemen visiting the country preserved the garb in vogue in the days of Louis XIV. Agriculture was then limited to a few patches of corn and wheat, the grain being ground in wind-mills. The French soldiers, with their blue coats turned up with white facings, and short-clothes, and the priests with their long gowns and black bands, who had their stations near the forts, formed a strong contrast in their appearance to the Indians who loitered around the posts.[39]

The women made coarse cotton and woollen garments for the Indian traders. The amusements were chiefly dancing to the violin, and hunting in the forests; to which may be added the observance of the festivals enjoined by the church. Fishing was a constant occupation; canoes passed in every direction over the streams and bays, and the varieties of fish now esteemed so delicious, were taken in great abundance, and formed a principal article of food. The social condition of these primitive inhabitants was not as civilized as in the larger colonial settlements; the humble emigrants went out with their tents, their axes, their hoes, their stores of ammunition and provisions, and their cattle, to win a subsistence by hard labor, and had little regard to the amenities which are the growth of a settled community. The priests had much influence, and frequently was the lonely altar, with its rude candlesticks and censers carved from native copper, erected under the forest boughs, surrounded by savages in the wild costume of their tribes, deer or buffalo skins, with the cincture of the war eagle on their heads, their necklaces of bear’s claws, and moccasins embroidered with porcupine’s quills. The solemn chant went up amidst the distant howling of wild beasts, and the solitary bark chapels, adorned by no sculptured marble or golden lamps, but surmounted by the rudely framed cross, looked out on a domain of prairie, lake, and unbroken forest; yet was the wealth of art surpassed:

“Iris all hues; roses and jessamines
Reared high their flourished heads between, and wrought
Mosaic; under foot the violet,
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay,
Broidered the ground, more colored than with stones
Of costliest emblem.”

A volume might be written upon the Indian mythology of the lakes. Each rock, island, lake, river, wood and cataract along the shores of Michigan, had its presiding genius, good or evil; legends peopled the earth and air, spirits floated through the forests and danced along the streams; manitous of darkness performed their orgies in the storms, and the islands abounded with golden sands watched like the fleece of old, by serpents, birds of prey, and mighty giants. To these, sacrifices of tobacco pipes and other offerings were continually presented. In 1721, Charlevoix was informed that Michabout was the manitou of the lakes, and the island of Michilimackinac his birth-place. The name of this island signifies “a great turtle,” from its resemblance to one, or in the Chippewa speech, “the place of giant fairies.” This deity, it is said, created Lake Superior that his Indians might catch beaver; and the savages believe the fragments of rock at the Sault and other rapids are remains of the causeway constructed by him to dam up the waters.

The social condition of the settlers of Michigan was not much improved by the transfer of the country from the French to the British government. By the capitulation of Montreal, the French subjects were permitted to remain, and the fur trade was prosecuted by their agency under English companies. Till 1762 the peninsula remained quiet, while war raged at a distance; but the war of the Pontiac confederacy soon carried disturbance to its borders. The details of this period belong to history. It is proper merely to mention the plot by which this famous Indian chief aimed to destroy the fort of Detroit. He had ordered his Indians to saw off their rifles, conceal them under their blankets, and gain admission to the fort under pretence of holding a peaceable council. On a signal given by his delivering a belt of wampum in a specified manner, the savages were to rush on the soldiers, and fling open the gates to the body of warriors on the outside. Word was then sent to Major Gladwyn that Pontiac would hold a council with the English commander on the 9th of May, 1763. The evening before, an Indian woman employed by the Major to make some elk-skin moccasins, brought them to the fort. Gladwyn, pleased with her work, bespoke more, and having paid her for the first, sent a servant to see her safely through the gates. Here she lingered, looking wistfully at the river, and her behavior appearing singular, the servant asked the cause of her delay, but received no answer. The commanding officer then called her in, and asked why she hesitated, when, calling to mind his former kindness, the woman said she would not take away the skin, as she would not be able to bring it back. This remark exciting suspicion, she was induced by promises of safety and reward, to reveal the whole plot. The officers thought it a trick, but the night was spent in preparation; guards were placed on the ramparts, and every man was ready for defence. Their suspicions were confirmed by the distant sounds heard of the war-songs and dances of the Indians. In the morning Pontiac came with his chiefs and braves to the council-house, and was received by the Major and officers. The appearance of warlike preparation could not escape the Indians, and when they were seated on the skins, Pontiac asked the cause, which he was told was the necessity of military discipline. He professed much friendship for the English in his speech, but his gestures became violent as he approached the point when he was to give the concerted signal. The officers drew their swords, the soldiers at the doors clattered their arms, and as the chief presented the belt in his usual manner, thus failing to give the signal, the Major accused him of being a traitor, and pulling aside his blanket, showed his rifle. The Indians were ordered to quit the fort instantly, being assured of safety beyond the pickets, and were received by the warriors without with yells and firing, and other demonstrations of hostility towards the garrison, the more fierce on account of the failure of the enterprise.

During the Revolutionary struggle the peninsula remained in comparative quiet. Although constituting a part of the Canadian territory, a magazine of arms for the savage allies of the loyalists, and a mart where scalps were bought and sold, it can boast no prominent events to give interest to its history, because not made the theatre of action. A mere outpost of Canada, it was a magnificent extent of wilderness, in which the axe had scarcely felled a tree; trackless, save where Indian trails wound through the dense forests and flowery oaklands; unbroken, except by scattered Indian villages and corn-fields studding the prairies, or the solitary posts of furtraders. The treaty of 1783 included the peninsula within the bounds of American territory. At this time its sparse white population consisted chiefly of French and English, whose settlements were confined to the vicinity of trading posts along the lakes and the banks of the principal rivers. When the ravages of the savage tribes on the frontier were terminated by the victories of Gen. Wayne and the treaty in 1795, the tide of emigration began to flow more steadily westward. Michigan was erected into a separate territory in 1805, but the progress of settlement was slow, and the principal business carried on was still the fur trade.

In 1810 the island of Mackinaw, a romantic point, rising like an altar from the realm of waters, was the central mart of traffic, and the lakes were sprinkled with canoes of traders and Indians; the merry Canadian voyageur bartering his trinkets at booths scattered along the shores, and the red warrior with his fantastic ornaments, his silver armlets and embroidered moccasins, coming to exchange his treasures, or on fishing and hunting excursions. The fur merchants went up the lakes in large canoes, manned by Canadians, to meet their agents returning from the remote wilderness at Fort William, one of the principal pioneer posts of the northwest country. The council house was a large wooden building, hung with trophies of the chase, and Indian implements of war or peaceful employment. Thus the romantic aspect of the country had not yet disappeared, though the post was crowded with traders, and the epoch of mercantile enterprise was in its meridian. The semi-barbarous dominion exercised for a century over the lakes and the region on their borders, had not yet been swept away even by the wings of commerce.

The war of 1812 was a crisis which brought renewed devastations upon the frontier, and the borders were overrun by the British and their savage allies. Although, by act of Congress in May of this year, two millions of acres were ordered to be surveyed, little inducement was held out to emigrants to penetrate a remote wilderness, through which there were no roads, and as late as 1820 Detroit, Frenchtown, Mackinaw, and Sault Ste. Marie, were the chief settlements within the present limits of the State. When, some time afterwards, expeditions were projected for exploring the country, the interior was yet a ranging ground for savages and wild beasts, intersected by Indian trails, with here and there, by the lakes or streams, a few clusters of log houses, or the huts of Frenchmen; the roads constructed in 1823 scarcely passable in the most favorable season. Gradually, however, the forest began to resound with the huntsman’s axe, and the log tenements of the hardy pioneers to stud the wilderness. The social progress of the territory was not marked by any stirring events. The advance of emigration along its rivers was solitary and silent; the cannon and bayonet had long since given place to the plough and the woodman’s axe, and the subjugation of the wild forest was achieved without the necessity of disputing possession of the soil with human foes. The emigrants scattered themselves by degrees over the interior, finding a dry and fertile soil, well adapted for culture, and a country rich in varied and picturesque scenery. The lake-like and rolling prairies, with their wooded islands and forest borders, were beautiful beyond description; the white oak openings were like stately parks enamelled with flowers, and the burr-oak groves like orchards studded with large pear trees. The mounds rose from thirty or forty to two hundred feet, and hill and dale, secluded lake and forest tract, with its dense growth of beech, black walnut, elm, maple, hickory, oaks of different kinds, etc., its luxuriant wild grape vines and rich underwood, presented scenes that might well captivate the new comers. One by one, or in small numbers, wagons bearing the families of the pioneers, with their furniture, might be seen winding over the rough roads or along the shores; then smoke rose curling through the woods from the prostrate trunks of smouldering trees; the settler having cleared a small space, built his log house, while his cattle fed on the luxuriant herbage in the vicinity; the labors of the plough followed those of the axe, the winter was weathered through, and the succeeding year saw him an independent freeholder, with a market at his door for the produce of his farm.

Mrs. McMillan was among the early settlers of the eastern portion of Michigan. Her removal with husband and children from a populous and cultivated region, was a laborious journey, performed in the manner above mentioned, in a small wagon, laden with a few necessary articles of comfort for their new home; by slow and toilsome stages--their nights being passed under some temporary shelter, insufficiently protected from the attacks of wild beasts, and subject to inconvenience from night dews, cold winds, and troublesome insects. Their establishment was attended with the same circumstances of labor and hardship, which have been described in numerous other cases. We pass to some incidents that may serve to illustrate the times, as well as show the courage and energy of this strong-hearted matron.

In 1813 she was living on the Canada side, in a small house on the banks of the Thames, a beautiful little river whose bright waters were often skimmed by canoes of savages intent on plunder or slaughter, the shrill war-whoop often resounding from the depths of the woods. McMillan had left his family to enter into active military service, and their home was two miles distant from the nearest neighbor. The country had been kept in a continual state of alarm by marauding parties of Indians, who did not hesitate to kill and capture, as well as rob the defenceless settlers. Mrs. McMillan suffered the more from anxiety at this critical period, as in the absence of her husband the care of their young children devolved entirely upon her, and her sole protection was her own prudence and energy. One day having heard rumors of the approach of a hostile party, and being apprehensive of a sudden attack, she took her infant and walked to the nearest house in search of information. There she was startled with the intelligence that savages had been seen in the vicinity, and that they had gone in the direction of her dwelling, where they would probably stop during the day. The matron thought of the little ones she had left at home unprotected, and a sickening terror entered her heart. She stayed to hear no more, but hastened homeward, bearing in her arms the unconscious babe who might now be all that remained to her. As she came near, her eyes were eagerly strained for a sight of those beloved ones who were accustomed to run to meet her; all was silence; and when she dashed open the door and stood within the dwelling, a scene of desolation met her view! Every article of furniture had disappeared; the floor was dusty with the track of footsteps, and not one of her children was anywhere on the premises.

The alarm and anguish of the mother may be better imagined than described. The fatal idea had flashed at once on her mind, that her little ones had been either murdered or carried away captive by the merciless Indians. In this terrible emergency she lost none of her self-possession, nor her usual sagacity of judgment. The savages could not have gone far, and her only course was to cross the river and seek aid immediately. But there was no canoe, nor mode of conveyance; she could not swim, nor could she leave her helpless infant behind her. She was not long in discovering a way to overcome the difficulty. Hastily rolling some logs into the water, she placed two boards across them, forming a kind of raft, on which she stepped cautiously, carrying her babe, managed to hold the frail craft together while she guided its course, and reached the opposite shore in safety. Here her terror and anguish were suddenly changed into joy; the children had heard of the near approach of Indians immediately after their mother’s departure, and having taken the precaution to put the furniture in the cellar, out of the intruders’ way, they had crossed the river to seek protection from the neighbors on the other side.

On another occasion Mrs. McMillan suffered from Indian depredation. A large party from the different tribes was on the way to Toronto, and in the course of a single day some two hundred of them stopped at her house, plundering it of all it contained. McMillan was still absent, and the mother did not dare to interfere for the rescue of any portion of her property, lest she should draw down vengeance upon herself and her innocent children. The work of spoiling went on, therefore, while they stood quietly aloof. A fine flock of geese, which she had raised with care, was on the grass before the door, and the Indians soon commenced execution among them. Mrs. McMillan started forward to save her favorites; but a gun was instantly levelled at her, with the threat of shooting, if she ventured to interrupt the sport. Like many other matrons of that day, she prided herself on a handsome set of pewter dishes and plates, which her industrious scouring kept as bright as silver. Their polish and beauty pleased the Indians, who tried them by biting, to ascertain if they were real silver, and the whole stock speedily passed into the possession of the depredators, who left only a knife and a tin cup in the house. When the last of the enemy had passed over the river, the terrified family found themselves in safety, but exhausted with hunger, while nothing in the shape of food was left about the place. They were compelled to fast till supplies could be brought from a distance of several miles.

When the war was over, and comparative quiet established, McMillan and his family, with two or three others, removed to Detroit, ascending the river on a large raft. The trials of the wife were not ended. Straggling bands of savages were still lurking in the neighborhood of the city, ready for any deed of robbery or bloodshed. One evening when McMillan had left his home for a short time, the silence was broken by the report of a gun, which caused some alarm to his wife and children, though they were far from anticipating the extent of their calamity. The father’s prolonged absence caused apprehension, which was terminated by fatal certainty; during the night his lifeless body was brought home. This blow was severely felt by the bereaved wife, but a sense of duty to the loved ones dependent on her, prevented her from being utterly overwhelmed. It may be imagined, after this sad tragedy, how anxiously passed the nights in her lonely dwelling. In the middle of one dark night, the roar of the alarm guns was again heard. The affrighted mother sprang up, gathered her children hastily together, and knowing well there was no safety within doors, hurried with them from the house. The house of a friend at a considerable distance, offered shelter, but the darkness was intense; the fugitives lost their way, and ere long found themselves in the midst of the deep mire for which the roads of Detroit were formerly so celebrated. More urgent peril, however, was behind them; they struggled on, leaving their shoes in the mud, and managed to escape to the house of their friend, where they were received with kindness. The mother’s quick eye, scanning her rescued group, now discovered that her son, eleven years of age, was missing! The alarm was given, and the next day men were sent in every direction about the country to search for him; but all in vain. It was too certain that he had been captured, and the distracted mother feared he had been murdered by the relentless savages. For four long months she endured the tortures of suspense. She then learned that her boy had been taken prisoner, and was still held in captivity at some distance from the city. The sum demanded for his ransom was speedily sent, and he was restored to the arms of his mother. During his captivity he had fared hardly, subsisting chiefly on buds and roots, and never having even a piece of bread. This son is now living at Jackson, Michigan.

After the termination of the Indian troubles, Mrs. McMillan maintained her family by her exertions, giving each of her children a substantial education, with such training as to fit them for every duty and vicissitude of life. She made enough to purchase a valuable piece of land near the Presbyterian church, with a large framed house, which is now known as the Temperance or Purdy’s Hotel. Mrs. McMillan resides in the city with one of her sons, and is often solicited by those who have heard something of her romantic history, to relate her adventures in detail, and describe the life led by many who like her, encountered the perils of war in a new country.

XX.

CHARLOTTE A. CLARK.

This lady accompanied her husband, who was commissary to the United States troops, in November, 1819, to a military station on the Upper Mississippi, situated on the St. Peter’s side of the river. Several persons went with them from Prairie du Chien; the voyage being made in keel-boats, and the waters so low that the men were obliged frequently to wade in the river and draw them through the sand. Six weeks were occupied in passing over the distance of three hundred miles, one week of which was spent at Lake Pepin.

Having reached the place of destination, the company were obliged to live in their boats till pickets could be erected for their protection against the Indians, who not understanding the object of this invasion of the wild, or the display of arms and ammunition, might fall upon them in some unguarded moment. Huts also had to be built, though in the rudest manner, to serve as a shelter during the winter from the rigors of a severe climate. After living with her family in the boat for a month, it was a highly appreciated luxury for Mrs. Clark to find herself at home in a log hut, plastered with clay, and “chinked” for her reception. It was December before they got into winter quarters, and the fierce winds of that exposed region, with terrific storms now and then, were enough to make them wish to keep within doors as much as possible. Once, in a violent tempest, the roof of their dwelling was raised by the wind, and partially slid off; there was no protection for the inmates, but the baby in the cradle was pushed under the bed for safety. Notwithstanding these discomforts and perils, the inconveniences they had to encounter, and their isolated situation, the little party of emigrants were not without their social enjoyments. They were nearly all young married persons, cheerful and fond of gaiety, and had their dancing assemblages once a fortnight. An instance of the kindness of the commanding officer, Col. Leavenworth, deserves mention. One of the other officers having been attacked with symptoms of scurvy, and great alarm prevailing on that account, the Colonel took a sleigh, and accompanied by a few friends, set off on a journey through the country inhabited by Indians, not knowing what dangers he might encounter from their hostility, or the perils of the way, for the purpose of procuring medicinal roots. The party was absent several days, and in the meantime collected a supply of hemlock and spignet, which they used with excellent effect in curing the disease.

In the ensuing summer, when Col. Snelling had the command, Fort Snelling was begun. St. Louis, distant nine hundred miles, was at that time the nearest town of any importance. After the erection of the fort, Mrs. Clark says--“we made the first clearing at the Falls of St. Anthony, and built a grist-mill.” The wife of Capt. George Gooding, of the 5th regiment, was the first white woman who ever visited those beautiful falls. She afterwards married Col. Johnson, and went to reside in St. Louis. The daughter of Mrs. Clark, now Mrs. Van Cleve of Ann Arbor, was born while the troops were stationed at Prairie du Chien. At that time Col. Leavenworth received orders to go up to the place where, in the following summer, Fort Snelling was built. He went, though he had at this time no wholesome provisions; even the bread, it was said, was “two inches in the barrels thick with mould;” no vegetables were to be had, and several of the men were perishing with scurvy. The Sioux Indians were in the vicinity, and they were mutually suspicious of each other, so that no game could be bought; nor was there a prospect of matters being mended till more amicable relations could be established. The prices of such fresh edibles as could be procured at Prairie du Chien were enormous; a small and lean chicken procured for a sick lady cost a dollar; beets as large as the finger, one dollar a dozen; and onions were ten dollars a bushel. The cold is described as so intense that the soldiers called out merely while they could answer to the roll, often had their faces frost-bitten; the thermometer at seven in the morning being known to stand thirty-five degrees below zero.

Mrs. Clark remained at Fort Snelling, with the exception of about a year, till 1827. The only young lady in the company was married when about fifteen years of age, to a Mr. Dennis, also of the army. The wedding took place in the winter, and the bridal party was obliged to descend the river, three hundred miles, on the ice, to Prairie du Chien, to have the ceremony performed. The monotony of their life was varied by continual alarms and excitements, from the encounters of the hostile tribes of Sioux and Chippewas, who came frequently into their close neighborhood, and were not scrupulous as to deeds of violence and treachery towards each other. The incidents we shall mention, illustrative of other experiences, are alluded to in a preceding memoir.

The quarters within the fort were crowded, and Mrs. Clark’s house, a substantial stone building, stood without the walls a few rods distant, on the military land adjoining. After the conclusion of the amicable treaty already mentioned, the Chippewas had pitched their camp at the foot of a hill not far from this house. About nine o’clock in the evening, the family was alarmed by an unusual noise in that direction, and the discharge of firearms. A gentleman who was at that time the guest of Mr. Clark, entered in haste and some trepidation, saying that a bullet had just whistled past his head, and that there must be some difficulty “below.” The seclusion of the dwelling was thought of with terror whenever there was any alarm at night, though the sight of the fort close at hand gave courage to all in the daytime. Protection and aid, however, were promptly invoked, and the troops aroused. It appeared that some of the Sioux, after having sat in the wigwams of the Chippewas, smoked the pipe of peace, and bid them good night, had deliberately turned about and fired upon them. The confusion that ensued may be imagined; the Chippewas flew to arms, and the treacherous Sioux made their escape. The commanding officer of the garrison had the wounded taken to the hospital, and attended to as well as the circumstances permitted. Among them was an aged chief and his little daughter, only ten years of age, in whom the ladies were deeply interested. She was much injured, and survived but a short time. The Indians called upon the commander, as the representative of their “great father,” to compel the Sioux to render satisfaction for this cruel outrage; and in pursuance of the instructions of government to commanders on the out-posts, to maintain peace as far as possible between the hostile tribes without interfering in their affairs, he sent an order to the chiefs requiring the surrender of the young men who had been guilty.

Not long after this, a large party of Sioux was seen approaching the fort. “We could see them,” said Mrs. Clark, “for a long way on the hills by which Fort Snelling is surrounded, and it was easy to perceive at once that they were disposed to resist the summons. The interpreter, who was a thorough fellow, and knew how important was an aspect of courage and determination in dealing with savages, went out to meet them, and informed them what would be the consequence of their refusal to comply with the just demand; their great father, the President, would send into the country as many warriors as there were leaves on the trees, or blades of grass under their feet, and these would kill and burn until not a Sioux should be left. A hurried council was held by the chiefs, and at length it was decided that the criminals should be given up.” They were accordingly delivered, and put in durance to await the pleasure of the injured tribe. Meanwhile the old chief who had been wounded and bereaved of his child, was rapidly sinking to the grave, and true to his warrior nature, desired only to live long enough to see just vengeance overtake the murderers. They were appointed to suffer the Indian punishment of running the gauntlet.

An enclosed piece of ground was selected, not far from the fort, lined with men and women of both tribes, the soldiers of the garrison being also spectators of the scene. The dying chief appeared, borne on the shoulders of his young men; and all was soon in readiness. If the condemned could reach the further side of the fence, where their friends were stationed, their lives were safe. Again to quote Mrs. Clark: “A gentleman who chanced to be in company with several Chippewa braves who had just come from the fort, and were walking towards the ground, told me they were laughing and talking as if perfectly indifferent to what was going on, till they reached the place where the deadly work was about to commence. Then their countenances underwent a fearful change almost instantaneously, expressing the darkest passion and the most ferocious hatred.”