*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45385 ***

THE INDIAN: ON THE BATTLE-FIELD AND IN THE WIGWAM.

By John Frost

Wentworth & Company,

1857

[Illustration: 0011]




PREFACE.

These sketches are drawn from a great variety of sources, and are
intended, not only to exhibit the Indian character in all its phases,
but to comprise in a small compass a valuable collection of narratives
of Indian warfare, embracing views of their peculiar methods of
strategy, ambuscades, and surprises--their treatment of prisoners, and
their other characteristic manners and customs.

By the aid of Mr. Croome, and other eminent artists, I have been able to
illustrate the volume quite profusely with engravings. I trust that
the work will be found a useful as well as interesting contribution to
historical literature.

[Illustration: 0012]

[Illustration: 0013]




STORIES OF THE INDIANS.




INDIAN GRATITUDE.

[Illustration: 9015]

OT long after Connecticut began to be settled by the English, a stranger
Indian came one day to a tavern in one of its towns in the dusk of the
evening, and requested the hostess to supply him with something to eat
and drink; at the same time he honestly told her that he could not pay
for either, as he had had no success in hunting for several days; but
that he would return payment as soon as he should meet with better
fortune.

The hostess, who was a very ill-tempered woman, not only flatly refused
to relieve him, but added abuse to her unkindness, calling him a lazy,
drunken fellow, and told him that she did not work so hard herself, to
throw away her earnings upon such vagabonds as he was.

There was a man sitting in the same room of the tavern, who, on hearing
the conversation, looked up, and observing the Indian’s countenance,
which plainly showed that he was suffering severely from want and
fatigue, and being of a humane disposition, he told the woman to give
the poor wanderer some supper, and he would pay for it.

She did so: and when the Indian had finished his meal, he turned towards
his benefactor, thanked him, and told him that he should not forget
his kindness. “As for the woman,” he added, “all I can give her is
a story--if she likes to hear it.” The woman, being now in a rather,
better temper, and having some curiosity to hear what he had to tell,
readily consented, and the Indian addressed her as follows:

“I suppose you read the Bible?” The woman assented. “Well,” continued
the Indian, “the Bible say, God made the world, and then he took him,
and looked on him, and say, ‘It’s all very good.’ Then he made light,
and took him, and looked on him, and say, ‘It’s all very good.’ Then he
made dry land, and water, and sun, and moon, and grass, and trees, and
took him, and say, ‘It’s all very good.’ Then he made beasts, and bird,
and fishes, and took him, and looked on him, and say, ‘It’s all very
good.’ Then he made man, and took him, and looked on him, and say,
‘It’s all very good.’ And last of all he made _woman_, and took him, and
looked on: him, _and he no dare say one such word._” The Indian, having
told his story, departed.

Some years after, the man who had be friended the Indian had occasion
to go some distance into the wilderness between Litchfield and Albany,
which is now a populous city, but then contained only a few houses. Here
he was taken prisoner by an Indian scout, and carried off into Canada.
When he arrived at the principal settlement of their tribe, which was on
the banks of the great river St. Lawrence, some of the Indians proposed
that he should be put to death, in revenge for the wrongs that they had
suffered from the white men; and this probably would have been his fate,
had not an old Indian woman, or squaw, as they are called, demanded that
he should be given up to her, that she might adopt him in place of her
son, whom she had lately lost in war. He was accordingly given to
her, and, as it is customary under such circumstances, was thenceforth
treated in the same manner as her own son.

In the following summer, as he was one day at work in the forest by
himself, felling trees, an Indian, who was unknown to him, came; up
and asked him to meet him the following day at a certain spot which
he described. The white man agreed to do so, but not without some
apprehension that mischief was intended. During the night these fears
increased to so great a degree, as effectually to prevent his keeping
his appointment.

However, a few days after, the same Indian, finding him at work, mildly
reproved him for not keeping his promise. The man made the best excuse
he could, but the Indian was not satisfied until he had again promised
to meet him the next morning at the place already agreed on.

Accordingly, when he arrived at the spot, he found the Indian already
there, provided with two muskets and powder, and two knapsacks. The
Indian ordered him to take one of each, and to follow him. The direction
of their march was southward. The man followed without the least
knowledge of what he was to do, or whither he was going, but he
concluded that if the Indian intended to do him harm, he would have
despatched him at the first meeting, and certainly would not have
provided him with a musket and powder for defence. His fears, therefore,
gradually subsided, although the Indian maintained an obstinate silence
when he questioned him concerning the object of their expedition.

In the day time they shot and cooked as much game as they required,
and at night they kindled a fire by which they slept. After a fatiguing
journey through the forest for many days, they came one morning to the
top of a hill from which there was the prospect of a cultivated country,
interspersed with several snug farm-houses.

“Now,” said the Indian to his joyful companion, “do you know where you
are?”

“Yes,” replied he, “we are not ten miles from my own village.”

“And do you not remember a poor Indian at the tavern?--you feed him--you
speak kind to him--I am that poor Indian;--now go home.” Having said
this, he bade him farewell, and the man joyfully returned to his own
home.

[Illustration: 0022]

[Illustration: 0023]




INDIAN FRIENDSHIP.

[Illustration: 9023]

OME of the earlier settlers of Virginia acted in the most barbarous
manner towards their Indian neighbors, and it is, therefore, not
wonderful that they sometimes received a terrible punishment. But
though revenge was usually uppermost in the breasts of the injured ones,
instances occurred in which the sacred feeling of friendship triumphed
over that passion and the prejudice of the race.

On one occasion, Colonel Bird was employed by the English government
to transact some business with the tribe of Cherokees. It unfortunately
happened that a short time before he went among them, some white people
had seized two Indians, who had given them some trifling offence,
and had put them to death; and the Indians, indignant at the outrage,
determined to take revenge whenever the opportunity offered. The
appearance of Colonel Bird presented the wished-for opportunity, and
consultations were held as to the most effectual means of getting him
into their power, and of making him the sacrifice.

Colonel Bird perceived their intentions, and felt that he had just cause
for alarm, as he was in their country, without the means of escape.
Among the neighboring Cherokees, was one named Silouee, celebrated as a
chief and _pow-wow_, or medicine man. He had known Colonel Bird for some
time, had eaten with him, and felt a deep friendship for him. Silouee
told Colonel Bird not to be alarmed, and even assured him that the
Indians should not injure him. At length, in a general council of the
chiefs and old men of the tribe, it was determined in spite of Silouee’s
earnest remonstrances, that Colonel Bird should be put to death in
revenge for the loss of their countrymen.

Two warriors were despatched to Colonel Bird’s tent, to execute the
cruel sentence. Silouee insisted on accompanying them. On reaching the
tent, Silouee rushed in before them, threw himself on the bosom of his
friend, and as the warriors approached, he exclaimed, “This man is my
friend; before you take him, you must kill me.”

Awed by Silouee’s determined magnanimity, the warriors returned to the
council, and related what had occurred. Indians generally respect a
faithful friend as much as they esteem one who is implacable in his
revenge. The consultation was reversed. Silouee’s noble conduct altered
their purpose. They therefore released Colonel Bird, and bade him go
to his home in peace. Silouee acted as his guide and protector until
Colonel Bird came in sight of his tent. As they parted, the Indian’s
last words to his friend were, “When you see poor Indian in fear of
death from cruel white men, remember Silouee.”

Some years after Colonel Bird’s life had been saved by Silouee, he
became a Virginia planter, and took up his residence near the James
river. Silouee retained his friendship for him, becoming his near
neighbor. Like many of his nation, he had, by intercourse with the
whites, acquired a great taste for “strong waters,” or ardent spirits,
and the dignity of the chief was frequently lowered by drunkenness. On
one occasion, Colonel Bird had gone to another part of the country, on
business, and had left the care of his plantation to his overseer. The
tobacco had obtained some size, and a long drought coming on, there
was a prospect that the crop would be much injured. We have stated that
Silouee was a pow-wow, or Indian medicineman and conjurer. One day when
he came to the plantation, the overseer expressed his opinion that the
tobacco crop would be entirely lost, if rain did not soon fall.

“Well,” said the Indian, “what will you give me if I bring rain?”

“_You_ bring rain,” said the overseer, laughing.

“Me can,” said the Indian. “Give me two bottles of rum--only two, and me
bring rain enough.”

The overseer cast his eye towards the heavens, but could discern no
appearance that foretold rain. To gratify the Indian, he promised to
give him the two bottles of rum when Colonel Bird arrived, in case the
rain should come speedily and save the crop of tobacco.

Silouee now fell to pow-wowing with all his might, making grimaces,
contorting his body, and uttering strange, unintelligible ejaculations.

It was a hot, close day, and it so happened that towards evening,
the sky, which had been clear for some weeks, clouded over, and the
appearance of the heavens was strongly in favor of rain. Before midnight
thunder was heard, and heavy showers of rain watered the colonel’s
plantation thoroughly; while it was remarked that the showers were so
partial that the neighboring plantations were left almost as dry as they
were before. The Indian waited quietly till the rain was over, and then
walked away. A few days after, the colonel returned to the plantation,
and, when Silouee heard of his arrival, he went immediately to visit
him.

“Master Bird,” said he, “me come for my two bottles of rum.”

“Your two bottles of rum,” exclaimed the colonel, pretending not to know
any thing of the matter; “pray do I owe you two bottles of rum?”

“You do,” replied the Indian.

“How so?” inquired the colonel.

“Me bring you rain--me save your crop,” said the Indian.

“You bring rain,” said the colonel; “no such thing.”

“Me did,” persisted the Indian; “me loved you; me tell overseer to give
me two bottles of rum, and then me bring rain. Overseer say he would; me
bring cloud, then rain; now me want rum.”

“You saw the cloud,” said Colonel Bird; “you are a sad cheat.”

“Me no cheat,” said the Indian; “me _saw_ no cloud; me _bring_ cloud.”

“Well, well,” said the colonel, “you are an old friend, and you shall
have the rum, since you beg so hard for it. But mind you, it is not for
the _rain_. The Great Spirit sent the rain, not you.”

“Well,” said the Indian, “_your_ tobacco had rain upon it--why others
have _none?_ Answer _that_, colonel, if you can.”

[Illustration: 0029]

[Illustration: 0030]




THE CAPTIVE SISTER.

[Illustration: 9030]

NSTANCES are recorded in which white children have been captured and
brought up by the Indians, and have so far forgotten early associations
as to become identified in habits and manners with their red captors. In
most of these cases, the adopted Indian could not be induced to return
to the haunts of civilization and the friends of his or her race; which
fact would seem to prove that, either the life of the Indian is happier
than that of the civilized white man, or, the qualities of our nature
may be altered by the power of habit.

[Illustration: 0031]

In 1778, the family of Mr. Jonathan Slocum, near Wilkesbarre,
(Campbell’s Wyoming,) Pennsylvania, was attacked by Indians. Within the
house were two girls, aged nine and five years, a son of thirteen, a
little boy of two and a half, and their mother. The men were working in
the field, and two youths were in the porch grinding a knife. One of the
latter was shot and scalped with his own knife. The eldest sister seized
the little boy and ran with him towards the fort. The Indians took the
boy who had been turning the grindstone, young Slocum, and his sister
Frances, and prepared to depart. Little Slocum being lame, they set him
down, and proceeded on their way. One of the Indians threw the little
girl over his shoulder, and her weeping face was the last object of the
mother’s gaze.

About a month afterwards, the savages returned, murdered the aged
grandfather, shot a ball into the leg of the lame boy, and then plunging
into the woods were heard of no more. Years passed away; the mother
died of grief for her lost child. The two remaining brothers, grown to
manhood, resolved to ascertain the fate of their sister. They made every
inquiry, travelled through the west and into the Canadas, but all in
vain; and for fifty-eight years, the captive’s fate was unknown.

At length, in 1836, accident discovered what inquiry could not. The Hon.
G. W. Ewing, United States agent to Indian Territory, while travelling
on the banks of the Mississiniwa, lost his way and was benighted, and
compelled to take shelter in an Indian wigwam. The agent was kindly
received, and after supper, entered into conversation with the
hostess. He was soon surprised by observing that her hair was fine
and flaxen-colored, and that, under her dress, her skin appeared to be
white. Upon inquiry, she informed him that she was the daughter of white
parents, that her name was Slocum, that when five years old she had been
carried captive, by Indians, from a house on the Susquehanna. All else
was forgotten.

On reaching home, Ewing wrote an account of the affair, and sent it
to Lancaster for publication. Through neglect, however, it was not
published for two years afterwards; but it was then seen by Mr. Slocum,
of Wilkes-barre, the little boy who had been saved by the girl, sixty
years before. He immediately started for Indiana, accompanied by the
sister who had saved him, at the same time writing to his brother to
meet him at the wigwam. The incidents connected with this visit have
been preserved, and are interesting.

On entering the cabin, they beheld an Indian woman, apparently
seventy-five years old, painted and jewelled. Yet her hair was as the
agent had described it, and her skin beneath her dress appeared white.
They obtained an interpreter and began to converse. We may imagine the
feelings of the little party, while they listened to the Indian
wo-an’s tale. The incidents of the assault and capture--too well known
already--were disclosed with a faithfulness which left no room for
doubt. “How came your nail gone?” inquired the sister. “My elder brother
pounded it off when I was a little child in the shop.”

“What was your name then?” She did not remember. “Was it Frances?”
 She smiled on hearing the long-forgotten sound, and promptly answered,
“Yes.” All were now satisfied that they were of one family, and yet
there was little joy in that meeting. There was a sadness, not merely
through remembrance of the past, but of a kind present, deep, painful;
for though the brothers were walking the cabin unable to speak, and the
sister was sobbing, yet there sat the poor Indian sister, no throb of
emotion disturbing her equanimity.

Her previous history may soon be told. It was the Delaware tribe who had
taken her captive, and when she grew up among them, she married one of
their chiefs. He died or deserted her, and she then married a Miami. She
had two daughters, who both grew up and married Indians. They all lived
in one cabin. The brothers and sisters tried to persuade their sister
to return with them, and, if she desired it, to bring her children.
She answered that she had always lived with the Indians; that they had
always been kind to her; that she had promised her late husband, on his
death-bed, never to leave them, and that promise she was resolved to
keep. The three generous relatives then retraced their steps, sorrowing
that they were compelled to leave their sister in the wilderness.

The Indian sister died in 1847. Her manners and customs were those of
the Indians until her death, yet she was admired alike by the red and
white men. Her grave is on a beautiful knoll, near the confluence of the
Mis-sissiniwa and the Wabash, a spot which had been her residence for
nearly thirty years.

[Illustration: 0038]




PARENTAL AFFECTION.

[Illustration: 9038]

URING the frequent wars between the Indians and the early settlers of
New England, the former defeated a party of English soldiers. Their
retreat was without order; and a young English officer, in attempting
to escape, was pursued by two savages. Finding escape impracticable, and
determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, he turned round to
face his foes. A violent struggle commenced, and he must have fallen, if
an old chief had not thrown himself between the combatants. The red men
instantly retired with respect. The old man took the young officer by
the hand, dispelled his fears, and led him through the forest to his
wigwam, where he treated him with the greatest kindness. He seemed to
take pleasure in the youth’s company; he was his constant companion;
he taught him his language, customs, and arts. Thoughts of home would
sometimes haunt the young Englishman. At these times, Wanou would survey
his young friend attentively, and the tears would fill his eyes.

[Illustration: 0039]

When the spring returned, the war was renewed, and Wanou whose strength
was still sufficient to bear the toils of war, set out with the rest of
the braves, and his white prisoner.

When the Indians arrived in sight of the English camp, Wanou showed
the young officer his countrymen, observing his countenance the while.
“There are thy brethren,” said he, “waiting to fight us. Listen to me.
I have saved thy life. I have taught thee to make a canoe, and bow and
arrows; to hunt the bear and the buffalo; to bring down the deer at full
speed, and to outwit even the cunning fox. What wast thou when I first
led thee to my wigwam? Thy hands were like those of a child; they served
neither to support nor to defend thee; thou wert ignorant, but from me
thou hast learned every thing. Wilt thou be ungrateful, and raise up thy
arm against the red man?”

The young man declared with warmth that he would rather lose his own
life than shed the blood of his Indian friends. The old warrior covered
his face with his hands, bowed his head and remained in that posture
for some time, as if overcome by some painful recollection. Then with a
strong effort, he said to the young man, “Hast thou a father?”

“He was living,” said the young man, “when I left my native country.”

“Oh! how fortunate he is still to have a son!” cried the Indian; and
then, after a moment’s silence, he added, “Knowest thou that I have been
a father; but I am no longer so! I saw my son fall in battle; he fought
bravely by my side; my son fell covered with wounds, and he died like a
man! but I revenged his death; yes, I _revenged_ his death!”

Wanou pronounced these words with a terrible vehemence; but at length
he became calm, and turning towards the east, where the sun had just
risen, he said, “Young man, thou seest that glorious light--does it
afford thee any pleasure to behold it?”

“Yes,” replied the officer, “I never look upon the rising sun without
pleasure, or without feeling thankful to our great father who created
it.”

“I am glad thou art happy, but there is no more pleasure for me,” said
Wanou. A moment after, he showed the young man a shrub in full bloom,
and said, “Hast thou any pleasure in beholding this plant?”

“Yes, great pleasure,” replied the young man.

“To me, it can no longer give pleasure,” said the old man; and then
embracing the young Englishman, he concluded with these words, “Begone!
hasten to thy country, that thy father may still have pleasure in
beholding the rising sun, and the flowers of spring.”

Poor chief; the death of his beloved son had broken his heart.

[Illustration: 0044]

[Illustration: 0045]

[Illustration: 0047]




THE FRIENDLY MANOEUVRE.

[Illustration: 9047]

ANY years ago, a Scotchman and his wife, named M’Dou-gall, emigrated to
America. Having but very little money, he purchased some land upon
the verge of civilization, where it was sold for a low price. By great
exertions and the aid of his neighbors, M’Dougall soon had a comfortable
farm, well stocked. But the inconvenience of distance from the church,
market, and mill, were felt, and caused discontent with the location.

One day, while the farmer was away at the mill, the duty of driving up
the cows to milk devolved on the wife, and that thrifty and industrious
woman went out in quest of them. Not accustomed to going far from the
house, she wandered through the woods, got bewildered, and just before
dark sank upon the ground in despair. An Indian hunter soon came along,
and guessing her situation, induced her to follow him to his wigwam,
where she was kindly fed and lodged for the night by the hunter’s wife.

In the morning, the Indian conducted his guest to her cattle, and thence
home. M’Dou-gall, grateful for his service, presented him with a suit
of clothes, and invited him to become his frequent visitor. Three days
afterwards he returned, and endeavored, partly, by signs, and partly
in broken English, to induce M’Dougall to follow him; but the Scotchman
refused. Time was precious to him who owed all his comforts to hard
labor, and the Indian repeated his entreaties in vain. The poor fellow
looked grieved and disappointed; but a moment after, a sudden thought
struck him.

Mrs. M’Dougall had a young child, which the Indian’s quick eye had not
failed to notice; and finding that words and gestures would not persuade
his Scotch friend, he approached the cradle, seized the child, and
darted out of the house with the speed of the antelope. The father and
mother instantly followed, calling loudly on him to return; but he had
no such intention. He led them on, now slower, now faster, occasionally
turning towards them, laughing and holding up the child to their view.
After proceeding in this manner for some time, the Indian halted on the
margin of a most beautiful prairie, covered with the richest vegetation,
and extending over several thousand acres. In a moment after, the child
was restored to its parents, who, wondering at such strange proceedings,
stood awhile panting for breath. On the other hand, the Indian seemed
overjoyed at the success of his manoevre, and never did a human being
frisk about and gesticulate with greater animation.

At length his feelings found vent in broken English, nearly in these
words:--“You think Indian treacherous; you think him wish steal the
child. No, no, Indian has child of his own. Indian knew you long ago;
saw you when you not see him; saw you hard working man. Some white men
bad and hurt poor Indian. You not bad; you work hard for your wife and
child; but you choose bad place; you never make rich there. Indian see
your cattle far in the forest; think you come and catch them; you not
come; your wife come. Indian find her faint and weary; take her home;
wife fear go in; think Indian kill her! No, no! Indian lead her back;
meet you very sad; then very glad to see her. You kind to Indian; give
him meat and drink and better clothes than your own. Indian grateful;
wish you come here; not come; Indian very sorry; take the child; know
you follow child; if Indian farm, Indian farm here. Good ground; not
many trees; make road in less than half a moon; Indian help you. Indians
your friends; come, live here.”

M’Dougall instantly saw the advantages of the change, and taking the red
man’s advice, the day was soon fixed for the removal of his log-house,
along with the rest of his goods and chattels; and the Indian, true to
his word, brought a party of his red brethren to assist in one of the
most romantic removals that ever took place. A fertile spot was selected
in the “garden of the desert,” a fine farm soon smiled around, and
M’Dougall had no cause to regret the Indian’s friendly manoeuvre.

[Illustration: 0051]

[Illustration: 0052]




GRAND-SUN.

[Illustration: 9052]

RAND-SUN was a chief of the Natchez tribe. Sun was a common name for all
chiefs of that nation; this chief was particularly distinguished in the
first war with the French, in which the Natchez engaged, and the title
of Great-Sun was given him by his people. He was brave, wise, and
generous, and a friend to the whites until the haughty and overbearing
disposition of one man brought ruin upon the whole colony. The affair
occurred in 1729.

Grand-Sun resided in the beautiful village called White Apple, near the
French post of Natchez, the commandant of which was M. Chopart. This
officer had been removed from his post on account of his misconduct and
and abominable injustice towards the Indians, but had been reinstated,
and his conduct had been the same as before. He projected the building
an elegant village, and none appeared to suit his purpose so well as
the White Apple of Grand-Sun. He sent for the chief to the fort, and
unhesitatingly told him that he must give up his village, and remove
elsewhere. Grand-Sun stifled his surprise, and replied, “that his
ancestors had lived in that village for as many years as there were
hairs in his double queu, and, therefore, it was good that they should
continue there still.” This was interpreted to the commandant, and he
became so enraged, that he threatened Grand-Sun with punishment if he
did not comply.

A council of the Natchez was held. They saw that all was hopeless,
unless they could rid themselves of Chopart by some stratagem.
They decided to attempt it. To gain time, an offer was made to the
commandant, of tribute, in case he should permit them to remain on their
lands until harvest. The offer was accepted, and the Indians matured
their plan. Bundles of sticks were sent to the neighboring tribes, and
their meaning explained. Each bundle contained as many sticks as days
before the massacre of the French at Natchez; and that no mistake should
arise in regard to the fixed day, every morning a stick was drawn from
the bundle and broken in pieces, and the day of the last stick was that
of the execution.

The secret was confided to none but the older warriors, who could be
depended upon. But Grand-Sun was compelled to make a great sacrifice of
private feeling in revenging the wrongs of his countrymen. He had
won the respect and esteem of several of the French hunters by his
generosity and other noble qualities; and the very intimate acquaintance
of one of them in particular. This was Armand Griffin, whose family
resided at Natchez, while he engaged in the laborious but profitable
business of hunting. Grand-Sun and Griffin had become close friends. The
hospitable door of the chief’s wigwam was ever open to the hunter, and
the latter frequently visited him, Grand-Sun had instructed him in all
the mysteries of woodcraft, and Griffin being naturally of a daring and
restless temper, had become one of the boldest and best hunters in that
part of the country. In return, he instructed Grand-Sun in many of the
arts of the white man, and thus mutual services strengthened the links
of friendship.

When Grand-Sun had matured his scheme of revenge, he thought of the
situation of Griffin’s family, and without hinting his purpose, advised
the hunter to remove them for a time. But he either would not or could
not, disregarding the earnest entreaties of the chief to that effect.
As the appointed day approached, and the security of feeling among the
French promised success to the scheme of massacre, Grand-Sun renewed
his entreaties, but still without daring to disclose the secret intent.
Griffin not only said that his family must remain at the post, but that
he himself must be there upon the day which the chief knew was fixed
for the dreadful revenge. After a struggle between friendship and
patriotism, the chief with stoic fortitude resolved to sacrifice his
friend rather than disclose his scheme and thus trust to the white man’s
faith for keeping such a secret.

About sunset the day before the massacre, Griffin and Grand-Sun, who had
been out hunting during the day, arrived at the verge of the village of
White Apple. A crowd of red men were assembled to welcome their great
chief. The friends stopped upon an elevated piece of ground near the
Indians. Grand-Sun had just been urging upon his friend the removal of
his family from the fort. But as Griffin had given signs of beginning to
suspect something wrong, he suddenly checked his persuasive appeal and
taking his hand, thus bade him farewell for ever.

[Illustration: 0053]

“White man, you are my friend. We have eat, slept, and hunted together.
My wigwam ever welcomed you, and you repaid me. The belt of friendship
has been brighten between us, and it should not be soiled. The great
fire of day is fast going out, and you must return to your pretty wife
and children. When it shall again be kindled, many things may be done
which may part us for ever. Farewell!” The bold hunter was affected by
the manner of the chief, and for a while hung his head as if a gloom
had come over him. But rousing himself, he bade the chief farewell, and
returned to the post at Natchez.

Suspecting what he should have suspected long before, Griffin, as
soon as he returned to the fort, bade his wife and children prepare
themselves for leaving the place, and she complied, with many questions
concerning the reason for this strange movement. Griffin could not
exactly say. But he had resolved to leave the fort, and take shelter
in a neighboring Indian village belonging to the Natchez, and in an
opposite direction from White Apple. Here he had a friend, and he would
feel secure. The escape was accomplished.

The next day the fort was surprised and the whole body of the French
within the fort and its neighborhood were massacred. Griffin and his
family, and a few hunters alone escaped, and all these through the
interposition of Grand-Sun, who thus remained true to friendship, while
he maintained and executed his scheme for relieving his countrymen from
the oppressor. This great chief not long afterwards, was taken prisoner
by a French expedition from Louisiana, his people almost annihilated,
and he, the “last of his line,” died in his dungeon! Griffin ever
cherished his memory, and exerted himself to save him, but in vain. The
white man was relentless.

[Illustration: 0060]

[Illustration: 0062]

[Illustration: 0063]




TECUMSEH AND THE PROPHET.

[Illustration: 9063]

ECUMSEH, (the Crouching Panther,) was one of the greatest chiefs who
ever led the red men to battle. He was by birth a Shawanee, a tribe
which has ever been noted for its aversion to the whites. He was born
about 1770, and first became distinguished in 1792, when, at the head
of a small band of warriors, he surprised and murdered a party of whites
upon Hacker’s Creek. From that time he continued to acquire a reputation
for all the qualities, which, in the estimation of the Indians, make up
a great leader.

In 1809, Governor Harrison, agreeably to instructions from government,
purchased of the Delawares, Miamis, and Shawanees, the country on
both sides of the Wabash, and extending sixty miles above Vincennes.
Tecumseh demurred to the sale, and Harrison, wishing to conciliate him,
appointed the 12th day of August, 1810, as the time, and Vincennes, as
the place, for holding a council to settle his claims. In this council,
Tecumseh delivered a speech, which eloquently unfolded his views of the
aggressions of the white men, and urged that the sale of the land was
invalid, because not made with the consent of all the red men living
upon it. After Tecumseh had concluded his speech, and was about to seat
himself, he observed that no chair had been placed for him. Harrison
immediately ordered one, and as the interpreter handed it to him, he
said, “Your father requests you to take a chair.”

“My father!” said Tecumseh, with sublime dignity, “the sun is my
father, and the earth is my mother, and on her bosom will I repose,”
 and immediately seated himself upon the ground. When the council had
concluded, Tecumseh expressed his intention to fight rather than yield
the ground. “It is my determination,” said he, “nor will I give rest to
my feet until I have united all the red men in the like resolution.”

The threat was soon executed. The active chief visited all the western
tribes from the Winnebagoes to the Creeks, and made use of all means of
persuasion to unite them, with one aim, the maintenance of their country
free from the rule of the white man. Superstition is mighty among the
red men, and Tecumseh had the means of turning it to his purpose.
His brother, the well-known Prophet, (Ellskwatawa,) had obtained
a reputation among the neighboring Indians, as a medicine-man and
conjurer. He announced that the Great Spirit had conversed with him, and
commissioned him to restore the red men to their primitive power. The
Indians believed in the truth of the commission, and the Prophet, by his
craft and eloquence succeeded in gaining an influence among them, second
only to that of his great-spirited brother. A formidable confederacy was
soon formed of which Tecumseh was the head.

The battle of Tippecanoe was fought on the night of November 6, 1811,
in which sixty-two Americans were killed and one hundred and twenty-six
wounded. The Prophet is said to have conducted the attack, but did not
expose himself to danger. The vigilance of Harrison, and the bravery
of his men, repulsed the Indians, inflicting upon them a severe loss.
Tecumseh was not in the battle.

[Illustration: 0065]

When the war broke out between Great Britain and the United States,
Tecumseh seized the opportunity to join the British general with a large
body of his warriors. He received the commission of brigadier-general
in the British army. During the latter part of his active life, he was
under the direction of General Proctor; but is said to have been greatly
dissatisfied with his proceedings. After Perry’s victory on Lake Erie,
Proctor abandoned Detroit, and retreated up the Thames, pursued by
General Harrison, with the American army. Harrison overtook him near
the Moravian town, on the 5th of October, 1813. By a novel manoeuvre,
ordered by Harrison, and executed by Colonel Johnson, the British line
was broken and put to flight.

[Illustration: 0070]

The Indians, commanded by Tecumseh, maintained their ground, with a
noble determination. The great chief fought with desperation, until a
shot in the head from an unknown hand, laid him dead upon the field. His
warriors, as if they had lost their spirit, then fled, leaving about one
hundred and twenty men dead upon the field.

[Illustration: 0072]

Tecumseh was about forty-four years of age when he fell. He was about
five feet ten inches in height, and of a noble appearance. His carriage
was erect and lofty--his motions quick--his eyes keen, black, and
piercing--his visage stern, with an air of hauteur, which expressed
his pride of spirit. He is said to have been reserved and stern in his
manners. After his fall, the Indians became anxious to secure peace,
convinced that their cause was hopeless. The Prophet lost their
confidence, and sunk into insignificance.

[Illustration: 0074]

[Illustration: 0075]




THE DESTRUCTION OF MONTREAL.

[Illustration: 9075]

BOUT 1687, the Iroquois, from some neglect on the part of the governor
of New York, were induced to join the French interest; and in a council
which was held in the Iroquois country, the hatchet was buried and
a treaty concluded, by which the Indians promised to become the firm
allies of the French. The Dinondadies, a tribe of the Hurons, were
considered as belonging to the confederate Indians, but from some cause
they were dissatisfied with the league with the French, and wished by
some exploit to indicate that they preferred the English interest.

Adaris, nicknamed by the French, “the Rat,” was the head chief of the
Dinondadies, and famous for his courage and cunning. He put himself at
the head of one hundred warriors, and intercepted the ambassadors of the
Five Nations at one of the falls in Hadarakkin river, killing some and
taking others prisoners. These he informed that the French governor had
told him that fifty warriors of the Five Nations were coming that way to
attack him. They were astonished at the governor’s perfidiousness, and
so completely did Adaris’s plot succeed, that these ambassadors were
deceived into his interest. The Five Nations did not doubt that this
outrage upon their ambassadors was owing to the treachery of the French
governor, and they immediately formed a scheme of revenge, the object of
which was the destruction of Montreal.

At that time the island of Montreal contained the largest and most
flourishing settlement in Canada. It contained about fifteen hundred
inhabitants, and many flourishing plantations. The Indians thought that
if they could destroy Montreal, the French power in Canada might easily
be annihilated They assembled about twelve hundred of their bravest
warriors, and marched for the banks of the St. Lawrence, with great
secrecy and rapidity. The time fixed for the attack was the 26th of
July, 1688, when the harvest was approaching.

Just before day break, on the morning of the 26th, the whole body of
the Indians crossed the river, and advanced towards the settlement,
endeavoring to make their march as secret as possible. The great body
of the French settlers were reposing in security, but here and there
an early and industrious farmer was abroad, looking after his farm
and cattle. One of these, named Boulard, was the first to discover the
approach of the enemy. He was walking down his lane, between a thicket
and his wheat-field, when he heard a strange rustling in the bushes, at
a little distance, and he stopped and leaned against a fence to observe
what caused it. Boulard had not waited long before he caught sight of
the form of two or three red men coming through the wood, and he was
discovered by them at the same time.

[Illustration: 0078]

As one of them rushed toward him, gun in hand, he sprang into his
wheat-field and endeavored to conceal the direction he took. A volley of
musketry followed him, and he was wounded, yet he kept on, fear giving
him extraordinary strength, and he reached the house of a neighbor. The
alarm was given; but it was too late. Twelve hundred red men, like so
many bloodhounds, were let loose upon unprepared settlers. An awful
silence followed. Houses were burned, plantations destroyed and the
inhabitants butchered. But little resistance was offered to the Indians,
and that was soon crushed. About four hundred persons were killed upon
the spot, and the Indians retreated carrying with them a large number
of prisoners, who were doomed to a more dreadful death. The loss of the
Indians in the expedition was trifling.

[Illustration: 0079]

The destruction of Montreal was a terrible blow to the French, and it
was so well fol: lowed up by the powerful Iroquois, that it is thought,
if the Indians had been acquainted with the art of attacking fortified
places, the enemy would have been forced to abandon Canada. But they
had not the necessary knowledge; and the English were not wise enough
to supply them with it. The French maintained their ground, and the
Iroquois were afterwards punished for their unscrupulous warfare.

[Illustration: 0080]

[Illustration: 0082]

[Illustration: 0083]




A BUFFALO HUNT.

[Illustration: 9083]

HE buffalo hunt, next to the Indian battle, is the most intensely
exciting scene which may be witnessed among the wilds of the west. To
the buffalo, the Indian looks for food, for clothing, and for religious
and household implements. He regards the hunting of that animal not only
as a pleasure, but a duty; and when once it is rumored through a village
that a herd of buffalo is in sight, their warriors who have faced death
in a hundred forms, bring out their swiftest horses, and spring upon
them; and when the whole party rush across the field eager to engage the
bellowing herd, a scene is presented for which it would be in vain
to look for a parallel, even among the cane-brakes of Africa, or the
jungles of India.

The Indians have several methods of attacking buffaloes. The most
exciting as well as the most dangerous one is that in which they
run round the herd for the purpose of destroying it. The hunters,
well-mounted with bows and lances, divide themselves into two columns,
take opposite directions, and at the distance of a mile or two, draw
gradually around the herd, and having formed a circle, close upon their
prey at regular distance, On seeing the danger, the herd run in the
opposite direction, where they are met by the other party. The circle is
gradually closed, and the parties unite. By this time, the buffaloes
are wheeling about in a crowded and confused mass, wounding and climbing
upon each other. Then their destruction commences. Galloping round,
the hunters drive the arrows and lances to the hearts of their victims.
Sometimes, the animals, furious from their wounds, plunge forward, and
bear down horse and rider, goring and crushing the former, while the
active Indian escapes. Sometimes the herd divides in two, and the
hunters, blinded by clouds of dust, are wedged in among the crowding
beasts, when their only chance of escape is to leap over the backs of
the herd, leaving the horse to his fate. Occasionally, a buffalo selects
a particular horseman, and pursues him at full speed, until, when
stooping to lift the horse upon his horns, he receives in the side the
warrior’s shaft. Some of the Indians, when pursued, throw their buffalo
robe over the horns and eyes of the furious animal, and, dashing by its
side, drives the weapon to its heart. Others dash off upon the prairie,
in pursuit of the few who got separated from the herd. In a few moments,
the hunt is changed into a desperate battle, and gradually the whole
mass of buffaloes sink in death.

The hunters then dismount from their horses, and claim their prey by
drawing the arrows or lances from the sides of the dead beasts, and
showing their private marks. Quarrels are generally avoided by this
plan. After all the animals have been claimed, the warriors hold a
council, and after smoking a few pipes, ride into the village and
announce the result. Of course, every thing there is in commotion, and
soon long processions of dogs and women issue forth, skin and cut up the
prey, and return amid loud acclamations to their homes.

[Illustration: 0086]

[Illustration: 0088]

[Illustration: 0089]




TREATMENT OF INDIAN CHILDREN.

[Illustration: 9089]

HOSE who have had the best opportunities for knowing the real character
of the Indians, have remarked, among many other good traits, the great
affection they have for their children, and the respect which young
people pay, not only to their parents, but to all elderly people.

Before the little papoose can walk alone, it is confined in a cradle,
which is carried on the mother’s back while she is at her work, or set
upright against the wall, or a tree. The mother teaches her children how
to make leggins, moccasins, and many other things that have already been
described; and if she be a good mother, as many of the squaws are, she
is particular in keeping her daughters constantly employed, so that
they may have the reputation of being industrious girls, which is a
recommendation to the young men to marry them; Corporal punishment
is seldom used for the correction of children; but if they commit any
fault, it is common for the mother to blacken their faces, and send them
out of the lodge. Sometimes they are kept a whole day in this situation,
as a punishment for their misconduct. They think that corporal
punishment breaks the spirit of the child, and in this they appear to be
wiser than their white brethren. Parental love should persuade and guide
the bold of spirit, not destroy their courage.

When the boys are six or seven years of age, a small bow and arrows are
put into their hands, and they are sent out to shoot birds around the
lodge or village; this they continue to do for five or six years, and
then their father procures for them short guns, and they begin to hunt
ducks, geese, and small game. They are then gradually instructed in the
whole art of hunting, and lastly of warfare.

The Indians generally appear to be more afflicted at the loss of an
infant, or young child, than at that of a person of mature years. The
latter, they think, can provide for himself in the country whither he
has gone, but the former is too young to do so. The men appear ashamed
to show any signs of grief, at the loss of any relation, however dear
he might have been to them; but the women do not conceal their feelings;
and on the loss of either husband or child, they cut off their hair,
disfigure their face and limbs with black paint, and even with cuts, and
burn all their clothes except a few miserable rags.

[Illustration: 0092]




MRS. HANSON AND HER CHILDREN

[Illustration: 9092]

HE colonists of New England, and especially of New Hampshire, were
rarely free from apprehension of attack from their savage neighbors.
A desultory warfare was carried on, even when treaties seemed to have
secured peace. Houses were burned, farms, teeming with the fruits of
toil, destroyed, and the inhabitants either murdered or made captive.
Many instances are recorded, of suffering and torture inflicted upon
families, which have been thus attacked. One of the most remarkable
has been preserved in the words of one of the victims, Mrs. Elizabeth
Hanson.

[Illustration: 0093]

On the 27th of June, 1724, a party of Indians were discovered in
the neighborhood of the house of John Hanson, in Dover township, New
Hampshire. They had been lurking in the fields several days, watching
their opportunity, when Mr. Hanson and his men should be out of the way.
At the favorable moment, thirteen Indians, all naked, and armed with
tomahawks and guns, rushed into the house, killing one child as soon as
they entered the door. The leader came up to Mrs. Hanson, but gave her
quarter. At the time of the attack, she had a servant and six children.
Two of the little ones were at play in the orchard, and the youngest
child, only fourteen days old, was in the cradle.

The Indians set about rifling the house, fearing to be interrupted by
the return of some of the men, and packed up every thing that pleased
them, and which they could conveniently carry. The two children running
in from the orchard, the Indians killed one to prevent its shrieking,
and gave the other to the mother. The dead children were scalped, and
the mother, the servant, and the remaining children, were taken hastily
from the house. Mrs. Hanson was weak, yet she had no alternative but to
go, or die, and her children were frightened into silence. After wading
through several swamps, and some brooks, and carefully avoiding every
thing like a road, the party halted at night-fall, about ten miles from
Mrs. Hanson’s house. A fire was lighted, and a watch set, while the rest
of the party sought repose.

Just as the day appeared, the Indians were awake, and, with their
captives, set out again and travelled very hard all that day through
swamps and woods without a path. At night all lodged upon the cold
ground, wet and weary. Thus for twenty-six days, day by day, the party
travelled, over mountains, through tangled thickets, and across rivers
and swamps, sometimes without any food but pieces of beaver skin, and
enduring hardships, to which the Indians were accustomed, but which the
poor captives could scarcely bear.

At the end of twenty-six days, the party reached the borders of Canada,
and as they were compelled to separate, the captive family was divided
between them. This was a sore parting, but the mother had become
resigned to her fate, and taught her children by example how to suffer.
The eldest daughter, about sixteen years of age, was first taken away,
and soon after, the second daughter and the servant, at that time very
weak for want of food, were divided between Indians going to different
parts of the country. The mother, her babe and little boy remained with
the chief, and soon arrived at his village.

The captives were now well provided with food, but were compelled to
sleep upon the cold ground in a wigwam. As the wigwam was often removed
from place to place for the convenience of hunting, and the winter was
approaching, the lodging became disagreeable, and the small children
suffered severely. When the chief arrived at the Indian fort, he
was received with great rejoicing, and every savage manifestation of
respect. The shouting, drinking, feasting, and firing of guns continued
several days.

The chief had not long been at home, before he went out on a hunting
excursion, and was absent about a week. Mrs. Hanson was left in his
wigwam, and ordered to get in wood; gather nuts, &c. She diligently
performed what she had been commanded; but when the chief returned, he
was in an ill-humor; not having found any game. He vented his spleen
upon the poor captives, of course. Mrs. Hanson was roughly treated, and
her son knocked down. She did not dare to murmur, however, fearing his
anger.

The squaw and her daughter, sympathized with the captives, informed them
that the chief was anxious now to put them to death, and that they must
sleep in another wigwam that night. During the night Mrs. Hanson slept
very little, being in momentary expectation that the chief would.=come
to execute his threat. But the chief, weary with hunting, went to rest
and forgot it. The next morning he went out hunting again, and returned
with some wild ducks. He was then in a better humor, and all had plenty
to eat. The same state of things occurred very frequently, and Mrs.
Hanson was in constant fear of death. Sometimes she suffered much from
want of food.

By this time, hard labor, mean diet, and want of natural rest, had
reduced Mrs. Hanson so low, that her milk was dried up, and her
babe thin and weak. By the advice of an Indian squaw, she made some
nourishing broth for her babe, by broiling some kernels of walnuts, and
mixing them with water and Indian meal. But her joy at the success of
this invention was clouded by the action of the chief. Observing the
thriving condition of the child, he made the mother undress it, and
told her he intended to eat it as soon as it was fat enough. This was a
terrible blow to the hopes which Mrs. Hanson had begun to conceive, and
his cruel treatment of her and her children was aggravated every day,
till, at length, he fell violently ill, and for a time lingered on the
brink of death. He thought that this was a judgment of God upon him for
his cruelty, and he professed repentance. After this he soon recovered,
and the captives were better treated.

The chief, a few weeks after his recovery, made another remove,
journeying two days upon the ice, while the snow was falling. Mrs.
Hanson soon perceived the object of his journey. The chief, with the
hope of obtaining a ransom for his captives, wished to get nearer to the
French. He visited the latter, but returned in a very bad humor. Mrs.
Hanson was compelled to lodge in a sort of hole made in the snow, and
covered with boughs, in order to keep from his presence.

At length the captives were taken to the French, and after some trouble
and delay, ransomed for six hundred livres. They were treated very
kindly and furnished with all those things of which they had been so
long destitute. One month after they fell into the hands of the French,
Mr. Hanson came to them with the hope of ransoming the other children
and servant. With much difficulty he recovered his younger daughter, but
the eldest was retained by the squaw to whom she had been given, as she
intended to marry her to her son. No means could induce the squaw to
surrender the daughter, and the party were forced to return without her.
The servant was ransomed. On the 1st of July, 1725, the party arrived
home, having been among the Indians and French more than twelve months,
and, having suffered every hardship which the captive of the Indian
generally endures.

Mr. Hanson could not rest while his daughter remained in the hands of
the Indians, and he resolved to make another attempt to ransom her. On
the 19th of February, 1727, he set out on his journey, but died on
the way, between Albany and Canada. In the meantime, a young Frenchman
interposed, and by marrying the daughter himself, secured her freedom;
the Indians acknowledging the freedom of their captives as soon
as married by the French. The daughter returned to her anxious and
suffering mother and sisters, and thus gave them some consolation for
the loss of Mr. Hanson.

[Illustration: 0102]

[Illustration: 0104]

[Illustration: 0105]




THE STORY OF SHON-KA.

[Illustration: 9105]

R. CATLIN met with many interesting adventures, while visiting the
numerous and savage tribes of the great west, for the purpose of seeing
and judging for himself, of their habits and modes of life. One of these
he details in his valuable work, as “The Story of the Dog,” and as it is
a fine illustration of the dangers encountered by adventurers among
the Indians, and of the certainty of revenge which follows an injury, we
here insert it:

I had passed up the Missouri river, on the steamboat Yellow Stone, on
which I ascended the Missouri to the mouth of Yellow Stone river. While
going up, this boat, having on board the United States Indian agent,
Major Sanford--Messrs. Pierre, Chouteau, McKenzie of the American Fur
Company, and myself, as passengers, stopped at this trading-post, and
remained several weeks; where were assembled six hundred families of
Sioux Indians, their tents being pitched in close order on an extensive
prairie on the bank of the river.

This trading-post, in charge of Mr. Laidlaw, is the concentrating place,
and principal depot, for this powerful tribe, who number, when all taken
together, something like forty or fifty thousand. On this occasion, five
or six thousand had assembled to see the steamboat, and meet the Indian
agent, which, and whom they knew were to arrive about this time. During
the few weeks that we remained there, I was busily engaged painting my
portraits, for here were assembled the principal chiefs and medicine-men
of the nation. To these people, the operations of my brush were entirely
new and unaccountable, and excited amongst them the greatest curiosity
imaginable. Every thing else, even the steamboat, was abandoned for the
pleasure of crowding into my painting-room, and witnessing the result
of each fellow’s success, as he came out from under the operation of my
brush.

They had been at first much afraid of the consequences that might flow
from so strange and unaccountable an operation; but having been made to
understand my views, they began to look upon it as a great honor, and
afforded me the opportunities that I desired; exhibiting the utmost
degree of vanity for their appearance, both as to features and dress.
The consequence was, that my room was filled with the chiefs who sat
around, arranged according to the rank or grade which they held in the
estimation of their tribe; and in this order it became necessary for
me to paint them, to the exclusion of those who never signalized
themselves, and were without any distinguishing character in society.

The first man on the list, was Ha-wan-ghee-ta, (one horn,) head chief
of the nation, and after him the subordinate chief, or chiefs of bands,
according to the estimation in which they were held by the chief or
tribe. My models were thus placed before me, whether ugly or beautiful,
all the same, and I saw at once there was to be trouble somewhere, as
I could not paint them all. The medicine-men or high priests, who are
esteemed by many the oracles of the nation, and the most important
men in it--becoming jealous, commenced their harangues, outside of
the lodge, telling them that they were all fools--that those who were
painted would soon die in consequence; and that these pictures, which
had life to a considerable degree in them, would live in the hands of
white men after they were dead, and make them sleepless and endless
trouble.

Those whom I had painted, though evidently somewhat alarmed, were
unwilling to acknowledge it, and those whom I had not painted, unwilling
to be outdone in courage, allowed me the privilege; braving and defying
the danger that they were evidently more or less in dread of. Feuds
began to arise too, among some of the chiefs of the different bands,
who, (not unlike some instances among the chiefs and warriors of our own
country,) had looked upon their rival chiefs with unsleeping jealousy,
until it had grown into disrespect and enmity. An instance of this
kind presented itself at this critical juncture, in this assembly of
inflammable spirits, which changed in a moment, its features, from the
free and jocular garrulity of an Indian levee, to the frightful yells
and agitated treads and starts of an Indian battle. I had in progress
at this time, a portrait of Mah-to-tchee-ga, (little bear;) of the
Onc-pa-pa band, a noble fine fellow, who was sitting before me as I was
painting. I was painting almost a profile view of his face, throwing a
part of it into shadow, and had it nearly finished, when an Indian by
the name of Shon-ka, (the dog,) chief of the Caz-a-zshee-ta band, an
ill-natured and surly man--despised by the chiefs of every other band,
entered the wigwam in a sullen mood, and seated himself on the floor in
front of my sitter, where he could have a full view of the picture in
its operation. After sitting a while with his arms folded, and his lips
stiffly arched with contempt, he sneeringly spoke thus:

“Mah-to-tchee-ga is but half a man.”

Dead silence ensued for a moment, and nought was in motion save the
eyes of the chiefs, who were seated around the room, and darting their
glances about upon each other in listless anxiety to hear the sequel
that was to follow! During this interval, the eyes of Mah-to-tchee-ga
had not moved--his lips became slightly curved, and he pleasantly asked
in low and steady accent, “Who says that?”

“Shon-ka says it,” was the reply, “and Shonka can prove it.” At this
the eyes of Mah-to-tchee-ga, which had not yet moved, began steadily
to turn, and slow, as if upon pivots, and when they were rolled out of
their sockets till they had fixed upon the object of their contempt; his
dark and jutting brows were shoving down in trembling contention, with
the blazing rays that were actually burning with contempt, the object
that was before them. “Why does Shon-ka say it?”

“Ask We-chash-a-wa-kon, (the painter,) he can tell you; he knows you are
but half a man--he has painted but one half of your face, and knows the
other half is good for nothing!”

“Let the painter say it, and I will believe it; but when the Dog says it
let him prove it.”

“Shon-ka has said it, and Shon-ka can prove it; if Mah-to-tchee-ga be a
man, and wants to be honored by the white men, let him not be ashamed;
but let him do as Shon-ka has done, give the white man a horse, and then
let him see the whole of your face without being ashamed.”

“When Mah-to-tchee-ga kills a white man and steals his horses, he may
be ashamed to look at a white man until he brings him a horse! When
Mah-to-tchee-ga waylays and murders an honorable and brave Sioux,
because he is a coward and not brave enough to meet him in fair combat,
then he may be ashamed to look at a white man till he has given him a
horse! Mah-to-tchee-ga can look at any one; and he is now looking at an
old woman and a coward!”

This repartee, which had lasted for a few minutes, to the amusement and
excitement of the chiefs, being thus ended: The Dog suddenly rose
from the ground, and wrapping himself in his robe, left the wigwam,
considerably agitated, having the laugh of all the chiefs upon him.

The Little Bear had followed him with his piercing eyes until he left
the door, and then pleasantly and unmoved, resumed his position, where
he sat a few minutes longer, until the portrait was completed. He then
rose, and in a most graceful and gentlemanly manner, presented to me
a very beautiful shirt of buckskin, richly garnished with quills of
porcupine, wringed with scalp-locks (honorable memorials) from his
enemies’ heads, and painted, with all his battles emblazoned on it. He
then left my wigwam, and a few steps brought him to the door of his own,
where the Dog intercepted him, and asked, “What meant Mah-to-tchee-ga,
by the last words that he spoke to Shon-ka?”

“Mah-to-tchee-ga said it, and Shon-ka is not a fool--that is enough.”
 At this the Dog walked violently to his own lodge; and the Little Bear
retreated into his, both knowing from looks and gestures what was about
to be the consequence of their altercation.

The Little Bear instantly charged his gun, and then, as their custom is,
threw himself upon his face, in humble supplication to the Great Spirit
for his aid and protection. His wife, in the meantime, seeing him
agitated, and fearing some evil consequences, without knowing any thing
of the preliminaries, secretly withdrew the bullet from the gun, and
told him not of it.

The Dog’s voice, at this moment, was heard, and recognized at the door
of Mah-to-Shee-ga’s lodge, “If Mah-to-tchee-ga be a whole man, let him
come out and prove it; it is Shon-ka that calls him!”

His wife screamed; but it was too late. The gun was in his hand, and he
sprang out of the door--both drew and simultaneously fired. The Dog fled
uninjured; but the Little Bear lay weltering in his blood (strange to
say!) with all that side of his face shot away, which had been left out
of the picture; and, according to the prediction of the Dog, “good for
nothing;” carrying away one half of the jaws, and the flesh from the
nostrils and corner of the mouth, to the ear, including one eye, and
leaving the jugular vein entirely exposed. Here was a “coup;” and any
one accustomed to the thrilling excitement that such things produce in
an Indian village, can form some idea of the frightful agitation amidst
several thousand Indians, who were divided into jealous bands or clans,
under ambitious and rival chiefs! In one minute a thousand guns and bows
were seized! A thousand thrilling yells were raised; and many were
the fierce and darting warriors who sallied round the Dog for his
protection--he fled amidst a shower of bullets and arrows; but his
braves were about him! The blood of the Onc-pa-pas was roused, and the
indignant braves of that gallant band rushed forth from all quarters,
and, swift upon their heels, were hot for vengeance! On the plain, and
in full view of us, for some time, the whizzing arrows flew, and so did
bullets, until the Dog and his brave followers were lost in distance
on the prairie! In this rencontre, the Dog had his arm broken; but
succeeded, at length, in making his escape.

On the next day after this affair took place, Little Bear died of his
wound, and was buried amidst the most pitiful and heart-rending cries
of his distracted wife, whose grief was inconsolable at the thought of
having been herself the immediate and innocent cause of his death, by
depriving him of his supposed protection.

This marvellous and fatal transaction was soon talked through the
village, and the eyes of all this superstitious multitude were fixed on
me as the cause of the calamity--my paintings and brushes were instantly
packed, and all hands, Traders and Travellers, assumed at once a posture
of defence.

I evaded, no doubt, in a great measure, the concentration of their
immediate censure upon me, by expressions of great condolence, and by
distributing liberal presents to the wife and relations of the deceased;
and by uniting also with Mr. Laidlaw and the other gentlemen, in giving
him honorable burial, where we placed over his grave a handsome Sioux
lodge, and hung a white flag to wave over it.

On this occasion many were the tears that were shed for the brave
and honorable Mah-to-tchee-ga, and all the warriors of his band swore
sleepless vengeance on the Dog, until his life should answer for the
loss of their chief.

On the day that he was buried, I started for the mouth of the Yellow
Stone, and while I was gone, the spirit of vengeance had pervaded nearly
all the Sioux country in search of the Dog, who had evaded pursuit. His
brother, however, a noble and honorable fellow, esteemed by all who
knew him, fell in their way in an unlucky hour, when their thirst for
vengeance was irresistible, and they slew him. Repentance deep, and
grief were the result of this rash act, when they beheld a brave
and worthy man fall for so worthless a character; and as they became
exasperated, the spirit of revenge grew more desperate than ever, and
they swore they never would lay down their arms or embrace their wives
and children until vengeance, full and complete, should light upon the
head that deserved it. This brings us again to the first part of my
story, and in this state were things in that part of the country, when
I was descending the river, four months afterwards, and landed my canoe,
as I before stated, at Laidlaw’s trading-post.

The excitement had been kept up all summer among these people, and
their superstitions bloated to the full brim, from circumstances so well
calculated to feed and increase them. Many of them looked at me at once
as the author of all these disasters, considering I knew that one half
of the man’s face was good for nothing, or that I would not have left it
out of the picture, and that I must have foreknown the evils that were
to flow from the omission; they consequently resolved that I was a
dangerous man, and should suffer for my temerity in case the Dog could
not be found. Councils had been held, and in all the solemnity of
Indian medicine and mystery, I had been doomed to die! At one of these,
a young warrior of the Onc-pa-pa band, arose and said, “The blood of two
chiefs has been sunk into the ground, and a hundred bows are bent which
are ready to shed more! on whom shall we bend them? I am a friend to the
white man, but here is one whose medicine is too great--he is a
great medicineman! his medicine is too great! he was the death of
Mah-to-tchee-ga! he made only one side of his face! he would not make
the other--the side that he made was alive; the other was dead, and
Shon-ka shot it off! How is this? Who is to die?”

After him, Tah-zee-kee-da-cha (torn belly,) of the Yankton band, arose,
and said, “Father, this medicine-man has done much harm! You told our
chiefs and warriors, that they must be painted--you said he was a good
man, and we believed you! you thought so, my father, but you see what
he has done!--he looks at our chiefs and our women and then makes them
alive!! In this way he has taken our chiefs away, and he can trouble
their spirits when they are dead!--they will be unhappy. If he can make
them alive by looking at them, he can do us much harm!--you tell us
that they are not alive--we see their eyes move!--their eyes follow us
wherever we go, that is enough! I have no more to say!” After him arose
a young man of the Onc-pa-pa band. “Father! you know that I am the
brother of Mah-to-tchee-ga!--you know that I loved him--both sides of
his face were good, and the medicine-man knew it also! Why was half of
his face left out? He never was ashamed, but always looked white man in
the face! Why was that side of his face shot off? Your friend is not our
friend, and has forfeited his life--we want you to tell us where he
is--we want to see him!”

Then rose Toh-ki-e-to (a medicine-man,) of the Yankton band, and
principal orator of the nation. “My friend, these are young men that
speak--I am not afraid! your white medicine-man painted my picture, and
it was good--I am glad of it--I am very glad to see that I shall live
after I am dead!--I am old and not afraid!--some of our young men are
foolish. I know that this man put many of our buffaloes in his book!
for I was with him, and we have had no buffaloes since to eat, it
is true--but I am not afraid!! his medicine is great and I wish him
well--we are friends.” Thus rested the affair of the Dog and its
consequences, until I conversed with Major Bean, the agent for these
people, who arrived in St.

Louis some weeks after I did, bringing later intelligence from them,
assuring me that the Dog had at length been overtaken and killed, near
the Black-hills, and that the affair might now for ever be considered as
settled.

[Illustration: 0121]

[Illustration: 0122]




THE DEATH OF CANONCHET.

[Illustration: 9122]

ANONCHET was the sachem of the powerful tribe of Narragansetts,
who inhabited a part of New England claimed by the government of
Connecticut. In the war between the Indians and the colonists,
which began in 1675, and is commonly called “King Philip’s war,” the
Narragansetts were led by their own wrongs and the arts of Philip to
join in the Indian confederacy. But they suffered severely for their
hostility. Their fort was attacked by a large force of colonists, under
Governor Winslow, and the greater part of them perished by the guns of
the English, or in the flames of the burning fort.

The remnant of the Narragansetts fled, under the command of Canonchet
and Punno-quin, both of whom were filled with inveterate hatred of the
colonists. Canonchet was the son of the celebrated Miantonomoh, and the
remembrance of his father’s fate rankled in his breast, and rendered
him fierce and cruel beyond his nature. The Narragansetts reached the
Wachusetts hills in safety, where they united with the Nipmucks and
other friendly tribes. But they were in a destitute condition, and
Canonchet was obliged to make great exertions to supply them with food,
in order to keep them faithful to him.

Early in April, 1676, he proposed the daring design of an expedition
to Seekonk, to procure seed corn to plant along the Connecticut river,
where he had taken refuge. At the head of about fifty men, he marched
towards Seekonk, and soon reached Black Stone river. There he encamped,
and imagining that no colonial force was nearer than Plymouth, dismissed
twenty of his men.

On the 27th of March, Captain Dennison had left Stonington, with a body
of troops, on an exploring expedition, in search of Indians. When
near Seekonk, he captured two squaws, who informed him of Canonchet’s
encampment. The captain quickened his march, and as Canonchet’s men,
instead of giving the alarm, fled in different directions, the colonists
were in his camp before he knew of their approach. The chief, seeing
his men run, sent out two or three to ascertain the cause. One of these
returned to the wigwam, crying out that the English were upon them.

Canochet fled. While running around the hill near his camp, he was
recognized by the Nanticks, who commenced a vigorous pursuit. The chase
was long and exciting. One by one, the chief threw off’ his blanket, his
silver-laced coat, and his belt of peag. His pursuers gained upon him;
and giving up all hope of reaching the woods, he hurried towards the
river. Monopoide, a Pequot, noted for his swiftness, pursued in such a
way as to force the chief to cross or be caught. Canonchet plunged into
the stream, and swam for the opposite shore. The English, filled with
rage and fearful of being baffled, hurried to the river’s bank, in
order to shoot him if an opportunity offered; but Canonchet would have
escaped, had not an accident occurred, which, to use his own words,
“made his heart and bowels turn within, so that he became like a rotten
stick, and void of strength.” As he reached a shallow part of the
stream, he began to wade, when his foot struck against a stone, and he
fell into the water. His gun became useless.

Monopoide, seeing the accident, leaped into the water, and daringly swam
towards the chief, who was probably intimidated by superstition. When
seized, Canonchet did not resist, although he was a man of great size,
strength, and courage. A young man, named Staunton, now approached and
asked the chief some questions in regard to his conduct during the war.
For a while Canonchet treated him with silent contempt. But when the
other had ceased, he replied, “You much child--no understand matters of
war. Let your brother or chief come, him I will answer.”

Canonchet was then brought before Dennison. The latter offered the chief
his life on condition that he would induce his nation to submit. But
he rejected the offer with contempt. He was commanded to comply. He
answered that killing him would not end the war. Some of the soldiers
reminded him that he had threatened to burn the English in their houses;
and that in spite of a late treaty, he had boasted that he would not
give up a Wampanoag, or the paring of the nail of a Wampanoag. He
replied that others were as forward for the war as himself, and that he
wished to hear no more about it.

Dennison, filled with joy at his good fortune, soon after returned to
Stonington. Canonchet was not kept long in suspense, in regard to his
fate. The officers decided that he should be shot. The sentence was
announced to him, and his reply was, “I like it well. I shall die before
my heart is soft, or I shall say any thing unworthy of myself.” When
charged with cruelty and treachery, he reminded his foes that they had
killed his father, and burned his people at Narragansett. Through all
his captivity, Canonchet evinced a pride of soul that danger could not
fright nor suffering bend.

The “last of the Narragansetts,” as Canonchet has been termed, was led
out to die, “and that all might share in the glory of destroying so
great a prince, and come under the obligation of fidelity, each to
the other, the Pequots shot him, the Mohegans cut off his head, and
quartered his body, and the Nan-ticks made the fire and burned his
quarters; and as a token of fidelity to the English, presented his head
to the council at Hartford.”

[Illustration: 0123]

The modern reader views the detail of this execution with disgust. But
the colonists then thought them wise and just.

The death of Canonchet was a severe loss to the Indians. Endowed with
a high and generous spirit, he had obtained a great and rare
influence-among his own and other tribes, and could at any time summon
to the aid of Philip, many faithful and efficient men. He bound men to
his interest by appealing to their love of what is great and heroic,
rather than their fears, and of all Philip’s captains, he was the most
skilful leader, and the bravest warrior. Notwithstanding his treaty with
the English, he refused to give up the fugitive Wampanoags to them; but
this refusal was owing as much to humanity of feeling as to a violation
of his word. The records of his conduct while free and among his tribe,
and while a captive with the whites, lead us to lament the fate of so
able, so noble, and generous a man.

[Illustration: 0130]

[Illustration: 0132]

[Illustration: 0133]




CHURCH AND THE NARRAGANSETT.

[Illustration: 9133]

FTER the great destruction of the Narragansett Indians, in King Philip’s
War, by the Connecticut forces, the remnant of the tribe were pursued
in all directions. Winslow, with the main body of the troops, advanced
rapidly towards the Nipmuck country. During the pursuit, the celebrated
Captain Benjamin Church met with a singular and almost fatal adventure.

Church had been removed with the other wounded to the Narragansett’s
fort. But partially recovered, and being very restless, he had again
joined the army, and was persuaded by Winslow to aid him in the pursuit
of the Narragansetts. On the route they reached an Indian town, situated
on a small island, which was surrounded by a swamp. The water in the
swamp was frozen, which prevented the soldiers from charging the wigwam.
A spirited fire of musketry commenced, under cover of which the troops
began to cross the ice. The Indians defended themselves until the
assailants reached the island, when they broke and fled. A Mohegan,
friendly to the English joined in the pursuit, and capturing one of the
enemy, who had been wounded in the leg, brought him to Winslow.

Winslow examined him, but could not draw from him the wished for
knowledge concerning the designs of his countrymen. The captive was
threatened; he said he had revealed all he knew. Many standing, around
demanded that he should be tortured; but by the advice of Church,
the demand was refused. The army commenced its march. But as the
Narragansett’s wound prevented him from keeping pace with the troops,
it was resolved to “knock him in the head.” The Mohegan who captured him
was appointed his executioner. Church, taking no delight in such things,
withdrew.

The Mohegan, elated with the honor conferred upon him, advanced towards
his victim, flourishing his tomahawk, and evincing, by distortions of
limb and feature, the extremity of his satisfaction. Suddenly, he aimed
a tremendous blow at the prisoner’s head, but the latter skilfully
dodged it, and the hatchet flying from the Mohegan’s hand, “had like to
have done execution, where it was not designed.” Seizing the favorable
moment, the Narragansett broke from those who held him, and ran for his
life. Taking the same direction that Church had done, he unexpectedly
ran directly upon him. Church grappled with him; a short but furious
scuffle ensued, but the Narragansett, being destitute of clothing,
slipped from his adversary’s grasp, and again ran. Church followed, the
Indian stumbled and fell, and the bold volunteer again seized him. They
fought and wrestled until the Indian slipped through Church’s hands,
and set out upon his third race. Church was close behind him, “grasping
occasionally at his hair,” which was all the hold could be taken of him.

They soon reached a wide surface of ice, which being in some places
hollow, caused a rumbling noise, which induced Church to hope that some
of his friends might hear it and come to his relief. Unfortunately for
the Indian, it began to grow dark, and while running at full speed,
he came abreast of a fallen tree of great thickness. Why he did not
overleap it is not known; but having probably became intimidated, he
suddenly stopped and cried aloud for aid. Church was soon upon him. The
Indian seized him by the hair, and tried to break his neck. Church also
laid hold of his adversary’s hair with both hands, repaying twist
for twist. While in this attitude, hanging by each other’s hair, the
volunteer contrived to butt the Indian vigorously with his head in the
face.

While this sharp scuffle was in progress, the ice was heard crackling at
a distance, and soon after some person ran towards them. The combatants
were kept in suspense, as the darkness prevented the new comer from
being seen. The stranger reached them, and without speaking a word began
to feel first Church and then the Indian. Amid the same ominous silence,
he raised his hatchet, and sunk it in the head of the savage. It was the
Mohegan who had acted as executioner. Overjoyed at having gratified his
cruelty, he hugged Church again and again, thanked him for having caught
his prisoner, and conducted him in triumph to the camp. Throughout this
struggle for life, Church acted with his usual dauntless spirit, and
the capture of the Narragansett was owing entirely to his persevering
courage. The Indian was unjustly put to death, he being fully entitled
to be considered as a prisoner of war. But the colonists thought by
appointing a Mohegan to be his executioner, to heighten the friendly
feeling existing between that tribe and the English.

[Illustration: 0138]

[Illustration: 0140]

[Illustration: 0141]




THE DEATH OF KING PHILIP.

[Illustration: 9141]

HEN the famous King Philip had lost the greater part of his warriors
in the struggle for life and death between them and the English, and he
himself was hunted like a wild beast from place to place, he formed the
strange resolve of visiting the ancient haunt of his ancestors at Mount
Hope, With a few of his best friends he retired into that swamp which
was destined to be a prison for him. His retreat was betrayed to Captain
Church, by an Indian deserter, whose brother Philip had killed in a fit
of passion.

Church, accompanied by Major Sandford, and Captain Golding, and about
twenty men, prepared to follow the great chief to the swamp. He crossed
Trip’s ferry in the evening, and about midnight, a consultation was held
as to the best mode of attack. Church offered Golding a small force
that he might go in advance and discover the real situation of Philip.
Golding promptly accepted it. Church then instructed him to be careful
in his approach to the enemy, and be sure not to show himself until by
daylight, that they might know their own men from the enemy; to creep
as close to the ground as possible, until they came quite near to the
swamp, in order to fire upon the Indians as soon as they arose; and that
when the enemy should start for the swamp, he should pursue them with
speed. He was to shout as loud as he could, for the ambuscade would
receive orders to fire upon any one who should approach in silence. A
colonist and an Indian were placed behind each shelter. The arrangements
made it impossible for any one to pass from the swamp without being
seen.

The swamp in which Philip was concealed is thus described by Carne.--“It
was a fit retreat for a despairing man, being one of those waste and
dismal places to which few ever wandered, covered with rank and dense
vegetation. The moist soil was almost hidden by the cypress and other
trees, that spread their gloomy shades over the treacherous shallows
and pools’ beneath. In the few drier parts, oaks and pines grew,
and, between them, a brushwood so thick that the savage could hardly
penetrate: on the long, rich grass of these parts, wild cattle fed,
unassailed by the hand of man, save when they ventured beyond the
confines of the swamp. There were wolves, deer, and other animals;
and wilder men, it was said, were seen here; it was supposed that the
children of some of the Indians had either been lost or left there, and
had thus grown up like denizens of this wild. Here the baffled chieftain
gathered his little band around him, like a lion baited by the hunters,
sullenly seeking his gloomy thickets only to spring forth more fatally.
His love was turned to agony; his wife was in the land of his enemies;
and would they spare her beauty? His only son, the heir of a long line,
must bow his head to their yoke; his chief warriors had all fallen, and
he could not trust the few who were still with him.”

Early on the moaning of the 12th of August, Church approached Major
Sandford, and taking him by the hand, said that he had placed his men
so that it was scarcely possible for Philip to escape. At this moment,
a single shot was heard in the distance, and a ball whistled through
the air over their heads. Church imagined that it had been fired by
accident; but before he could speak, an entire volley was discharged.

The battle had been hastened by the indiscretion of Golding. An Indian,
having retired at some distance from his companions, stood for a while
looking around him, and as Golding supposed, directly at him. The
captain immediately fired; and his men poured a volley into the Indian
camp, which, as the savages were asleep, passed clear over them.
Philip’s men, thus unexpectedly aroused, ran into the swamp, and the
chief, throwing his belt and powder horn over his head, seized his gun
and fled. Unaware of the ambush, he ran directly towards one of Church’s
men. When he was quite near, the colonist levelled his gun, but missed
fire. He bade the Indian fire, which he did with effect, one of the
balls passing through the sachem’s heart, and another through his lungs.
He bounded into the air and fell upon his face in the mud.

The battle continued, though the Indians fought against great odds. They
were rallied and encouraged to stand, by an old chief, who frequently
repeated in a loud voice, the exclamation, “Iootash,” a sort of war-cry
in time of danger. Church, surprised by the boldness of this chief, and
the loudness of his voice, asked his Indian servant, Peter, who it was.
He answered that it was Philip’s great captain, Annawon, “calling on
his soldiers to stand to it, and fight stoutly.” But the efforts of the
chief failed; the greater part of the men, discovering that a part of
the swamp was not surrounded, made their escape.

Alderman, the Indian who had shot Philip, immediately informed Church
of his exploit; but the captain told him to keep silence until they had
driven all the Indians from the swamp. The skirmishing continued until
sun rise, when Annawon and the few who remained with him, escaped. In
this encounter five Indians were killed, among whom was a son of the
great Philip.

Church, glad of having accomplished the main object of the expedition,
thought it useless to pursue the fugitives, and hence collected his men
in the place where the Indians had passed the night. Here he informed
them of Philip’s death, which was greeted with three loud cheers; after
which the sachem’s body was dragged from the mud to the upland. In the
moment of victory, Church forgot the magnanimity which had hitherto
distinguished him, and joined in the jests, with which his men insulted
the corpse of the man, at whose name they had formerly trembled. The
captain ordered him to be beheaded and quartered, which was accomplished
by an old Indian executioner, the pieces being hung on trees. One of the
hands which had been scarred by the splitting of a pistol, was given to
Alderman “to show to such gentlemen as would bestow gratuitous alms upon
him, and accordingly, he got many a penny by it,” The head was placed
in a conspicuous part of the town of Plymouth, where it remained many
years.

The war was considered as ended with the death of the leading spirit
on the part of the Indians. It had been one of extermination upon both
sides, but the red men had suffered far more than the English. The
character of Philip has been frequently drawn by able pens, and full
justice has been rendered to his memory. Activity, courage, skill in war
and diplomacy, were the remarkable features of his well-known character.
His ends were lofty and startling, and he was wise in the choice of
means. To great qualities of mind, he added the strongest feelings, and
no part of his life excites our sympathies more than his latter days,
when, bereft of friends and relations, he returned, broken-hearted,
to the haunts of his youth. His hatred of the English, was early and
lasting--founded upon just cause, and followed up with unrelenting
cruelty. He was a savage, untaught in the arts and refinements of
civilization, and in estimating his character this should be considered.
Then will it be clear, that Philip was one of the greatest of Indians
and the noblest of the unlearned children of the forest.


[Illustration: 0149]

[Illustration: 0151]




THE RAIN MAKERS.

[Illustration: 9151]

HE Mandans, have dignitaries whom they call “rain makers,” and “rain
stoppers,” because they believe in their powers to bring rain in case of
drought, or to stop the rain when too strong and violent. Catlin gives
a very interesting account of an instance in which the powers of these
men were tested.

The Mandans, says Catlin, raise a great deal of corn; but sometimes a
most disastrous drought visits the land, destructive to their promised
harvest. Such was the case when I arrived at the Mandan village, on the
steamboat Yellow Stone. Rain had not fallen for many a day, and the dear
little girls and ugly old squaws, altogether, (all of whom had fields
of corn,) were groaning and crying to their lords, and imploring them
to intercede for rain, that their little patches, which were now turning
pale and yellow, might not be withered, and they be deprived of the
customary annual festivity, and the joyful occasion of the “roasting
ears,” and the “green corn dance.”

The chiefs and doctors sympathized with the distress of the women, and
recommended patience. Great deliberation, they said, was necessary in
these cases; and though they resolved on making the attempt to produce
rain for the benefit of the corn; yet they very wisely resolved that to
begin too soon might ensure their entire defeat in the endeavor:
and that the longer they put it off, the more certain they would be
of ultimate success. So, after a few days of further delay, when the
importunities of the women had become clamorous, and even mournful, and
almost insupportable, the medicine-men assembled in the council-house,
with all their mystery apparatus about them--with an abundance of wild
sage, and other aromatic herbs, with a fire prepared to burn them, that
their savory odors might be sent forth to the Great Spirit. The lodge
was closed to all the villagers, except some ten or fifteen young men,
who were willing to hazard the dreadful alternative of making it rain,
or suffer the everlasting disgrace of having made a fruitless essay.

They, only, were allowed as witnesses to the _hocus focus_ and
_conjurations_ devised by the doctors inside of the medicine lodge; and
they were called up by lot, each one in his turn, to spend a day upon
the top of the lodge, to test the potency of his medicine; or, in other
words, to see how far his voice might be heard and obeyed amongst the
clouds of the heavens; whilst the doctors were burning incense in the
wigwam below, and with their songs and prayers to the Great Spirit for
success, were sending forth grateful fumes and odors to Him “who lives
in the sun and commands the thunders of Heaven.” Wah-kee, (the shield,)
was the first who ascended the wigwam at sun rise; and he stood all
day, and looked foolish, as he was counting over and over his string of
mystery-beads--the whole village were assembled around him, and praying
for his success. Not a cloud appeared--the day was calm and hot; and at
the setting of the sun, he descended from the lodge and went home--“his
medicine was not good,” nor can he ever be a medicineman.

Om-pah, (the elk,) was the next; he ascended the lodge at sunrise the
next morning. His body was entirely naked, being covered with yellow
clay. On his left arm he carried a beautiful shield, and a long lance
in his right; and on his head the skin of a raven, the bird that soars
amidst the clouds, and above the lightning’s glare--he flourished his
shield and brandished his lance, and raised his voice, but in vain; for
at sun set the ground was dry, and the sky was clear; the squaws were
crying, and their corn was withering at its roots.

War-rah-pa, (the beaver,) was the next; he also spent his breath in vain
upon the empty air, and came down at night--and Wak-a-dah-ha-hee, (the
white buffalo’s hair,) took the stand the next morning. He was a small,
but beautifully proportioned young man. He was dressed in a tunic, and
leggings of the skins of the mountain-sheep, splendidly garnished with
the quills of the porcupine, and fringed with locks of hair taken by
his own hand from the heads of his enemies. On his arm he carried
his shield, made of the buffalo’s hide--its boss was the head of the
war-eagle--and its front was ornamented with “red chains of lightning.”
 In his left hand he clinched his sinewy bow and one single arrow. The
villagers were all gathered about him; when he threw up a feather to
decide on the course of the wind, and he commenced thus: “My friends!
people of the pheasants! you see me here a sacrifice--I shall this day
relieve you from great distress, and bring joy amongst you; or I shall
descend from this lodge when the sun goes down, and live amongst the
dogs and old women all my days. My friends! you saw which way the
feather flew, and I hold my shield this day in the direction where the
wind comes--the lightning on my shield will draw a great cloud, and the
arrow, which is selected from my quiver, and which is feathered with the
quill of the white swan, will make a hole in it. My friends! this hole
in the lodge at my feet, shows me the medicine-men, who are seated in
the lodge below me and crying to the Great Spirit and through it comes
and passes into my nose delightful odors, which you see rising in the
smoke to the Great Spirit above, who rides in the clouds and commands
the winds! Three days they have sat here, my friends, and nothing has
been done to relieve your distress. On the first day was Wah-kee, (the
shield,) he could do nothing; he counted his beads and came down--his
medicine was not good--his name was bad, and it kept off the rain. The
next was Om-pah, (the elk;) on his head the raven was seen, who flies
above the storm, and he failed. War-rah-pa, (the beaver,) was the next,
my friends; the beaver lives under the water, and he never wants it to
rain. My friends! I see you are in great distress, and nothing has yet
been done; this shield belonged to my father the White Buffalo; and the
lightning you see on it is red; it was taken from a black cloud, and
that cloud will come over us to-day. I am the White Buffalo’s Hair--and
am the son of my father.”

It happened on this memorable day about noon, that the steamboat Yellow
Stone, on her first trip up the Missouri river, approached and landed at
the Mandan village. I was lucky enough to be a passenger on this boat,
and helped to fire a salute of twenty guns of twelve pounds calibre,
when we first came in sight of the village, some three or four miles
below. These guns introduced a new sound into this strange country,
which the Mandans first supposed to be thunder; and the young man upon
the lodge, who turned it to good account, was gathering fame in rounds
of applause, which were repeated and echoed through the whole village;
all eyes were centred upon him--chiefs envied him--mother’s hearts
were beating high whilst they were decorating and leading up their
fair daughters to offer him in marriage, on his signal success. The
medicine-men had left the lodge, and came out to bestow upon him the
envied title of “medicine-man, or doctor,” which he had so deservedly
won--wreaths were prepared to decorate his brows, and eagles’ plumes and
calumets were in readiness for him; his friends were all rejoiced--his
enemies wore on their faces a silent gloom and hatred; and his old
sweethearts, who had formerly cast him off, gazed intently upon him, as
they glowed with the burning fever of repentance.

During all this excitement, Wak-a-dah-hahee kept his position, assuming
the most commanding and threatening attitudes; brandishing his shield
in-= the direction of the thunder, although there was not a cloud to
be seen, until he, poor fellow, being elevated above the rest of the
village, espied, to his inexpressible amazement, the steamboat ploughing
its way up the windings of the river below; puffing her steam from her
pipes, and sending forth the thunder from a twelve-pounder on her deck!

The White Buffalo’s Hair stood motionless and turned pale, he looked
awhile, and turned to the chief and to the multitude, and addressed them
with a trembling lip--“My friends, we will get no rain! there are, you
see, no clouds; but my medicine is great--I have brought a thunder
boat! look and see it! the thunder you hear is out of her mouth, and the
lightning which you see is on the waters!”

At this intelligence, the whole village flew to the tops of their
wigwams, or to the bank of the river, from whence the steamer was in
full view, and ploughing along, to their utter dismay and confusion.

In this promiscuous throng of chiefs, doctors, women, children, and
dogs, was mingled Wak-a-dah-ha-hee, (the white buffalo’s hair,) having
descended from his high place to mingle with the frightened throng.

Dismayed at the approach of so strange and unaccountable an object, the
Mandans stood their ground but a few moments; when, by an order of the
chiefs, all hands were ensconced within the piquets of the village, and
all the warriors armed for desperate defence. A few moments brought the
boat in front of the village, and all was still and quiet as death;
not a Mandan was to be seen upon the banks. The steamer was moored, and
three or four of the chiefs soon after, walked boldly down the bank
and on to her deck, with a spear in one hand and the calumet or pipe of
peace in the other. The moment they stepped on board, they met (to their
great surprise and joy) their old friend, Major Sanford, their agent,
which circumstance put an end to all their fears. The villagers were
soon apprized of the fact, and the whole race of the beautiful and
friendly Mandans was paraded on the bank of the river, in front of the
boat.

The “rain maker,” whose apprehensions of a public calamity brought upon
the nation by his extraordinary medicine, had, for the better security
of his person from apprehended vengeance, secreted himself in some
secure place, and was the last to come forward, and the last to be
convinced that the visitation was a friendly one from the white people;
and that his medicine had not in the least been instrumental in bringing
it about. This information, though received by him with much caution and
suspicion, at length gave him much relief, and quieted his mind as to
his danger. Yet still in his breast there was a rankling thorn, though
he escaped the dreaded vengeance which he had a few moments before
apprehended as at hand; as he had the mortification and disgrace of
having failed in his mysterious operations. He set up, however, (during
the day, in his conversation about the strange arrival,) his medicines,
as the cause of its approach; asserting every where and to every body,
that he knew of its coming, and that he had by his magic brought the
occurrence about. This plea, however, did not get him much audience; and
in fact, every thing else was pretty much swallowed up in the guttural
talk, and bustle, and gossip about the mysteries of the thunder boat;
and so passed the day, until just at the approach of evening, when the
“White Buffalo’s Hair,” more watchful of such matters on this occasion
than most others, observed that a black cloud had been jutting up in the
horizon, and was almost directly over the village! In an instant his
shield was on his arm, and his bow in his hand, and he again upon the
lodge! stiffened and braced to the last sinew, he stood, with his face
and shield presented to the cloud, and his bow drawn. He drew the
eyes of the whole village upon him as he vaunted forth his super-human
powers, and at the same time commanding the cloud to come nearer, that
he might draw down its contents upon the heads and the cornfields of
the Mandans! In this wise he stood, waving his shield over his head,
stamping his foot and frowning as he drew his bow and threatening the
heavens, commanding it to rain--his bow was bent, and the arrow drawn
to its head, was sent to the clond, and he exclaimed, “My friends, it
is done! Wak-a-dah-ha-hee’s arrow has entered the black clond, and the
Mandans will be wet with the waters of the skies!” His predictions were
true; in a few moments the clouds were over the village, and the rain
fell in torrents. He stood for some time wielding his weapons and
presenting his shield to the sky, while he boasted of his power and the
efficacy of his medicine, to those who had been about him, and were
now driven to the shelter of their wigwams. He, at length, finished his
vaunts and threats, and descended from his high place, (in which he had
been perfectly drenched,) prepared to receive the honors and the homage
that were due to one so potent in his mysteries; and to receive the
style and title of “medicine-man.” This is one of a hundred different
modes in which a man in Indian countries acquires the honorable
appellation.

This man had “made it rain,” and of course was to receive more than
usual honors, as he had done much more than ordinary men could do. All
eyes were upon him, and all were ready to admit that he was skilled in
the magic art; and must be so nearly allied to the Great or Evil Spirit,
that he must needs be a man of great and powerful influence in the
nation, and was entitled to the style of doctor or medicine-man.

During the memorable night of which I have just spoken, the steamboat
remained by the side of the Mandan village, and the rain that had
commenced falling continued to pour down its torrents until midnight;
black thunder roared, and vivid lightning flashed until the heavens
appeared to be lit up with one unceasing and appalling glare. In this
frightful moment of consternation, a flash of lightning buried itself
in one of the earth-covered lodges of the Mandans, and killed a beautiful
girl. Here was food and fuel fresh for their superstitions; and a
night of vast tumult and excitement ensued. The dreams of the new-made
medicine-man were troubled, and he had dreadful apprehensions for the
coming day; for he knew that he was subject to the irrevocable decree
of the chiefs and doctors, who canvass every strange and unaccountable
event, with close and superstitious scrutiny, and let their vengeance
fall without mercy upon its immediate cause.

He looked upon his well-earned fame as likely to be withheld from him;
and also considered that his life might perhaps be demanded as the
forfeit for this girl’s death, which would certainly be charged upon
him. He looked upon himself as culpable, and supposed the accident to
have been occasioned by his criminal desertion of his post, when the
steamboat was approaching the village. Morning came, and he soon learned
from some of his friends, the opinions of the wise men; and also the
nature of the tribunal that was preparing for him; he sent to the
prairie for his three horses, which were brought in, and he mounted the
medicine lodge, around which, in a few moments, the villagers were all
assembled. “My friends,” said he, “I see you all around me, and I am
before you; my medicine, you see, is great--it is too great; I am young,
and was too fast--I knew not when to stop. The wigwam of Mah-siah is
laid low, and many are the eyes that weep for Ko-ka, (the antelope;)
Wak-a-dah-ha-hee gives three horses to gladden the hearts of those who
weep for Ko-ka; his medicine was great--his arrow pierced the black
cloud, and the lightning came, and the thunder-boat also! who says that
the medicine of Wak-a-dah-ha-hee is not strong?”

At the end of this sentence an unanimous shout of approbation ran
through the crowd, and the “Hair of the White Buffalo” descended amongst
them, where he was greeted by shaken of the hand; and amongst whom he
now lives and thrives under the familiar and honorable appellation of
the “Big Double Medicine.”

[Illustration: 0168]

[Illustration: 0169]




THE BRIDE’S RESCUE.

[Illustration: 9169]

ANY years ago when the great valley of the Mississippi was rarely
trodden by the white men, there lived upon the southern frontier of
Kentucky, then nearly a wilderness, an old hunter, named Johnson. He was
one of the pioneers of the region in which he had built his log cabin,
and had long procured a comfortable subsistence for a wife and child
by the aid of a good rifle and his snares. Mrs. Johnson had become
accustomed to the privations of her situation; and her daughter, Sarah,
having arrived at the age of young womanhood, contributed to relieve
the monotony of a life in the wilderness. The cares of the family were
slight. Their simple food and clothing were easily procured, and their
wishes for the conveniences of civilized life had ceased, when it
was found that they could not be gratified. In short, we may say, the
Johnson family lived happily in their wilderness home.

Sarah Johnson was about eighteen years of age, when she was first
brought to our notice. She was not handsome, but she was tolerably “good
looking,” and possessed a stock of good sense, which is somewhat rarer
than beauty. Old Johnson said she was a “likely girl,” and her mother
thought she deserved a good husband. This desert seemed to be about
to receive its reward. Two or three miles from Johnson’s cabin, lived
another hunter, named John Blake. Like Johnson, Blake had long followed
hunting for a subsistence, had married, and had one child. The wife
was dead; but the child had grown to manhood, and Samuel Blake was now
regarded as quite equal to his father in hunting.

As Johnson and Blake had been very intimate friends for a long time,
their children were frequently thrown into each other’s company; and
a strong attachment had sprung up between them. The fathers looked
favorably upon this perpetuation of their intimacy, and it soon became
a settled matter that Samuel Blake and Sarah Johnson should be man and
wife.

Both the old hunters had always kept up a friendly intercourse with the
neighboring Indians, and many of the latter had visited the cabins and
partaken of their hospitalities. Johnson had obtained a great reputation
among the red men for his skill in hunting. His company was sought by
the young men of the tribe, and always with profit. Samuel Blake was
also regarded as a brave and skilful hunter, and admired by the Indians.
Among those who frequently visited Johnson’s cabin, was young
Oconostota, son of the chief of the neighboring tribe. He was already
distinguished as a warrior and hunter, and his personal appearance was
so admirable that many an Indian maiden’s heart beat high with the hope
that she might be the fortunate one who should share his wigwam.

But Oconostota’s eyes and thoughts were fixed elsewhere. He had seen and
conversed with Sarah Johnson, and he burned with the desire to secure
her for his wife. Sarah could not help seeing the admiring looks he gave
her during his frequent visits; but she did not suspect the real state
of his feelings; probably, because her thoughts found occupation enough
in thinking of Samuel Blake.

At length, however, the young brave ventured to disclose his wishes
to old Johnson, during a hunting excursion, in which they were engaged
together. The old hunter was surprised; but considering that Oconostota
might easily be irritated and dangerous consequences ensue, he calmly
and deliberately made known to him that Sarah had long been engaged to
Samuel Blake, and that that engagement could not be broken.

Love cannot listen to reason. Oconostota urged his suit still further,
offering, with true Indian simplicity, two splendid horses for the
hunter’s daughter. He increased the number to ten, but the hunter
remained firm, and the young brave was forced to give up entreaty. When
Johnson reached his cabin, he found young Blake and his father there,
both having been invited by Mrs. Johnson to remain and take supper with
them. The venison was broiling before the coals in the large fire-place,
the table was neatly spread, and every thing had a cheerful appearance.
Oconostota had refused Johnson’s invitation to spend the evening with
him, and returned to his village. The hunter thought he would have done
better to have accepted the invitation.

While old Johnson and old Blake talked over the doings of the day,
and the adventures of many previous ones, young Blake, Sarah, and Mrs.
Johnson, talked of matters less stirring, but more important to the
females--cooking, house-keeping, &c. The pewter dishes soon received
their smoking, savory weight, and all seated themselves around the
table. Johnson then introduced the subject which had been troubling his
thoughts for some time previous. The whole party was informed of the
proposal of Oconostota, and of his rejection by the father on behalf
of his daughter. The young couple were both surprised, and Samuel Blake
laughed outright. The old men looked grave, and Mrs. Johnson troubled.
They knew the Indian character well enough to know that the matter would
not end there. In fact, serious consequences might be expected to result
from the refusal.

Some discussion ensued, when old Blake recommended that Samuel and Sarah
should be married as soon as possible, and then conciliatory measures
might secure the agreement of Oconostota and his friends to what could
not be changed. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson agreed to this proposition, and the
young people almost “jumped” at it. Before that meal was concluded,
the day for the wedding was fixed, and it was arranged that the parties
should proceed to a settlement about ten miles from the cabin of
Johnson, where the ceremony would be performed. Then a new cabin was to
be erected between Blake’s and Johnson’s, spacious enough for Samuel and
Sarah, and old Blake.

Meanwhile, Oconostota deeply felt the sting of rejected love. He strove
to conquer his feelings, and thought of taking an Indian wife. But his
nature was too passionate, and he resolved to gain the object of his
love, either by fair means or foul. He visited the Johnsons several
times afterwards, and was informed that the wedding day had been
appointed; and nothing remained for him but to acquiesce, or strive to
get possession of Sarah by force or stratagem. His plan was soon laid.

Ascertaining the particular day upon which the wedding was to take
place, the young chief resolved to get the aid of a few young men of his
tribe, and carry off the bride the night before it. The day approached
and the happy couple were all joyful expectation. They believed that the
wishes of long years were about to be gratified. Samuel Blake spent
the day before the happy one, at Johnson’s cabin, arranging with Sarah
things that had been arranged very frequently before; and he did not
leave it until the shades of evening were thickening around. Old Blake
intended to remain all night with Johnson, to be ready for the journey
of the morrow. Sarah accompanied Samuel to a considerable distance from
the cabin, and he reluctantly bade her adieu. She then turned to pursue
her way home.

Oconostota, with his friends had been lurking around the neighborhood
during the afternoon. He had seen the lovers leave the cabin together,
and he followed them at a short distance, like a beast of prey, watching
his opportunity. When he saw Samuel Blake leave Sarah, he gave a signal,
resembling the voice of a well-known forest-bird, and collected his
accomplices. He then stole silently to the edge of the wood near which
he knew Sarah must pass, and waited for her. The young girl came on
trippingly, as if she had no care in the world. Suddenly, she was
seized, and before she could shriek, hurried into the wood. She saw the
forms of the red men, and guessed their object. She shrieked for help,
as they hurried her swiftly through the wood; but there appeared no help
near. On they went, until they reached the end of the wood, where the
prairie opened before them. Horses were waiting. The red men mounted,
Oconostota placing the almost fainting form of Sarah upon the horse,
before him. Away they went like the wind. It was a moonlight evening,
and as Oconostota turned to see if any one was pursuing, he caught sight
of a blaze, rising above the dark trees, and knew at once that one
of his men, more devilish than the rest, had contrived to set fire to
Johnson’s cabin. He thought he heard the sound of other horses’ feet far
behind; but could not distinguish any one in the hasty glance he cast
behind him. The sounds increased, and seemed to grow nearer. Then
Oconostota turned and saw the forms of three mounted men urging their
horses to the greatest speed.

At this critical moment, the young chief’s horse stumbled and fell,
Oconostota, with Sarah in his arms, leaping to the ground just in time
to save himself from being crushed. This checked the progress of the
whole party, and ere Oconostota could resume his seat, he saw the
pursuers were close upon his party. It was in vain to think of escape by
flight. The Indians were six in number, and the pursuers were but three.
The chances were in Oconostota’s favor. But the pursuers all had rifles,
while two of the Indians had only bows and arrows.

On came the hunters, and a volley was exchanged. Two of the Indians fell
from their horses, and it was evident that a third was seriously, if not
fatally wounded. Samuel Blake received an arrow in his left arm, but it
did not disable him. Old Johnson and Blake reloaded, and delivered their
fire with an unerring aim. Then they rushed upon them with their rifles,
clubbed and laid about them with tremendous effect. Oconostota, leaving
Sarah upon the horse which he had ridden, and mounted that of one of his
fallen friends. Young Blake soon distinguished his form and fired his
rifle as he rushed upon him. The shot broke the arm of the young chief,
but he gallantly drew his knife and closed with his antagonist. A
desperate struggle ensued. The young men fell to the ground almost
beneath the horses’ feet, and rolled over and over like wild cats in a
death struggle. At length Blake obtained the knife, and plunged it into
the breast of his foe. Then he arose to look around for his friends.
But one of the Indians had escaped by flight; the rest were all dead.
Johnson was unhurt, and standing beside his daughter’s horse. Old Blake
was wounded in the shoulder, and leaning against his horse.

No time was to be lost. The Indian who had escaped would inform his
people of the death of Oconostota, and a war-party might be expected to
set out in pursuit of them. Samuel Blake first ascertained that Sarah
was unhurt, then helped his father to mount his horse, and then mounted
himself. Johnson placed his daughter upon his horse, and the party
dashed off on their return. After a hard ride, they reached the edge of
the wood, dismounted and hurried through it with almost the speed
that the Indians had used in carrying off the bride. Their course
was directed towards Blake’s cabin, where they intended to join Mrs.
Johnson, and at once set off for the settlement. They passed, near
Johnson’s cabin, and saw that it was almost reduced to ashes. They
arrived at Blake’s cabin, and there found Mrs. Johnson, who was filled
with anxiety for the fate of her child. Congratulations and tears of joy
followed the meeting. But there was little time for indulging in these.

Things were soon arranged for starting for the settlement, though most
of the party were suffering severely from fatigue. They started. We need
not detail the trials and dangers of that journey. They were terrible,
but borne with patience and fortitude. The whole party reached the
settlement just after daylight, were kindly received by the inhabitants,
and their wants supplied. Old Blake’s wound in the shoulder was not
dangerous, and with the careful attention of his friends, he soon
recovered. His son suffered much from the wound in his arm, which was
too long neglected. Samuel and Sarah were married as soon as they could
find it convenient to seek the minister of the village.

The Indians were for a short time much exasperated at the death of their
young prince and his friends; but his father was a wise and noble
man. He told his warriors that Oconostota had merited death by his
treacherous conduct; and that they would have acted in the same manner
as the white hunters did, had any of their children been stolen from
them. He sent a messenger to Johnson, professing the continuance of his
friendship, and inviting him and his friends to return to their homes,
where he would ensure their protection. After some delay, they complied
with the wishes of the generous chief, and returned to their cabins in
the wilderness. Johnson’s old cabin was re-built; Blake removed to a
clearing nearer Johnson’s, and occupied by Sarah and her husband.

It remains to be explained how the hunters received timely notice of
the abduction of Sarah. When Samuel Blake left her to pursue his route
homeward, he walked rather slowly, busy thinking of his happy future.
Suddenly it occurred to him, that there was one little matter he had
forgotten to mention to Sarah, and he returned swiftly with the hope of
overtaking her before she reached her house. A shriek broke on his ear
before he had proceeded far, and with strange conviction, he knew it
came from Sarah. He hurried swiftly onward, reached the cabin, and
inquired for Sarah. She was not there. The mother guessed the startling
truth; because she thought she had seen the Indians lurking near the
cabin during the day. Old Johnson, Blake, and Samuel grasped a rifle
each; Mrs. Johnson was directed to take her two bold and faithful dogs,
and an extra gun, and proceed towards Blake’s cabin, where she would
be safer than in her own; and then the hunters hurried out, secured the
horses which had been caught upon the prairie and kept in a small
stable near the cabin, and proceeded through the wood towards the Indian
village. They reached the prairie, caught sight of the flying Indians,
and after a hard ride and fight, rescued the bride as before described.

The cabin was not set on fire until some time after the hunters had left
it. Mrs. Johnson possessed a bold and masculine spirit, and she ventured
upon her dangerous journey without fear. She met with no obstruction
and reached Blake’s cabin a considerable time before the return of the
pursuing party. Oconostota’s death was regretted by the young men of
his tribe, but his father effectually screened the white men from their
vengeance, and lived in peace with them until his death.

The young couple lived happily together in their forest home. Samuel
Blake continued to hunt for a livelihood, and his rewards were
sufficient to bring plenty and content to his household. He often
visited the village of the tribe to which Oconostota belonged, and by
favors and presents soon won the esteem and regard of the red men; they
being fully convinced that the young chief was justly punished for a
wilful wrong.

[Illustration: 0184]

[Illustration: 0186]

[Illustration: 0187]




YONDEEGA’S GRATITUDE.

[Illustration: 9187]

HE inhabitants of the settlement of Cocheeco, in New Hampshire, lived
for a few years in large blockhouses, well adapted for the purpose of
defence against the Indians. But a few of the bolder spirits, encouraged
by the long peace with the red men, moved their families into log houses
of their own construction. The furthest of the huts from the garrison
was built by a Mr. Bray, an Englishman. On one occasion, Mr. Bray and
his wife left home, leaving Rebecca, their only child, in charge of her
Aunt Mary.

Little Rebecca was, of course, the pet of her aunt. When the work of the
house had been completed, the latter would teach the little girl some
mysteries of needle work, or explain some passages in the Scriptures for
her benefit. One day, Aunt Mary had just finished reading the verse, in
the fifth chapter of Matthew, which says, “Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy,” when an Indian burst into the room, and
throwing himself panting at her feet, exclaimed, in broken English, “for
mercy’s sake, hide me, the warriors are on my path.”

Aunt Mary was not disposed to grant his request. In common with all the
early settlers, she hated and feared the Indians. But Rebecca earnestly
plead for him, saying that he would be killed by Major Waldron’s men
from the garrison. A loud shout was heard in the distance, and the
Indian renewed his entreaties for a refuge. “Blessed are the merciful,
for they--shall obtain mercy,” repeated Rebecca, and Aunt Mary then
expressed her wish to secrete the Indian from his pursuers. The little
girl then took the red man by the hand, led him up into the loft, made
him get into a box containing shelled corn, and then spread the
corn over him in such a manner, that he could not be seen. She then
descended, and resumed her reading to Aunt Mary as if nothing had
occurred. A moment after, the door was burst open, and the pursuers
entered, exclaiming, “Is the villainous redskin here?”

The little girl expressed her surprise, and asked what redskin.

“The Indian who has escaped,” answered a youth; “we have lost his track;
but Mr. Gove says he saw the top of his head through the wood, and we
came here.”

Rebecca strove to divert their attention by saying she heard a noise,
just then, of something running around the house. Mr. Gove persisted in
saying that he believed the Indian to be in the house, and to satisfy
him one of the young men proposed that he should go up stairs and search
for him. Rebecca accompanied him. Gove searched every nook and corner
of the loft, and even lifted up some of the corn from the box where the
Indian was concealed; but at length gave it up, descended the stairs and
joined his friends. The pursuers then sought their victim elsewhere.

That night, Rebecca brought the red man from his hiding-place, and
making him promise to spare the mothers and babes who might fall into
his power, let him go, with a heart filled with gratitude.

In explanation of the Indian’s situation, we may say that the colonial
government, fearful of another outbreak among the Indians, and jealous
of their numbers, had ordered Major Waldron, the commander of the
post, to put the strange red men, who came there, to death, and by a
stratagem, the Major had succeeded in killing all but this one, who was
preserved by the efforts of little Rebecca.

Time flew by, and Rebecca grew to be a fine specimen of feminine
maturity. Her parents died, and she was left to the guardianship of
Major Waldron. She resided with Aunt Mary, to whose care she had been
confided by a mother’s dying breath; and though the major had made many
efforts to convince them that the garrison was a much safer place, they
still kept the old house. The flower in the wilderness did not “waste
its sweetness on the desert air.” On the contrary, Rebecca’s charms had
already made several captives, one of whom was the only son of Major
Waldron.

George Waldron had been educated in England, had moved in refined
circles, travelled three years, and returned to America, with personal
advantages which might have made many a conquest in the field of love.
He saw Rebecca soon after his arrival, and was immediately “smitten to
the heart.” But the beauty could only give him a sister’s love; for her
heart was in possession of another. Morris Green had been her playmate
in childhood, and in riper years, her confidant and friend. They had not
been formally plighted, but they felt that they were united by stronger
bonds than words. A few days after Waldron’s arrival, Morris saved him
from the gripe of a bear, that was about to spring upon him, by
shooting the animal, and from that time the two young men became warm,
self-denying friends. A few weeks after the adventure with the bear,
George Waldron obtained for Morris Green, a midshipman’s warrant for his
Majesty’s frigate Cyclops, then lying at Portsmouth, with orders to join
the squadron in the West Indies.

Morris quickly and joyfully informed Rebecca of his good fortune, and
prepared to start for Portsmouth. Hand-in-hand he and Rebecca visited
the grave-yard, where slept the remains of her loved parents. There they
exchanged vows of constancy, and parted sadly, though hopefully. Rebecca
watched he retreating form of her lover until it was lost in the forest,
and then, as she sank upon her mother’s grave, her tears flowed freely.

A voice near Rebecca, exclaimed, “A pretty scene, upon my word!” She
sprang to her feet and faced the intruder. A mixture of scorn and fear
was upon her features, and she at length turned to fly. But the bold
intruder seized her hand, and said, “Now my pretty bird, this meeting is
too opportune to part so soon. What with your own shyness, the constant
watch of that old hypocrite, Waldron, who means to coax or force you
to marry the sapient George, and the close attentions of that very
sentimental youth who has just left you, I have not the smallest chance
of urging my own suit.”

“Oh, that can never, never be,” answered Rebecca, hardly conscious of
what she said, “for I already love another.”

“Hear me, Rebecca,” said the other, “your beauty would become a higher
sphere than that stripling can give you to move in. At the death of my
father, I shall become Lord Marsden; and at the death of my uncle, who
is much his senior, his title of Marquis of Winchelsea will also revert
to me. Think how different would be your position as Marchioness of
Winchelsea, surrounded with wealth and splendor, than as the wife of
that poor boy.”

“I have promised to become the wife of another,” replied Rebecca, “and I
would not break the promise, if I could. I can love you as a sister, but
never as your wife!”

“It is enough, Rebecca,” said the young man, “you reject the love of
a man whom you could have moulded to your will. But I am not to be
slighted with impunity. You are in my power, and shall rue the hour when
you dared to scorn me.” As he uttered these words, he sprang towards
her, but stumbled over the head-stone of her mother’s grave and fell
headlong; while Rebecca, pale with terror, fled, and never paused until
safe within the cottage.

Edward Sinclair, the intruder upon Rebecca’s privacy, had been residing
at Waldron’s about a year; consigned to the Major’s care, it was
whispered, by his father, as a sort of penance for certain conduct which
was unbecoming the future Lord of Marsden Hall. Well-informed, frank,
and jovial, he soon rendered himself a favorite with all those in the
settlement, who considered eccentricity natural to a jovial companion,
and did not question the justice of his acts. Being fond of hunting,
Sinclair soon made friends of the Indians, with whom he would hunt for
weeks at a time. They called him Neddo. That Sinclair was in love with
Rebecca, the reader may gather from his language towards her. But
there was ever a something evil in his nature which made her shun his
presence.

A few days after Morris’s departure, when Rebecca thought him “far o’er
the briny deep,” she was surprised to see him enter the cottage, covered
with dust, and throw himself upon a chair. She and Aunt Mary expressed
their surprise, and asked why he was not in the frigate. In reply, he
handed Rebecca a letter, which, he said, would explain the matter better
than he could. The letter was read as follows:

     “If Morris Green really feels but half the love he professes
     for Rebecca Bray, he will not, by leaving the country,
     expose her to the schemes of a crafty villain. The writer of
     this has heard from Waldron’s own lips that he only assisted
     to get rid of him, and that before the frigate will have
     joined the squadron, she will either by persuasion or force,
     be made the wife of George Waldron. If you are wise, you
     will act upon this warning of

     “A Secret Friend.”

“At first,” said Morris, “I thought this all a hoax; but soon began to
regard it as a timely and truthful warning. I was down at the shoals
last week, and I knew that the ship would pass near the islands, that a
good swimmer could easily reach the shore, where there were two or three
fishing schooners anchored, which could bring me back. In the middle of
the night, I slipped through a port, and swam ashore. As the ship sailed
like a race horse, they will get so far before they miss me, they will
not turn back for a single man.” Morris said much more to silence the
fears of his anxious friends, who at length set about preparing food
for the half-famished runaway, when the door opened, and Edward Sinclair
rushed in, crying, “Run, Morris, run! the bloodhounds are at your
heels.” Morris sprang to his feet, and rushed to the back door, which
opened on the forest; but Sinclair pushed him back, and in a few moments
a party of men entered, arrested Morris, as a deserter, and bore him
off, leaving Aunt Mary and Rebecca wringing their hands, and crying
bitterly. As soon as they had left the house, Rebecca fell on the floor
in a fainting fit. When she recovered, Sinclair was bending over her,
with compassion and respect upon his features.

Sinclair explained that he had tried to put the pursuing party upon a
false scent, and save Morris; that the deserter would be condemned by a
court-martial; yet in consideration of the motive, they would certainly
recommend him to the mercy of his majesty; in which case he would appeal
to his father, whose influence he represented as all powerful at court,
and a pardon could easily be procured. Rebecca grasped eagerly at such a
hope, and began to look upon the one who held it forth as a brother.

The court-martial was held in Boston harbor; the proof of desertion was
positive, and Morris was sentenced to death, without a hint being given
of any appeal to royal mercy. Rebecca received the terrible news, as the
lily receives the blast of the tempest--it almost crushed her spirit.
She did not--could not weep until the morning of the day that was to
give her lover to the arms of death. Her feelings then found vent in
tears. She left the cottage, and walked quickly towards the house of
Major Waldron, where she found the old man writing. Throwing herself
before him, she clasped his knees, and implored him to save Morris
Green. Waldron answered that he could not. Morris had had a fair
trial, and it would be unjust in him, supposing he could, to change
the verdict. Rebecca continued--“You can if you will. I know you
have wished me to marry George instead of Morris Green; and now I will
promise, that if you will procure a pardon for Morris, the day he is
free from prison I will marry George.”

This chimed in with Waldron’s schemes. It had long been his aim to bring
about a union between his son George and Rebecca. He snatched eagerly
the opportunity, and said he would try what he could do. A messenger
was sent in all haste to Portsmouth, and the officers composing the
court-martial were eagerly persuaded to reprieve the prisoner until a
petition could be sent to the king. But months were to pass before an
answer would be received, during which Morris must remain in prison,
leaving the field clear to his rivals.

Sinclair now spent much of his time with Rebecca, who regarded him
with the most friendly feelings, except when he urged his suit, when a
revulsion of feeling made her suspect that self-interest was at the root
of all his vaunted service for her and Morris. As for George Waldron,
his feelings were in a state of confusion not to be described. He loved
Rebecca, deeply--devotedly; and to secure her happiness and that of
his friend Morris, he felt that no sacrifice could be too great. Yet
he hoped to make Rebecca his wife, and could not resolve to break the
engagement his father had made.

At length a vessel arrived, bearing a full pardon for the deserter; and
Major Waldron now required of Rebecca the performance of her part of the
contract. It was agreed that the marriage should not take place until
the day after Morris’s return. Morris had been aware that a petition had
been sent to the king on his behalf, but he knew nothing of the terms
until the morning of his release, and then he felt that he would much
rather have died than consented to live upon such terms. However, he
resolved to see Rebecca once more, and then leave the country for ever.

He reached the cottage, where he expected to meet Rebecca, but found
it deserted, and in the utmost confusion. Surprised, he turned from the
cottage to seek an explanation, when a footstep caused him to raise his
head, and he stood face to face with George Waldron. They each grasped
the other’s hand; for friendship was still strong in both.

“I have been very wrong and wicked,” said George Waldron, “but I have
suffered for it. Yesterday, after a long struggle, I resolved to release
Rebecca from an engagement, into which I knew she had been forced. I did
so. But now she is gone. Last night Aunt Mary awoke and found herself
alone; she gave the alarm, and people have hunted for lier ever since. I
fear she has been carried off by the Indians.”

Morris was almost stunned by this unlooked for calamity. At length he
grasped the hand of his friend and said, “We are friends--brothers;
together we will go and rescue her or share her fate.” A slight noise
at this instant caused them to turn, and standing near them, his arms
folded on his breast, his keen eye fixed upon them, was an Indian, whom
they recognised as one who was often about the settlement.

“Has the pale-face’s council fire gone out, or are their braves turned
squaws, that the foe enters the wigwam and steals their ‘Wild Rose,’ and
no warriors start on the trail?”

“Do you know any thing of Rebecca Bray,” demanded Morris.

Yondeega’s eyes were open. Neddo’s trail and the Wild Rose’s trail were
one.

George started. He knew that Edward Sinclair had two days previous,
joined a hunting party; but he supposed that he had gone away to avoid
being present at Rebecca’s nuptials. “The false-hearted villain!” said
he, “I will follow him, and he shall yet feel the weight of my arm.”

“No, no,” said Yondeega, with a flashing eye and knotted brow. “No
pale-face touch him. Yondeega’s tomahawk is sharp, and his rifle never
fails it aim. Yondeega will kill him like a dog.” The features of the
Indian then assumed an expression of sorrow. “Yondeega had a daughter;
she was fair as the spring flowers, and cheerful as the song of birds.
The Yengese came and spake with his forked tongue, the maiden listened,
and her heart changed. She has left the wigwam of her tribe to follow
the stranger.”

From this the young men gathered that Sinclair had been as false to his
red as to his white friends, and having signified to the Indian that
they would follow where he led, they set off in pursuit of the lost
flower.

Rebecca had risen early, and was taking a short walk near the cottage,
when she was seized and borne off by some Indians. They marched about
eight hours, bearing Rebecca on a rude litter, until they came to a
large sheet of water called Lake Winnipiseogee, where they embarked in
a canoe and rowed to an island, on which stood two or three deserted
Indian huts. In one of these, Rebecca was left, with two Indians. In
a moment, the door opened, and Edward Sinclair, stripped of his Indian
disguise, stood before her. He confessed that he had stolen her. But it
was because he could not live without her, and he wanted to take her to
Europe with him. In vain the young girl entreated, plead her attachment
to another, and her want of affection for Sinclair.

“And do you think,” said he fiercely, “that I could bear to see you
the wife of Morris Green? It was I who advised him to desert, and who
attempted to prevent him from getting a pardon. But I will be revenged
yet. In the meantime, you are in my power, and from this place you shall
never go, except as my wife--”

The sound of light footsteps interrupted his words, and the next
instant a young Indian girl, breathless with haste, rushed into the hut,
exclaiming, “Fly, fly! the pale-faces are in pursuit.” Sinclair sprang
forward, as if meditating flight; but a moment’s pause seemed to alter
his intention, and he said, pointing to Rebecca, “Hide her, Yarro, and I
will meet them here.”

The young Indian frowned, as she replied, “Yarro no hide her; pale-face
no hurt her.” A deep-breathed curse escaped the young man, and a fierce
glance shot from his eye; but the next moment it yielded to a mild,
tender expression, as he spoke a few words to Yarro in her own tongue.

Yarro smilingly listened to his false words, which were, in fact, no
less than a promise, that if she would hide Rebecca, he would marry her,
join the tribe and become a great chief. She instantly advanced towards
the white maiden, and in spite of her struggles, bandaged her mouth, and
drew her into a covert close to the hut. Sinclair saw all this, and then
taking his rifle, he advanced to meet Morris and George, who had just
emerged from the forest into the clearing in front of the hut. “What is
the matter, George?” he asked.

“Edward,” demanded George, sternly, “do you know any thing of Rebecca
Bray?”

“How can I know any thing of her?” mildly replied Sinclair; “you know I
started off to hunt the day before you were to be married but--”

The speaker paused; the bullet of Yondeega, who, having tarried behind
to secure the canoe, had just caught sight of his foe, had started on
its fatal errand; but it did not not reach its destined victim. Yarro,
who saw all that had passed, gave a slight scream, and throwing her arms
around the neck of her beloved, shielded him from danger by receiving
the ball herself. They laid her upon the grass. Sinclair bent over her,
grief and remorse painted on his features, while the rest of the party,
including Rebecca, who had contrived to unbandage herself, stood looking
on in mournful silence. Yarro opened her eyes, a smile of joy stole over
her features, as she met the gaze of Sinclair, and she murmured--“Yarro
very happy, for the Great Spirit has smiled on her;” and with that
happy smile still lingering on her features, the poor girl passed to the
“spirit land.”

A moment of silence ensued, and the next, Sinclair sprang to his feet,
and darted into the forest, pursued by Yondeega, who soon, however,
returned, completely baffled. This was the last that was seen of Edward
Sinclair in this country; although a rumor came two years afterwards
that he had fallen in a duel, in England, with an officer as reckless as
himself.

Yarro was buried on the island, and then the party returned to the
settlement. The remainder of the story is soon told. Major Waldron
yielded to the entreaties of Rebecca and Morris, assisted by the
virtuous energy of George, and consented to a union of the lovers, who
amid all trials, had remained true to each other. At the-wedding, among
the number of pale and red faces that of Yondeega was recognised, and
many thanks were returned to him for his generous conduct.

“Pale-face no need feel grateful. Wild Rose hide Yondeega; Yondeega save
Wild Rose; that all,” said the Indian. In answer to eager questioning,
he then informed them, that he had known of Neddo’s designs in regard to
Rebecca, and as soon as he saw her upon the island, he recognised her
as the little girl who had saved his life, and resolved to save her. He
hurried to inform her friends, and the result is known. When he had
finished his story, Rebecca exclaimed, “I then found mercy by the very
person to whom I had shown mercy.”

[Illustration: 0208]

[Illustration: 0210]

[Illustration: 0211]




THE BURNING OF DEERFIELD.

[Illustration: 9211]

HE destruction of Deerfield, Massachusetts, during the French and Indian
war, which began in 1689, was one of the most daring exploits performed
by the Indians during that exterminating struggle. In 1703, the plan
was laid by the French and their savage allies, to cut off the frontier
inhabitants of New England, from one extremity to the other; but the
design was not fully executed. Though the eastern settlements from Casco
to Wells were destroyed, yet the western ones remained unmolested. This
lulled them into a fatal security. Colonel Schuyler, the noted English
agent among the Indians, received intelligence of a design in Canada
to fall upon Deerfield, he immediately informed the inhabitants of that
settlement, that they might prepare for an attack. The design was not
carried into execution during the summer, and the intelligence was
considered as a false alarm. But their destruction was reserved for the
winter of 1704, when they least expected it.

Deerfield was at that time the most northerly settlement on the
Connecticut river, a few families at Northfield excepted. Against this
place, M. Yaudrieul, governor of Canada, sent out a party of about three
hundred French and Indians. They were put under the command of Hertel
de Roueville, assisted by his four brothers, all of whom had been well
trained in partisan warfare by their father, who had been a famous
partisan in former wars. They marched by way of Lake Champlain, till
they came to the stream, now called Onion river. Advancing up that
stream till they passed over Connecticut river, and travelled on the ice
till they came near to Deerfield.

The Rev. John Williams, the minister of Deerfield, was apprehensive of
danger, and attempted to impress the minds of the people with a sense
of it; but did not succeed. Upon his application, the government of the
province sent twenty soldiers to aid in the defence of the town.
The fortifications were some slight works thrown around two or three
garrison houses. These were nearly covered in some places with drifts of
snow.

On the 29th of February, Roueville and his party approached the town.
Hovering near it, he sent out spies to gain intelligence. The watch
kept the streets of the town till about two hours before day, and then,
unfortunately, all of them went to sleep. Roueville, perceiving all to
be quiet, marched silently to the attack. The snow was so high that they
had no difficulty in jumping over the walls of the fortification; and
they immediately separated into small parties so as to appear before
each house at the same time.

The place was completely surprised; and the foe was entering the houses
before the inhabitants, suspected their approach. The resistance was
trifling in most parts of the town, but one block-house being able to
hold out against the enemy. The whole settlement was in their possession
in a short time after their arrival. Forty-seven of the inhabitants,
some of whom fought bravely, were slain, and all the rest captured. For
awhile, the village was given up to plunder, and then, to complete the
work, it was set on fire. The victors, with their captives, hastily
retreated an hour after sunrise. A small party of the English pursued
them, and a skirmish ensued, in which a few were lost on both sides.

But the enemy could not be checked in their retreat.

The distance from Deerfield to Chambly, Canada, which was the nearest
French settlement, was about three hundred miles. The number of
prisoners was one hundred and twelve. Among the number was the Rev. John
Williams. As the Indians entered his room, he took down his pistol and
presented it to the breast of the foremost, but it missed fire. They
then took hold of him and bound him, naked as he was, and thus kept him
for an hour. In the meantime two of the children and a negro woman were
killed. Mrs. Williams, who was hardly recovered from childbed, was, with
the rest, marched for Canada. The second day, in wading a stream, Mrs.
Williams fainted and fell, but was assisted along a little further when,
at the foot of a hill, she began to falter, her savage master, with
one blow of his tomahawk, put an end to her miseries. The party was
twenty-five days on its march from Deerfield to Chambly. As they
depended upon hunting for their support, the prisoners often suffered
for want of food; and the severity of the season added to their trials.
At length they reached Chambly, where they were humanely treated by the
French and their governor, Vaudrieul. At different times, most of the
prisoners were redeemed and returned home. Mr. Williams and fifty-seven
others arrived at Boston, from Quebec, in 1706. One of the minister’s
daughters, Eunice, married an Indian, and became a convert to the
Catholic religion, which she never would consent to forsake. She
frequently visited her friends in New England; but uniformly persisted
in wearing the blanket, and counting her beads. Deerfield was rebuilt
soon after its destruction, and became a flourishing settlement.

[Illustration: 0218]

[Illustration: 0219]




THE FIRE-WATER.

[Illustration: 9219]

F the red men have been benefited by their intercourse with the whites,
they have also received much degradation from the same cause. Created
with strong and active physical powers, united with keen sensibility,
they have an innate love of excitement, of which the white man has taken
advantage to work their ruin. For a few bottles of any kind of ardent
spirits, which the Indians term “firewater,” keen traders have purchased
the produce of weeks of hunting and toil, and even the land which
contains within its bosom the bones of the red man’s ancestors. How many
of these noble children of the woods, whose native powers of intellect
rivalled those of the most distinguished orators, statesmen, and
warriors, among the civilized nations, have become degraded in mind and
weakened in body through the influence of the evil spirit sent to them
by the avaricious and wiser white men! See Logan, whose qualities
of mind, and whose misfortunes have excited so much admiration and
sympathy, spending the evening of his days in beastly intoxication! See
the mighty Sagona, more widely known as Red Jacket, who maybe considered
as the Demosthenes of his race; whose judgment and foresight guided his
nation in many an intricate negotiation, and whose eloquence has been
compared to the Niagara, near whose thundering tumult he was reared,
weakened in body and mind by the “firewater” given him by those who
feared his influence! This bane of the red man has ever been extended
to him by the hand of civilization; and those tribes which inhabit the
country nearest the citizens of the western states are fast melting away
under its blighting breath. Occasionally a chief has arisen who despised
the “fire-water,” and who indignantly denounced those who introduced it
among his people. Of one of these we are about to speak.

[Illustration: 0222]

Pontiac was a chief of the Ottawas, a tribe which inhabited the
neighborhood of Lake Erie, in the territory now included in the state of
Michigan. But at one time, he was the chief of a confederacy, consisting
of the Ottawas, Miamis, Chippewas, Wyandottes, Pot-towatomies,
Missisagas, Shawanese, Ottaga-mies, and Winnebagoes--all powerful
tribes. Pontiac was gifted with a great and noble spirit, which fitted
him for command. He possessed a daring courage, tempered and guided by
wisdom and judgment. Fertile in the invention of means to gain an end,
he was generally successful in his undertakings, and became a formidable
enemy to the whites, whose encroachments roused his hatred.

In the Indian war, which broke out in 1763, which is justly denominated
“Pontiac’s War,” the great chief appointed a commissary, and began to
make and issue bills of credit, all of which he carefully redeemed. He
made his bills or notes of bark, on which was drawn the figure of the
commodity he wanted for it The shape of an otter was drawn under that of
the article wanted, and an otter was the insignia of his nation. He
had also, with great sagacity, urged upon his people the necessity of
dispensing entirely with European commodities, of having no intercourse
with the whites, and of depending entirely upon their ancient modes of
procuring sustenance.

Some English traders, with a considerable quantity of brandy in bottles,
were detected among the Indians, bartering “fire-water” for skins, and,
by order of Pontiac, brought into his presence. The noble chief stood
in state, gaudily dressed, and with a lofty mein, in front of his highly
decorated wigwam. A guard of warriors were upon each side of him, and
subordinate chiefs waited the command of the mighty forest king. The
traders were bold men, but they trembled when led into his presence.
They knew his power, the ferocity of the men whom he ruled, and the
criminal nature of the business in which they were engaged.

Pontiac spoke the English tongue sufficiently well to make himself
understood, and he asked the traders if they were not aware that he had
forbidden his people to have any intercourse with the whites, and warned
the latter to leave his territory. He then alluded to the many services
he had done the whites, and the many acts of hospitality his people had
performed. “And how have you repaid them?” continued he. “They gave you
shelter and venison, and you gave them poison--fire-water, to burn away
their strength, and blind their eyes, so that you could cheat them out
of their skins and furs, and perhaps their land.”

The white traders attempted to excuse themselves, by saying that they
had only given the Indians the liquor at their own earnest entreaty.
But Pontiac indignantly commanded their silence. “You knew what the
fire-water could do, what it has done, and what it will do; and yet you
gave it to them.” The chief raised himself to his full height. He was a
tall and noble-looking man. His brow was high and broad, his eye black,
keen, and lively, and his nose aquiline and prominent. The compressed
mouth expressed the firmness of his will. “For your fault,” said he,
“you have deserved a severe punishment, and were you at the mercy of
many of my people, death would quickly be your lot. I spare your lives
now, and my warriors shall conduct you safely out of my country. But
if you again are found upon this land, expect to burn at the stake. Go!
Pontiac has said.” The white men concealed the joy which they felt
at their escape from death. They had expected nothing less. Pontiac
directed some of his warriors to accompany the traders and then retired
to his wigwam. The traders, once safely out of his country were very
careful not to revisit it while he lived. A war broke out soon after
this event, in which Pontiac displayed the skill and courage of a great
commander. He was victorious on many occasions, but was at last forced
to conclude a peace, by the superior numbers and discipline of the
whites. His exertions could not prevent his people from using the
“fire-water” occasionally; and consequently, he could not prevent their
becoming weakened, and so blinded to their own interest as to sell the
land of their forefathers, and aid the encroachments of the whites. The
people whom he governed, have either entirely melted away before the
influence of war and the use of ardent spirits, or greatly reduced in
numbers, have removed far beyond the Mississippi.

[Illustration: 0228]




FARMER’S BROTHER.

[Illustration: 9228]

NECDOTES of men who have been distinguished for their bravery, whether
friend or foe, civilized or savage, seldom fail to excite an interest.

During the second war with England, the Seneca nation of Indians, who
resided in the neighborhood of Buffalo, were employed by the American
government, and attached themselves to the army, then about to enter
Canada, under the command of General Brown. The principal chief of this
tribe was “Farmer’s Brother”--a stout, athletic warrior. The frosts
of eighty winters had passed over his head; and yet he retained his
faculties in an eminent degree. He possessed all the ardour of his young
associates, and was uncommonly animated at the prospect which a fresh
harvest of laurels presented to his mind.

This celebrated chief, in the war between England and France, was
engaged in the service of the latter. He once pointed out, to the writer
of this account, the spot where, with a party of Indians, he lay in
ambush--patiently waiting the approach of a guard that accompanied the
English teams, employed between the Falls of Niagara and the British
garrison; the fort had lately surrendered to Sir William Johnson. The
place selected for that purpose is now known by the name of the “Devil’s
Hole,” and is three and a half miles below the famous cataract, upon the
United States side. The mind can scarcely conceive a more dismal looking
den. A large ravine, occasioned by the falling in of the perpendicular
bank, made dark by the spreading branches of the birch and cedar, which
had taken root below, and the low murmurings of the rapids in the chasm,
added to the solemn thunder of the cataract itself, conspire to render
the scene truly awful. The English party were not aware of the dreadful
fate which awaited them. Unconscious of danger, the drivers were
gaily whistling to their dull ox-teams. On their arrival at this spot,
Farmer’s Brother and his band rushed from the thicket that had concealed
them, and commenced a horrid butchery. So unexpected was the attack, and
so completely were the English deprived of all presence of mind, but a
feeble resistance was made. The guard, the teamsters, the oxen, and the
wagons, were precipitated into the gulf. But two of them escaped; a Mr.
Steadman, who lived at Schlosser, above the falls, being mounted on a
fleet horse, made good his retreat; and one of the soldiers, who
was caught on the projecting root of a cedar, which sustained him
until--assured by the distant yells of the savages--they had left the
grounds. He then clambered up, and proceeded to Fort Niagara, with the
intelligence of this disaster. A small rivulet, which pours itself
down this precipice, was literally colored with the blood of the
vanquished--and has ever since borne the name of “The Bloody Run.”

In the war of the Revolution, Farmer’s Brother evinced his hostility to
the Americans upon every occasion that occurred; and with the same zeal,
he engaged in the late war against his former friends--the British.

Another anecdote of this chief will show, in more glaring colors, the
real savage. A short time before the United States army crossed the
Niagara, Farmer’s Brother chanced to observe an Indian, who had mingled
with the Senecas, and whom he instantly recognised, as belonging to
the Mohawks--a tribe living in Canada, and then employed in the enemy’s
service. He went up to him, and addressed him in the Indian tongue:--“I
know you well--you belong to the Mohawks--you are a spy--here is my
rifle--my tomahawk--my scalping knife--I give you your choice, which
of them shall I use?--but I am in haste!” The young warrior, finding
resistance vain, chose to be despatched with the rifle. He was ordered
to lie upon the grass; while, with the left foot upon the breast of his
victim, the chief lodged the contents of the rifle into his head.

With so much of the savage, Farmer’s Brother possessed some estimable
traits of character. He was as firm a friend, where he promised
fidelity, as a bitter enemy to those against whom he contended; and
would rather lose the last drop of his blood, than betray the cause he
had espoused. He was fond of recounting his exploits, and, savage-like,
dwelt with much satisfaction upon the number of scalps he had taken in
his skirmishes with the whites.

In company with several other chiefs, he paid a visit to General
Washington, who presented him with a silver medal. This he constantly
wore, suspended from his neck; and, so precious was the gift in his
eyes, that he often declared, he would lose it only with his life. Soon
after the battles of Chippewa and Bridgewater, this veteran paid the
debt of nature, at the Seneca village; and, out of respect to his
bravery, he was interred with military honors from the fifth regiment of
United States infantry.

[Illustration: 0233]

[Illustration: 0234]




THE PROPHET OF THE ALLEGHANY.

[Illustration: 9234]

N the year of 1798, one of the missionaries to the Indians of the
north-west was on his way from the Tuscarora settlement to the Senecas.
Journeying in pious meditation through the forest, a majestic Indian
darted from its recess, and arrested his progress. His hair was somewhat
changed with age, and his face marked with the deep furrows of time; but
his eye expressed all the fiery vivacity of youthful passion, and his
step was that of a warrior in the vigor of manhood.

“White man of the ocean, * whither wanderest thou?” said the Indian.

     * The Indians at first imagined that the white men
     originally sprang from the sea, and that they invaded their
     country because they had none of their own. They sometimes
     called them in their songs, “The froth, or white foam of the
     ocean and this name is often applied contemptuously by the
     savages of the north-west.

“I am travelling,” replied the meek disciple of peace, “towards the
dwellings of thy brethren, to teach them the knowledge of the only true
God, and to lead them to peace and happiness.”

“To peace and happiness!” exclaimed the tall chief, while his eye
flashed fire--“Behold the blessings that follow the footsteps of the
white man! Wherever he comes, the nations of the woodlands fade from
the eye, like the mists of the morning. Once over the wide forest of
the surrounding world our people roamed in peace and freedom; nor ever
dreamed of greater happiness than to hunt the beaver, the bear, and the
wild deer. From the furthest extremity of the great deep came the
white man, armed with thunder and lightning, and weapons still more
pernicious. In war he hunted us like wild beasts; in peace, he destroyed
us by deadly liquors, or yet more deadly frauds. Yet a few moons had
passed away, and whole nations of invincible warriors, and of hunters,
that fearless swept the forest and the mountain, perish, vainly
opposing their triumphant invaders, or quietly dwindled into slaves and
drunkards--and their names withered from the earth. Retire, dangerous
man! Leave us all we yet have left--our savage virtues, and our gods;
and do not, in the vain attempt to cultivate a rude and barren soil,
pluck up the few thrifty plants of native growth that have survived the
fostering cares of the people, and weathered the stormy career of their
pernicious friendship.” The tall chief darted into the wood, and the
good missionary pursued his way with pious resolution.

He preached the only true divinity, and placed before the eyes of the
wondering savages the beauty of holiness, &c.

*****

The awe-struck Indians, roused by these accumulated motives--many
of them adopted the precepts of the missionary, as far as they could
comprehend them; and, in the course of eighteen months, their devotion
became rational, regular, and apparently permanent.

All at once, however, the little church, in which the good man was wont
to pen his fold, became deserted. No votary came, as usual, to listen,
with decent reverence, to the pure doctrines which they were accustomed
to hear; and only a few solitary idlers were seen, of a Sunday morning,
lounging about, and casting a wistful yet fearful look at their little
peaceful and now silent mansion.

The missionary sought them out, inquired into the cause of this
mysterious desertion, and told them of the bitterness of hereafter to
those who, having once known, abandoned the religion of the only true
God. The poor Indians shook their heads, and informed him that the Great
Spirit was angry at their apostacy, and had sent a Prophet from the
summit of the Alleghany mountains, to warn them against the admission of
new doctrines; that there was to be a great meeting of the the old men
soon, and the Prophet would there deliver to the people the message with
which he was entrusted. The zealous missionary determined to be present,
and to confront the imposter, who was known by the appellation of
the Prophet of the Alleghany. He obtained permission to appear at the
council, and to reply to the Prophet. The 12th of June, 1802, was fixed
for determining whether the belief of their forefathers or that of the
white men was the true religion.

The council-house not being large enough to contain so great an
assemblage of people, they met in a valley west of Seneca Lake. This
valley was then embowered under lofty trees. On almost every side it
is surrounded With high rugged hills, and through it meanders a small
river.

It was a scene to call forth every energy of the human heart. On a
smooth level, near the bank of a slow stream, under the shade of a
large elm, sat the chief men of the tribes, Around the circle which they
formed, was gathered a crowd of wondering savages, with eager looks,
seeming to demand the true God at the hands of their wise men. In the
middle of the circle sat the aged and travel-worn missionary. A few gray
hairs wandered over his brow; his hands were crossed on his bosom; and,
as he cast his hope-beaming eye to heaven, he seemed to be calling with
pious fervor upon the God of Truth, to vindicate his own eternal word by
the mouth of his servant.

For more than half an hour there was silence in the valley, save the
whispering of the trees in the south wind, and the indistinct murmuring
of the river. Then all at once, a sound of astonishment ran through the
crowd, and the Prophet of the Alleghany was seen descending one of the
high hills. With furious and frenzied step he entered the circle, and,
waving his hands in token of silence, the missionary saw, with wonder,
the same tall chief, who, four years before, had crossed him in the
Tuscarora forest. The same panther-skin hung over his shoulder; the same
tomahawk quivered in his hand; and the same fiery and malignant spirit
burned in his eye. He addressed the awe-struck Indians, and the valley
rung with his iron-voice.

“Red Men of the Woods! Hear what the Great Spirit says of his children
who have forsaken him!

“Through the wide regions that were once the inheritance of my
people--and for ages they roved as free as the wild winds--resounds the
axe of the white man. The paths of your forefathers are polluted by the
their steps, and your hunting-grounds are every day wrested from you by
their arts. Once on the shores of the mighty ocean, your fathers were
wont to enjoy all the luxuriant delights of the deep. Now, you are
exiles in swamps, or on barren hills; and these wretched possessions you
enjoy by the precarious tenure of the white man’s will. The shrill
cry of revelry or war, no more is heard on the majestic shores of the
Hudson, or the sweet banks of the silver Mohawk. There where the Indian
lived and died, free as the air he breathed, and chased the panther
and the deer from morning until evening--even there the Christian slave
cultivates the soil in undisturbed possession; and as he whistles behind
the plough, turns up the sacred remains of your buried ancestors. Have
you not heard at evening, and sometimes in the dead of night, those
mournful and melodious sounds that steal through the deep valleys, or
along the mountain sides,’ like the song of echo? These are the wailings
of those spirits whose bones have been turned up by the sacrilegious
labors of the white men, and left to the mercy of the rain and the
tempest. They call upon you to avenge them--they adjure you, by motives
that rouse the hearts of the brave, to wake from your long sleep,
and, by returning to these invaders of the grave the long arrears
of vengeance, restore again the tired and wandering spirits to their
blissful paradise far beyond the blue hills. *

     * The answering voices heard from the caves and hollows,
     which the Latins call echo, the Indians suppose to be the
     wailings of souls wandering through these places.

“These are the blessings you owe to the Christians. They have driven
your fathers from their ancient inheritance--they have destroyed them
with the sword and poisonous liquors--they have dug up their bones, and
left them to blanch in the wind, and now they aim at completing your
wrongs, and insuring your destruction, by cheating you into the belief
of that divinity, whose very precepts they plead in justification of all
the miseries they have heaped upon your race.

“Hear me, O deluded people, for the last time!--If you persist in
deserting my altars--if still you are determined to listen with fatal
credulity to the strange pernicious doctrines of these Christian
usurpers--if you are unalterably devoted to your new gods and new
customs--if you will be the friend of the white man, and the follower
of his God--my wrath shall follow. I will dart my arrows of forked
lightning among your towns, and send the warring tempests of winter
to devour you. Ye shall become bloated with intemperance; your numbers
shall dwindle away, until but a few wretched slaves survive; and these
shall be driven deeper and deeper into the wild--there to associate
with the dastard beasts of the forest, who once fled before the mighty
hunters of your tribe. The spirits of your fathers shall curse you, from
the shores of that happy island in the great lake, where they enjoy an
everlasting season of hunting, and chase the wild deer with dogs swifter
than the wind. Lastly, I swear by the lightning, the thunder, and the
tempest, that, in the space of sixty moons, of all the Senecas, not one
of yourselves shall remain on the face of the earth.”

The Prophet ended his message--which was delivered with the wild
eloquence of real or fancied inspiration, and, all at once, the crowd
seemed to be agitated with a savage sentiment of indignation against the
good missionary. One of the fiercest broke through the circle of old men
to despatch him, but was restrained by their authority.

When this sudden feeling had somewhat subsided, the mild apostle
obtained permission to speak, in behalf of Him who had sent him. Never
have I seen a more touching, pathetic figure, than this good man. He
seemed past sixty; his figure tall and bending, his face mild, pale, and
highly intellectual, and over his forehead, which yet displayed its blue
veins, were scattered at solitary distances, a few gray hairs. Though
his voice was clear, and his action vigorous, yet there was that in his
looks, which seemed to say his pilgrimage was soon to close for ever.

With pious fervor he described to his audience the glory, power, and
beneficence of the Creator of the whole universe. He told them of the
pure delights of the Christian heaven, and of the never-ending tortures
of those who rejected the precepts of the Gospel.

And, when he had concluded this part of the subject, he proceeded to
place before his now attentive auditors, the advantages of civilization,
learning, science, and a regular system of laws and morality. He
contrasted the wild Indian, roaming the desert in savage independence,
now revelling in the blood of enemies, and in his turn, the victim of
their insatiable vengeance, with the peaceful citizen, enjoying all the
comforts of cultivated life in this happy land; and only bounded in his
indulgences by those salutary restraints, which contribute as well
to his own happiness as to that of society at large. He described
the husbandman, enjoying, in the bosom of his family, a peaceful
independence, undisturbed by apprehensions of midnight surprise,
plunder, and assassination; and he finished by a solemn appeal to
heaven, that his sole motive for coming among them was the love ot his
Creator and of his creatures.

As the benevolent missionary closed his appeal, Red Jacket, a Seneca
chief of great authority, and the most eloquent of all his nation, rose
and enforced the exhortations of the venerable preacher. He repeated his
leading arguments, and--with an eloquence truly astonishing in one like
him--pleaded the cause of religion and humanity. The ancient council
then deliberated for the space of nearly two hours; after which
the oldest man arose, and solemnly pronounced the result of their
conference--“That the Christian God was more wise, more just, more
beneficent and powerful, than the Great Spirit, and that the missionary
who had delivered his precepts, ought to be cherished as their best
benefactor--their guide to future happiness.” When this decision was
pronounced by the venerable old man, and acquiesced in by the people,
the rage of the Prophet of the Alleghany became terrible. He started
from the ground, seized his tomahawk, and denouncing the speedy
vengeance of the Great Spirit upon their whole recreant race, darted
from the circle with wild impetuosity, and disappeared in the shadows of
the forest.

[Illustration: 0247]




PETER OTSAQUETTE.

ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE FORCE OF EARLY HABIT.

[Illustration: 9247]

ETER OTSAQUETTE was the son of a man of consideration among the Oneida
Indians of New York. At the close of the Revolution, he was noticed by
the Marquis de Lafayette, who, to a noble zeal for liberty, united the
most philanthropic feelings. Viewing, therefore, this young savage with
peculiar interest, and anticipating the happy results to be derived from
his moral regeneration, he took him, though scarcely twelve years
old, to France. Peter arrived at that period when Louis XVI. and Maria
Antoinette were in the zenith of their glory. There he was taught the
accomplishments of a gentleman;--music, drawing, and fencing, were made
familiar to him, and he danced with a grace that a Vestris could not but
admire. At about eighteen, his separation from a country in which he had
spent his time so agreeably and profitably, became necessary. Laden with
favors from the Marquis, and the miniatures of those friends he had left
behind, Peter departed for America--inflated, perhaps, with the idea,
that the deep ignorance of his nation, with that of the Indians of the
whole continent, might be dispelled by his efforts, and he become the
proud instrument of the civilization of thousands.

Prosecuting his route to the land of his parents, he came to the city
of Albany; not the uncivilized savage, not with any of those marks
which bespoke a birth in the forest, or spent in toiling the wilds of
a desert, but possessing a fine commanding figure, an expressive
countenance, and intelligent eye, with a face scarcely indicative of
the race from which he was descended. He presented, at this period, an
interesting spectacle; a child of the wilderness was beheld about to
proceed to the home of his forefathers, having received the brilliant
advantages of a cultivated mind, and on his way to impart to the nation
that owned him, the benefits which civilization had given him. It was
an opportunity for the philosopher to contemplate, and to reflect on the
future good this young Indian might be the means of producing.

Shortly after his arrival in Albany--where he visited the first
families--he took advantage of Governor Clinton’s journey to Fort
Stanwix, where a treaty was to be held with the Indians, to return to
his tribe. On the route, Otsaquette amused the company, among whom
were the French Minister, Count de Moustiers, and several gentlemen of
respectability, by his powers on various instruments of music. At Fort
Stanwix, he found himself again with the companions of his early days,
who saw and recognised him. His friends and relations had not forgotten
him, and he was welcomed to his home and to his blanket.

But that which occurred soon after his reception, led him to a too
fearful anticipation of an unsuccessful project; for the Oneidas, as if
they could not acknowledge Otsaquette, attired in the dress with which
he appeared before them, a mark which did not disclose his nation,
and, thinking that he had assumed it, as if ashamed of his own native
costume, the garb of his ancestors, they tore it from him with a savage
avidity, and a fiend-like ferociousness, daubed on the paint to which
he had been so long unused, and clothed him with the uncouth habiliments
held sacred by his tribe. Their fiery ferocity, in the performance of
the act, showed but too well the bold stand they were about to take
against the innovations they supposed Otsaquette was to be the agent for
affecting against their immemorial manners and customs, and which from
the venerable antiquity of their structure, it would be nothing short of
sacrilege to destroy.

Thus the reformed savage was taken back again to his native barbarity,
and, as if to cap the climax of degradation to a mind just susceptible
of its own powers, was married to a squaw.

From that day Otsego was no longer the accomplished Indian, from whom
every wish of philanthrophy was expected to be realized. He was no
longer the instrument by whose power the emancipation of his countrymen
from the thraldom of ignorance and superstition, was to be effected.
From that day he was an inmate of the forest; was once more buried in
his original obscurity, and his nation only viewed him as an equal. Even
a liberal grant from the state, failed of securing to him that superior
consideration among them which his civilization had procured for him
with the rest of mankind. The commanding pre-eminence acquired from
instruction, from which it was expected ambition would have sprung up,
and acted as a double stimulant, from either the natural inferiority of
the savage mind, or the predetermination of his countrymen, became of
no effect, and, in a little time, was wholly annihilated. Otsaquette
was lost. His moral perdition began from the hour he left Fort Stanwix.
Three short months had hardly transpired, when intemperance had marked
him as her own, and soon hurried him to the grave. And, as if the very
transition had deadened the finer feelings of his nature, the picture
given him by the Marquis--the very portrait of his affectionate friend
and benefactor himself--he parted with.

Extraordinary and unnatural as the conduct of this uneducated savage may
appear, the anecdote is not of a kind altogether unique; which proves,
that little or nothing is to be expected from conferring a literary
education upon the rude children of the forest: An Indian named George
White-Eyes, was taken, while a boy, to the college at Princeton, where
he received a classical education. On returning to his nation, he
made some little stay in Philadelphia, where he was introduced to some
genteel families. He was amiable in his manners, and of modest demeanor,
without exhibiting any trait of the savage whatever; but, no sooner
had he rejoined his friends and former companions, in the land of his
nativity, than he dropped the garb and manner of civilization, and
resumed those of the savage, and drinking deep of the intoxicating cup,
soon put a period to his existence.

Many other instances might be adduced to show how ineffectual have
been the attempts to plant civilization on savage habits, by means of
literary education--“Can the leopard change his spots?”

[Illustration: 0254]




PERFIDY PUNISHED.

[Illustration: 9254]

N the early part of the revolutionary war, a sergeant and twelve armed
men, undertook a journey through the wilderness of New Hampshire. Their
situation was remote from any settlements, and they were under the
necessity of encamping over night in the woods. In the early part of the
struggle for independence, the Indians were numerous, and did not stand
idle spectators to a conflict carried on with so much zeal and ardour by
the whites. Some tribes were friendly to our cause, while many upon our
borders took part with the enemy, and were very troublesome in
their savage manner of warfare,--as was often learned from the woful
experience of their midnight depredations. The leader of the above
mentioned party was well acquainted with the different tribes, and--from
much intercourse with them, previous to the war--was not ignorant of
the idiom, physiognomy, and dress, of each; and, at the commencement of
hostilities, was informed for which party they had raised the hatchet.

Nothing material happened, the first day of their excursion; but early
in the afternoon of the second, they from an eminence, discovered a body
of armed Indians advancing towards them, whose number rather exceeded
their own. As soon as the whites were perceived by their red brethren,
the latter made signals, and the two parties approached each, other
in an amicable manner. The Indians appeared to be much gratified with
meeting the sergeant and his men, whom, they observed, they considered
as their protectors; said they belonged to a tribe which had raised the
hatchet with zeal, in the cause of liberty, and were determined to
do all in their power to injure the common enemy. They shook hands
in friendship, and it was, “How d’ye do, _pro?_” that being their
pronunciation of the word brother. When they had conversed with each
other for some time, and exchanged mutual good wishes, they separated,
and each party travelled in different directions. After proceeding a
mile or more, the sergeant halted his men, and addressed them in the
following words:

“My brave companions! we must use the utmost caution, or this night may
be our last. Should we not make some extraordinary exertion to defend
ourselves, to-morrow’s sun may find us sleeping, never to wake. You are
surprised, comrades, at my words, and your anxiety will not be lessened,
when I inform you, that we have just passed our inveterate foe, who,
under the mask of pretended friendship you have witnessed, would lull us
into fancied security, and, by such means, in the unguarded moments of
our midnight slumber, without resistance, seal out fate!” The men
were astonished at this harangue, for they supposed the party they had
encountered were friends. They resolved for their own preservation to
adopt the following scheme: Their night’s encampment was near a stream.
They felled a large tree, before which a brilliant fire was made, and
each individual cut a log of wood the size of his body, rolled it into
his blanket, and placed it before the fire, that the enemy might take
it for a man. The fire was kept burning until near midnight, when it was
expected an attack would be made. Soon a tall Indian was seen through
the glimmering fire, cautiously moving towards them. His actions showed
that he was suspicious of a guard being posted to give an alarm; but
finding all quiet, he moved forward, and was seen to move his finger
as he numbered each log, or, what he supposed to be a man asleep. To
satisfy himself as to the number, he recounted them, and retired. A
second Indian went through the same movements.

The whole party, sixteen in number, now cautiously advanced, and eagerly
eyeing their supposed victims. The sergeant’s party could scarcely be
restrained from firing upon them; but the plan was to remain silent
until the guns of the savages were discharged, so that their own might
be more effectual.

Their suspense was short. The Indians approached, till within a short
distance; they then halted, took deliberate aim, fired upon the logs,
and rushed forward with scalping knife, to take the scalps of the dead.
As soon as they were collected in a close body, more effectually
to execute their horrid intentions, the party of the sergeant, with
unerring aim, discharged their muskets upon the savages; not one of whom
escaped destruction.

[Illustration: 0260]

[Illustration: 0261]

ADVENTURES OF DANIEL BOONE,

COMPRISING AN ACCOUNT OF THE WARS WITH THE INDIANS ON THE OHIO, WRITTEN
BY HIMSELF.

[Illustration: 9261]

T was on the first of May, 1769, that I resigned my domestic happiness,
and left my family and peaceful habitation on the Yadkin river, in North
Carolina, to wander through the wilderness of America, in quest of the
country of Kentucky, in company with John Finley, John Stuart, Joseph
Holden, James Monay, and William Cool.

On the 7th of June, after travelling in a western direction, we found
ourselves on Red River, where John Finley, had formerly been trading
with the Indians, and from the top of an eminence saw with pleasure the
beautiful level of Kentucky. For some time we had experienced the most
uncomfortable weather. We now encamped, made a shelter to defend us from
the inclement season, and began to hunt and reconnoitre the country. We
found abundance of beasts in this vast forest. The buffaloes were more
numerous than cattle on their settlements, browsing on the leaves of the
cane, or cropping the herbage on these extensive plains. We saw hundreds
in a drove, and the numbers around the salt springs were amazing. In
this forest, the habitation of beasts of every American kind, we hunted
with great success until December.

[Illustration: 0263]

On the 22d of December, John Stuart and I had a pleasing ramble; but
fortune changed the day at the close of it. We passed through a great
forest, in which stood myriads of trees, some gay with blossoms, others
rich with fruits. Nature was here a series of wonders, and a fund of
delight. Here she displayed her ingenuity and industry in a variety
of flowers and fruits, beautifully colored, elegantly shaped, and
charmingly flavored; and we were favored with numberless animals
presenting themselves perpetually to our view. In the decline of the
day, near Kentucky river, as we ascended the brow of a small hill, a
number of Indians rushed out of a cane brake and made us prisoners.

The Indians plundered us and kept us in confinement seven days. During
this time we discovered no uneasiness or desire to escape, which made
them less suspicious; but in the dead of night, as we lay by a large
fire in a thick cane brake, when sleep had locked up their senses, my
situation not disposing me to rest, I gently awoke my companion. We
seized this favorable opportunity and departed; directing our course
towards the old camp, but we found it plundered and our company
destroyed or dispersed.

About this time as my brother with another adventurer, who came to
explore the country shortly after us, were wandering through the forest,
they accidentally found our camp. Notwithstanding our unfortunate
circumstances, and our dangerous situation, surrounded by hostile
savages, our meeting fortunately in the wilderness gave us the most
sensible satisfaction.

Soon after this, my companion in captivity, John Stuart, was killed by
the savages, and the man who came with my brother, while on a private
excursion, was soon after attacked and killed by the wolves. We were
now in a dangerous and helpless situation, exposed daily to perils and
death, among savages and wild beasts, not a white man in the country but
ourselves.

Although many hundred miles from our families, in the howling
wilderness, we did not continue in a state of indolence, but hunted
every day, and prepared a little cottage to defend us from the winter.

[Illustration: 0267]

On the 1st of May, 1770, my brother returned home for a new recruit of
horses and ammunition; leaving me alone, without salt, bread, or sugar,
or even a horse or a dog. I passed a few days uncomfortably. The idea of
a beloved wife and family, and their anxiety on my account, would have
disposed me to melancholy if I had further indulged in the thought.

One day I undertook a tour through the country, when the diversity and
beauties of nature I met with in this charming season, expelled every
gloomy thought. Just at the close of the day, the gentle gales ceased;
a profound calm ensued; not a breath shook the tremulous leaf. I
had gained the summit of a commanding ridge, and looking around with
astonishing delight, beheld the ample plains and beauteous tracts below.
On one hand I surveyed the famous Ohio rolling in silent dignity, and
marking the western boundary of Kentucky with inconceivable grandeur.
At a vast distance I beheld the mountains lift their venerable brows
and penetrate the clouds, All things were still. I kindled a fire near
a fountain of sweet water, and feasted on the line of a buck which I
had killed a few hours before. The shades of night soon overspread the
hemisphere, and the earth seemed to gasp after the hovering moisture. At
a distance I frequently heard the hideous yells of savages. My excursion
had fatigued my body and amused my mind. I laid me down to sleep, and
awoke not until the sun had chased away the night. I continued this
tour, and in a few days explored a considerable part of the country,
each day equally pleasing as the first. After which I returned to my old
camp, which had not been disturbed in my absence. I did not confine
my lodging to it, but often reposed in thick cane brakes to avoid the
savages, who I believe frequently visited my camp, but fortunately for
me in my absence. No populous city, with all its varieties of commerce
and stately structures, could afford such pleasure to my mind, as the
beauties of nature which I found in this country.

[Illustration: 0269]

Until the 27th of July, I spent my time in an uninterrupted scene
of sylvan pleasures, when my brother, to my great felicity, met me,
according to appointment, at our old camp. Soon after we left the
place and proceeded to Cumberland river, reconnoitring that part of the
country, and giving names to the different rivers.

In March, 1771, I returned home to my family, being determined to bring
them as soon as possible, at the risk of my life and fortune, to reside
in Kentucky, which I esteemed a second paradise.

On my return I found my family in happy circumstances. I sold my farm on
the Yadkin, and what goods we could not carry with us, and on the 25th
of September, 1773, we took leave of our friends, and proceeded on our
journey to Kentucky, in company with five more families, and forty men
that joined us in Powel’s Valley, which is one hundred and fifty miles
from the new settled parts of Kentucky. But this promising beginning was
soon overcast with a cloud of adversity.

On the 10th of October, the rear of our company was attacked by a party
of Indians; who killed six, and wounded one man. Of these my eldest son
was one that fell in the action. Though we repulsed the enemy, yet
this unhappy affair scattered our cattle and brought us into extreme
difficulty. We returned forty miles to the settlement on Clench river.
We had passed over two mountains, Powel’s and Walden’s, and were
approaching Cumberland mountain, when this adverse fortune overtook us.

[Illustration: 0271]

These mountains are in the wilderness, in passing from the old
settlement in Virginia to Kentucky; are ranged in a south-west and
north-east’ direction; are of great length and breadth, and not far
distant from each other. Over them nature has formed passes less
difficult than might be expected from the view of such huge piles. The
aspect of these cliffs is so wild and horrid, that it is impossible to
behold them without horror.

Until the 6th of June, 1774, I remained with my family on the Clench,
when myself and another person were solicited by Governor Dunmore, of
Virginia, to conduct a number of surveyors to the Falls of Ohio. This
was a tour of eight hundred miles, and took sixty-two days.

On my return, Governor Dunmore gave me the command of three garrisons
during the campaign against the Shawanese. In March, 1775, at the
solicitation of a number of gentlemen of North Carolina, I attended
their treaty at Wataga with the Cherokee Indians, to purchase the lands
on the south side of Kentucky river. After this, I undertook to mark out
a road in the best passage from the settlements through the wilderness
to Kentucky.

[Illustration: 0273]

Having collected a number of enterprising men, well armed, I soon began
this work. We proceeded until we came within fifteen miles of where
Boonesborough now stands, where the Indians attacked us, and killed two
and wounded two more of our party. This was on the 22d of March, 1775.
Two days after we were again attacked by them, when we had two more
killed and three wounded. After this we proceeded on to Kentucky river
without opposition.

[Illustration: 0274]

On the 1st of April we began to erect the fort of Boonesborough, at a
salt lick sixty yards from the river, on the south side. On the 4th, the
Indians killed one of our men. On the 14th of June, having completed
the fort, I returned to my family on the Clench, and whom I soon after
removed to the fort. My wife and daughter were supposed to be the first
white women that ever stood on the banks of Kentucky river.

On the 24th of December, the Indians killed one of our men and wounded
another; and on the 15th of July, 1776, they took my daughter prisoner.
I immediately pursued them with eight men, and on the 16th overtook and
engaged them. I killed two of them, and recovered my daughter.

The Indians having divided themselves into several parties, attacked
in one day all our infant settlements and forts, doing a great deal of
damage. The husbandmen were ambushed and unexpectedly attacked while
toiling in the field. They continued this kind of warfare until the 15th
of April, 1777, when nearly one hundred of them attacked the village
of Boonesborough, and killed a number of its inhabitants. On the 16th
Colonel Logan’s fort was attacked by two hundred Indians. There were
only thirteen men in the fort, of whom the enemy killed two and wounded
one.

On the 20th of August, Colonel Bowman arrived with one hundred men from
Virginia, with which additional force we had almost daily skirmishes
with the Indians, who began now to learn the superiority of the “long
knife,” as they termed us the Virginians; being outgeneraled in almost
every action. Our affairs began now to wear a better aspect, the
Indians no longer daring to face us in open field, but sought private
opportunities to destroy us.

On the 7th of February, 1778, while on a hunting excursion alone, I met
a party of one hundred and two Indians and two Frenchmen, marching to
attack Boonesborough. They pursued and took me prisoner, and conveyed me
to Old Chilicothe, the principal Indian town on Little Miami, where we
arrived on the 18th of February, after an uncomfortable journey. On the
10th of March I was conducted to Detroit, and while there, was treated
with great humanity by Governor Hamilton, the British commander, at that
post, and intendant for Indian affairs.

The Indians had such an affection for me that they refused one hundred
pounds sterling offered them by the governor, if they would consent to
leave me with him, that he might be enabled to liberate me on my parole.
Several English gentlemen then at Detroit, sensible of my adverse
fortune, and touched with sympathy, generously offered to supply my
wants, which I declined with many thanks, adding that I never expected
it would be in my power to recompense such unmerited generosity.

On the 10th of April, the Indians returned with me to Old Chilicothe,
were we arrived on the 25th. This was a long and fatiguing march,
although through an exceeding fertile country, remarkable for springs
and streams of water. At Chilicothe I spent my time as comfortably as I
could expect; was adopted according to their custom, into a family
where I became a son, and had a great share in the affection of my new
parents, brothers, sisters, and friends. I was exceedingly familiar
and friendly with them, always appearing as cheerful and contented as
possible, and they put great confidence in me. I often went a hunting
with them, and frequently gained their applause for my activity at our
shooting matches. I was careful not to exceed many of them in shooting,
for no people are more envious than they in this sport. I could observe
in their countenances and gestures the greatest expressions of joy, when
they exceeded me, and when the reverse happened, of envy. The Shawanese
king took great notice of me, and treated me with profound respect
and entire friendship, often entrusting me to hunt at my liberty. I
frequently returned with the spoils of the woods, and as often presented
some of what I had taken to him, expressive of duty to my sovereign. My
food and lodging was in common with them, not so good indeed as I could
desire, but necessity made every thing acceptable.

I now began to meditate an escape, and carefully avoided giving
suspicion. I continued at Chilicothe until the 1st day of June, when I
was taken to the salt springs on the Sciota, and there employed ten days
in the manufacturing of salt. During this time I hunted with my Indian
masters, and found the land, for a greats extent about this river, to
exceed the soil of Kentucky.

On my return to Chilicothe, one hundred and fifty of the choicest
warriors were ready to march against Boonesborough. They were painted
and armed in a frightful manner. This alarmed me, and I determined to
escape.

On the 18th of June, before sun rise, I went off secretly, and reached
Boonesborough on the 20th, a journey of one hundred and sixty miles,
during which I had only one meal. I found our fortress in a bad state,
but we immediately repaired our flanks, gates, and posterns, and formed
double bastions, which we completed in ten days. One of my fellow,
prisoners escaped after me, and brought advice that on account of my
flight the Indians had put off their expedition for three weeks.

About the first of August I set out with nineteen men, to surprise Point
Creek Town, on Sciota, within four miles of which we fell in with forty
Indians, going against Boonesborough. We attacked them and they soon
gave way without any loss on our part. The enemy had one killed and two
wounded. We took three horses and all their baggage. The Indians having
evacuated their town, and gone altogether against Boonesborough,
we returned, passed them on the 6th, and on the 7th arrived safe at
Boonesborough.

On the 9th the Indian army, consisting of four hundred and forty-four
men, under the command of Captain Duquesne, and eleven other Frenchmen
and their own chiefs, arrived and summoned the fort to surrender. I
requested two days’ consideration, which was granted. During this we
brought in through the posterns all the horses and other cattle we could
collect.

On the 9th, in the evening, I informed their commander that we were
determined to defend the fort while a man was living. They then proposed
a treaty, they would withdraw. The treaty was held within sixty yards of
the fort, as we suspected the savages. The articles were agreed to and
signed; when the Indians told us it was their-custom for two Indians
to shake hands with every white man in the treaty, as an evidence of
friendship. We agreed to this also. They immediately grappled us to take
us prisoners, but we cleared ourselves of them, though surrounded by
hundreds, and gained the fort safe, except one man, who was wounded by a
heavy fire from the enemy.

[Illustration: 0282]

The savages now began to undermine the fort, beginning at the water
mark of the Kentucky river, which is sixty yards from the fort; this we
discovered by the water being muddy by the clay. We countermined them
by cutting a trench across their subterraneous passage. The enemy
discovering this by the clay we threw out of the fort, desisted. On
the 20th of August, they raised the siege, during which we had two
men killed and four wounded. We lost a number of cattle. The enemy had
thirty-seven killed, and a much larger number wounded. We picked up one
hundred and twenty-five pounds of their bullets, besides what stuck in
the logs of the fort.

In July, 1779, during my absence, Colonel Bowman, with one hundred and
sixty men, went against the Shawanese of Old Chilicothe. He arrived
undiscovered. A battle ensued which lasted until ten in the morning,
when Colonel Bowman retreated thirty miles. The Indians collected all
their strength and pursued him, when another engagement ensued for two
hours, not to Colonel Bowman’s advantage. Colonel Harrod proposed to
mount a number of horses, and break the enemy’s line, who at this time
fought with remarkable fury. This desperate measure had a happy effect,
and the savages fled on all sides. In these two engagements we had nine
men killed and one wounded. The enemy’s loss uncertain. Only two scalps
were taken.

June 23d, 1780, five hundred Indians and Canadians, under Colonel Bird,
attacked Riddle and Martin’s station, on the forks of Licking river,
with six pieces of artillery. They took all the inhabitants captives,
and killed one man and two women, loading the others with the heavy
baggage, and such as failed in the journey were tomahawked.

The hostile disposition of the savages caused General Clark, the
commandant at the Falls of Ohio, to march with his regiment and the
armed force of the country against Peccaway, the principal town of the
Shawa-nese, on a branch of the Great Miami, which he attacked with great
success, took seventy scalps, and reduced the town to ashes, with the
loss of seventeen men.

About this time I returned to Kentucky with my family; for during my
captivity, my wife thinking me killed by the Indians, had transported my
family and goods on horses through the wilderness, amidst many dangers,
to her father’s house in North Carolina.

On the 6th of October, 1780, soon after my settling again at
Boonesborough, I went with my brother to the Blue Licks, and on our
return he was shot by a party of Indians, who followed me by the scent
of a dog, which I shot and escaped. The severity of the winter caused
great distress in Kentucky, the enemy during the summer having destroyed
most of the corn. The inhabitants lived chiefly on buffalo’s flesh.

In the spring of 1782, the Indians harassed us. In May, they ravished,
killed, and scalped a woman and her two daughters, near Ashton’s
station, and took a negro prisoner. Captain Ashton pursued them with
twenty-men, and in an engagement which lasted two hours, his party were
obliged to retreat, having eight killed, and four mortally wounded.
Their brave commander fell in the action.

August 18th, two boys were carried off from Major Hoy’s station. Captain
Holden pursued the enemy with seventeen men, who were also defeated,
with the loss of seven killed and two wounded. Our affairs became more
and more alarming. The savages infested the country and destroyed the
whites as opportunity presented. In a field near Lexington, an Indian
shot a man, and running to scalp him, was himself shot from the fort,
and fell dead upon the ground. All the Indian nations were now united
against us.

August 10th, five hundred Indians and Canadians came against Briat’s
station, five miles from Lexington. They assaulted the fort and all the
cattle round it; but being repulsed, they retired the third day, having
about eighty killed; their wounded uncertain. The garrison had four
killed and nine wounded.

August 18th, Colonels Todd and Trigg, Major Harland and myself, speedily
collected one hundred and seventy-six men, well armed, and pursued the
savages. They had marched beyond the Blue Lick, to a remarkable bend of
the main fork of Licking river, about forty-three miles from Lexington,
where we overtook them on the 19th. The savages observing us, gave way,
and we being ignorant of their numbers, passed the river. When they saw
our proceedings, having greatly the advantage in situation, they formed
their line of battle from one end of Licking to the other, about a mile
from the Blue Licks. The engagement was close and warm for about fifteen
minutes, when we being overpowered by numbers, were obliged to retreat,
with the loss of seventy-seven men, seven of whom were taken prisoners.
The brave and much lamented Colonels Todd and Trigg, Major Harland, and
my second son were among the dead. We were afterwards informed that the
Indians on numbering their dead, finding that they had four more killed
than we, four of our people that they had taken were given up to their
young warriors, to be put to death after their barbarous manner.

On our retreat we were met by Colonel Logan, who was hastening to join
us with a number of well armed men. This powerful assistance we wanted
on the day of battle. The enemy said one more fire from us would have
made them give way.

I cannot reflect upon this dreadful scene, without great sorrow. A
zeal for the defence of their country led these heroes to the scene of
action, though with a few men, to attack a powerful army of experienced
warriors. When we gave way, they pursued us with the utmost eagerness,
and in every quarter spread destruction. The river was difficult to
cross, and many were killed in the fight, some just entering the river,
some in the water, and others after crossing, in ascending the cliffs.
Some escaped on horseback, a few on foot; and being dispersed every
where, in a few hours, brought the melancholy news of this unfortunate
battle to Lexington. Many widows were made. The reader may guess what
sorrow filled the hearts of the inhabitants, exceeding any thing that I
am able to describe. Being reinforced, we returned to bury the dead, and
found their bodies strewed everywhere, cut and mangled in a dreadful
manner. This mournful scene exhibited a horror almost unparalleled: some
torn and eaten by wild beasts; those in the river eaten by fishes; and
all in such a putrid condition that no one could be distinguished from
another.

[Illustration: 0289]

[Illustration: 0290]

When General Clark, at the Falls of the Ohio, heard of our disaster, he
ordered an expedition to pursue the savages. We overtook them within two
miles of their town, and we should have obtained a great victory had not
some of them met us when about two hundred poles from their camp. The
savages fled in the utmost disorder, and evacuated all their towns.
We burned to ashes Old Chilicothe, Peccaway, New Chilicothe, and
Wills Town; entirely destroyed their corn and other fruits, and spread
desolation through their country. We took seven prisoners and fifteen
scalps, and lost only four men, two of whom were accidentally killed
by ourselves. This campaign dampened the enemy, yet they made secret
incursions.

In October, a party attacked Crab Orchard, and one of them being a good
way before the others, boldly entered a house in which were only woman
and her children, and a negro man. The savage used no violence, but
attempted to carry off the negro, who happily proved too strong for him,
and threw him on the ground, and in the struggle the woman cut off
his head with an axe, whilst her daughter shut the door. The savages
instantly came up and applied their tomahawks to the door, when the
mother putting an old rusty gun barrel through the crevices, the savages
immediately went off.

From that time till the happy return of peace between the United States
and Great Britain, the Indians did us no mischief. Soon after this the
Indians desired peace.

Two darling sons and a brother I have lost by savage hands, which have
also taken from me forty valuable horses, and abundance of cattle. Many
dark and sleepless nights have I spent, separated from the cheerful
society of men, scorched by the summer’s sun, and pinched by the
winter’s cold, an instrument ordained to settle the wilderness.

[Illustration: 0293]




ADVENTURE OF GENERAL PUTNAM.

[Illustration: 9293]

N the month of August, 1758, five hundred men were employed, under the
orders of Majors Rogers and Putnam, to watch the French and Indians,
near Ticonderoga. At South Bay, they separated the party into two
equal divisions, and Rogers took a position on Wood creek, twelve miles
distant from Putnam.

Upon being, sometime afterwards, discovered, they formed a re-union, and
concerted measures for returning to Fort Edward. Their march through the
woods, was in three divisions, by files, the right commanded by Rogers,
the left by Putnam, and the centre by Captain D’Ell. The first night
they encamped on the banks of Clear river, about a mile from old Fort
Ann, which had been formerly built by General Nicholson.

Next morning, Major Rogers and a British officer, named Irwin,
incautiously suffered themselves, from a spirit of false emulation, to
be engaged in firing at a mark. Nothing could have been more repugnant
to the military principles of Putnam than such conduct, or reprobated by
him in more pointed terms. As soon as the heavy dew which had fallen the
preceding night would permit, the detachment moved in one body, Putnam
being in front, D’Ell in centre, and Rogers in the rear. The impervious
growth of shrubs, and underbrush, that had sprung up, where the land had
been partially cleared some years before, occasioned this change in the
order of march. At the moment of moving, the famous French partisan,
Molang, who had been sent with five hundred men, to intercept our party,
was not more than a mile and a half distant from them. Having heard the
firing, he hastened to lay an ambuscade precisely in that part of the
wood most favorable to his project. Major Putnam was just emerging
from the thicket, into the common forest, when the enemy rose, and with
discordant yells and whoops, commenced an attack upon the right of his
division. Surprised, but undismayed, Putnam halted, returned the fire,
and passed the word for the other divisions to advance for his support.
D’Ell came. The action, though widely scattered, and principally fought
between man and man, soon grew general and intensely warm. It would be
as difficult as useless to describe this irregular and ferocious mode of
fighting. Rogers came not up; but, as he declared afterwards, formed a
circular file between our party and Wood creek, to prevent their being
taken in rear or enfiladed. Successful as he commonly was, his conduct
did not always pass without unfavorable imputation. Notwithstanding, it
was a current saying in the camp, “that Rogers always _sent_, but Putnam
_led_ his men to action,”--yet, in justice, it ought to be remarked
here, that the latter has never been known, in relating the story of
this day’s disaster, to fix any stigma upon the conduct of the former.

Major Putnam, perceiving it would be impracticable to cross the creek,
determined to maintain his ground. Inspired by his example, the officers
and men behaved with great bravery: sometimes they fought collectively
in open view, and sometimes individually under cover; taking aim from
behind the bodies of trees, and acting in a manner independent of each
other. For himself; having discharged his fuzee several times, at length
it missed fire, whilst the muzzle was pressed against the breast of a
large and well proportioned savage. This warrior, availing himself of
the indefensible attitude of his adversary, with a tremendous war-whoop
sprang forward, with his lifted hatchet, and compelled him to surrender;
and having disarmed and bound him fast to a tree, returned to the
battle.

[Illustration: 0297]

The intrepid Captains D’Ell and Harman, who now commanded, were forced
to give ground for a little distance; the savages, conceiving this to be
the certain harbinger of victory, rushed impetuously on, with dreadful
and redoubled cries. But our two partisans, collecting a handful of
brave men, gave the pursuers so warm a reception as to oblige them
in turn, to retreat a little beyond the spot at which the action had
commenced.

Here they made a stand. This change of ground occasioned the tree, to
which Putnam was tied, to be directly between the two parties. Human
imagination can hardly figure to itself a more deplorable situation.
The balls flew incessantly from either side, many struck the tree, while
some passed through the sleeves and skirts of his coat. In this state of
jeopardy, unable to move his body, to stir his limbs, or even to incline
his head, he remained more than an hour. So equally balanced, and so
obstinate was the fight! At one moment, while the battle swerved in in
favor of the enemy, a young savage chose an odd way of discovering his
humor. He found Putnam bound. He might have despatched him at a blow;
but he loved better to excite the terrors of the prisoner, by hurling a
tomahawk at his head, or rather it should seem his object was to see how
near he could throw it without touching him--the weapon struck in the
tree a number of times at a hair’s breadth distant from the mark. When
the Indian had finished his amusement, a French officer, (a much
more inveterate savage by nature, though descended from so humane and
polished a nation,) perceiving Putnam, came up to him, and levelling a
fuzee within a foot of his breast, attempted to discharge it; it missed
fire--ineffectually did the intended victim solicit the treatment due
to his situation, by repeating that he was a prisoner of war. The
degenerate officer did not understand the language of honor or of
nature; deaf to their voice, and dead to sensibility, he violently
and repeatedly pushed the muzzle of his gun against Putnam’s ribs, and
finally gave him a cruel blow on the jaw with the butt of his piece.
After this dastardly deed he left him.

At length the active intrepidity of D’Ell and Harman, seconded by the
persevering valor of their followers, prevailed. They drove from the
field the enemy, who left about ninety dead behind them. As they were
retiring, Putnam was untied by the Indian who had made him prisoner, and
whom he afterwards called master.

Having been conducted for some distance from the place of action, he was
stripped of his coat, vest, stockings, and shoes; loaded with as many
packs of the wounded as could be piled upon him: strongly pinioned, and
his wrists tied as closely together as they could be pulled with a cord.
After he had marched through no pleasant paths, in this painful manner,
for many a tedious mile, the party, who were excessively fatigued,
halted to breathe. His hands were now immoderately swelled from the
tightness of the ligature; and the pain had become intolerable. His feet
were so much scratched that the blood dropped fast from them. Exhausted
with bearing a burden above his strength, and frantic with torments
exquisite beyond endurance, he entreated the Irish interpreter to
implore as the last and only grace he desired of the savages, that they
would knock him on the head and take his scalp at once, or loose his
hands.

A French officer, instantly interposing, ordered his hands to be
unbound, and some of the packs to be taken off. By this time the Indian
who captured him, and had been absent with the wounded, coming up, gave
him a pair of moccasins, and expressed great indignation at the unworthy
treatment his prisoner had suffered.

That savage chief again returned to the care of the wounded, and, the
Indians, about two hundred in number, went before the rest of the party
to the place where the whole were, that night, to encamp. They took with
them Major Putnam, on whom (besides innumerable other outrages) they had
the barbarity to inflict a deep wound with a tomahawk, in the cheek.
His sufferings were in this place to be consummated. A scene of horror,
infinitely greater than had ever met his eyes before, was now preparing.
It was determined to roast him alive. For this purpose they led him into
a dark forest, stripped him naked, bound him to a tree, and piled dried
brush with other fuel, at a small distance, in a circle round him. They
accompanied their labors, as if for his funeral dirge, with screams and
sounds inimitable but by savage voices. Then they set the piles on fire.
A sudden shower damped the rising flame. Still they strove to kindle it,
until, at last, the blaze ran fiercely round the circle. Major Putnam
soon began to feel the scorching heat. His hands were so tied that he
could move his body. He often shifted sides as the fire approached. This
sight, at the very idea of which all but savages must shudder, afforded
the highest diversion to his inhuman tormentors, who demonstrated
the delirium of their joy by corresponding yells, dances, and
gesticulations. He saw clearly that his final hour was inevitably come.
He summoned all his resolution and composed his mind, as far as the
circumstances could admit, to bid an eternal farewell to all he held
most dear.

To quit the world would scarcely have cost a single pang, but for the
idea of home; but for the remembrance of domestic endearments, of the
affectionate partner of his soul, and of their beloved offspring. His
thought was ultimately fixed on a happier state of existence, beyond the
tortures he was beginning to endure. The bitterness of death, even of
that death which is accompanied with the keenest agonies, was, in a
manner, past--nature, with a feeble struggle, was quitting its last hold
on sublunary things--when a French officer rushed through the crowd,
opened the way by scattering the burning brands, and unbound the victim.
It was Molang himself--to whom a savage, unwilling to see another
human sacrifice immolated, had run and communicated the tidings. That
commandant spurned and severely reprimanded the barbarians, whose
nocturnal powwows and hellish orgies he suddenly ended. Putnam did not
want for feeling and gratitude. The French commander, fearing to trust
him alone with them, remained until he could deliver him in safety into
the hands of his master.

The savage approached his prisoner kindly, and seemed to treat him with
peculiar affection. He offered him some hard biscuit, but finding that
he could not chew them, on account of the blow he had received from the
Frenchman, this more humane savage soaked some of the biscuit in water
and made him suck the pulp-like part. Determined, however, not to lose
his captive (the refreshment being finished) he took the moccasins from
his feet and tied them to one of his wrists; then directing him to lie
down on his back upon the bare ground, he stretched one arm to its full
length, and bound it fast to a young tree; the other arm was extended
and bound in the same manner--his legs were stretched apart and fastened
to two saplings. Then a number of tall, but slender poles were cut down;
which, with some long bushes, were laid across his body from head
to foot: on each side lay as many Indians as could conveniently find
lodging, in order to prevent the possibility of his escape. In this
disagreeable and painful posture he remained until morning. During this
night, the longest and most dreary conceivable, our hero used to relate
that he felt a ray of cheerfulness come casually across his mind, and
could not even refrain from smiling, when he reflected on this ludicrous
group for a painter, of which he himself was the principal figure.

The next day he was allowed his blanket and moccasins, and permitted to
march without carrying any pack, or receiving any insult. To allay his
extreme hunger, a little bear’s meat was given him, which he sucked
through his teeth. At night, the party arrived at Ticonderoga, and the
prisoner was placed under a French guard. The savages, who had been
prevented from glutting their diabolical thirst for blood, took other
opportunities of manifesting their malevolence for the disappointment,
by horrid grimaces and angry gestures; but they were suffered no more to
offer violence or personal indignity to him.

After having been examined by the Marquis de Montcalm, Major Putnam was
conducted to Montreal, by a French officer, who treated him with the
greatest indulgence and humanity.

At this place were several prisoners. Colonel Peter Schuyler, remarkable
for his philanthropy, generosity, and friendship, was of the number.
No sooner had he heard of Major Putnam’s arrival, than he went to the
interpreter’s quarters, and inquired whether he had a provincial
major in his custody. He found Major Putnam in a comfortless
condition--without hat, waistcoat, or hose--the remnant of his clothing
miserably dirty, and ragged--his beard long and squalid--his legs torn
by thorns and briers--his face gashed with wounds, and swollen with
bruises. Colonel Schuyler, irritated beyond all sufferance at such a
sight, could scarcely restrain his speech within limits consistent
with the prudence of a prisoner, and the meekness of a Christian. Major
Putnam was immediately treated according to his rank, clothed in a
decent manner, and supplied with money by that liberal and sympathetic
patron of the distressed.

The capture of Frontenac, by General Brad-street, afforded occasion
for an exchange of prisoners: Colonel Schuyler was comprehended in the
cartel. A generous spirit can never be satisfied with imposing tasks for
its generosity to accomplish. Apprehensive if it should be known that
Putnam was a distinguished partisan, his liberation might be retarded,
and knowing that there were officers, who, from the length of their
captivity, had a claim of priority to exchange; he had, by his happy
address, induced the governor to offer, that whatever officer he might
think proper to nominate, should be included in the present cartel. With
great politeness in manner, but seeming indifference as to object, he
expressed his warmest acknowledgments to the governor, and said: “There
is an old man here, who is a provincial major, and he wishes to be at
home with his wife and children. He can do no good here, or any where
else: I believe your excellency had better keep some of the young men,
who have no wife or children to care for, and let the old fellow go home
with me.” This justifiable finesse had the desired effect.

[Illustration: 0308]

[Illustration: 0311]




THE INDIANS OF ST. MARY’S.

[Illustration: 9311]

IT belonged to a member of the once dominant sect of Catholics to
glorify his creed and clime, and to set an example to the world, in
the establishment of complete religious liberty. To George Calvert, the
originator of the scheme for colonizing Maryland, this honor belonged;
but, alas! he was not permitted to execute the plans his noble heart
conceived, for death snatched him from his labors, ere the boon he
contemplated for the world was ready to be given.

But Cecil Calvert was a worthy son of so great a father. He at once
entered into all the plans of his deceased parent, and with a veneration
that does him credit, resolved that they should be carried out to the
fullest extent; and the slightest wish the old lord had expressed in
regard to the new colony should be religiously complied with. Bigots
sneered at him, enemies maligned, but, conscious of the rectitude of his
purpose, he steadily pursued his plans.

Under the guidance of Leonard Calvert, (a brother of the proprietor),
some two hundred English gentlemen, and their servants, mostly of the
catholic persuasion, sailed for the province, in November, 1633, and
after the usual vicissitudes and adventures of a sea voyage at that
period, arrived in the Potomac in the spring of 1634. A small party
was despatched into the interior to explore the country previous to
effecting a permanent settlement; the woods were then all joyous and
teeming with grandeur, and loveliness of spring tinting the fair face
of nature with that peculiar and fascinating beauty which is better felt
than described.

To the sea-worn colonists, the country opened before them as a broad
fair haven, where they might worship God free as the air and feel
themselves men. The scouts soon returned, and, according to their
direction, the party moved up to a spot they had selected on the banks
of a clear and silvery stream flowing into the broad river they had
first entered. Here, with the usual ceremonies, Calvert took possession,
naming the surrounding country “Marie-land,” in honor of “our glorious
ladye, the queene;” and in gratitude for their success thus far, they
named the river St. Mary.

But the good Cecil, in the wise provision for the wants of his people
had not forgotten the rightful lords of the soil, the Indian aborigines.
“Entreat them kindly always, I conjure you, endeavor assiduously to
cultivate their friendship, and above all take no land from them
but what ye might pay therefor,” Such were the mild and benevolent
instructions of the proprietor, and faithfully were they carried into
execution by his brother, the governor.

Anxious, therefore, to secure his settlement on a firm basis, and
to obtain an acknowledged title to the soil, Calvert submitted to
a neighboring chief, his propositions to purchase land of him, but
received an answer of sullen indifference, “I will neither bid you go
nor ask you to stay.” Such was the address and courtesy of the governor,
however, and the just and pacific policy of his people, that not only
was the stoic warrior won over to their interests, but he also exerted
his influence with the neighboring tribes, on behalf of the new comers.

Through his aid a council of the neighboring Indians was soon convened.
The governor appeared in pomp, and addressed them, calling them
brothers, and asking for a piece of ground, that he and his people might
plant corn, and the red man and the pale face would live together
in peace and unity. He described to them, in their own exaggerated
rhetoric, the power of the King of England, and his master, the Lord
of Baltimore, and told them the kind messages he had sent to his forest
children.

The Indians replied in the language of kindness and conciliation.
“The white man should have land--room enough for both people--plenty
room--White chief very good to send word to the Indians.” The governor
and chief then embraced each other, and the pipe of peace was passed
round the circle, each one gravely taking a few whiffs. A treaty was
then made, giving to the settlers a considerable tract of land, within
which was the Indian town of Taocomoco.

To this town they gave the name of St. Mary’s, in honor of the Virgin,
and the first building erected was a chapel dedicated to her worship.
The Indians looked upon the colonists with surprise, they mingled freely
with them, and had many curious and amusing questions to ask concerning
every thing they saw, and which was all new to them.

One morning a party of them wandered into the church, and gazed with
bewildered air upon the pictures and crucifixes with which it was
decorated. Shortly after this, one of their number being on a visit to
the governor, he presented him with a rosary, having a small crucifix
attached; the happy fellow received it with a yell of delight, and
ran off to his comrades, whirling up his prize, and they immediately
commenced kneeling and crossing themselves in the same manner they had
observed the worshippers do in the chapel.

It is something refreshing and ennobling, amid the dark and sickening
catalogue of bigotry, slaughter, and desolating wars which disgraced the
history of too many of our states, to look back on one green spot, where
fellow men were not spurned and despised on account of their creed, and
where the poor Indian was treated with kindness.

Many of the tribes in the vicinity, attracted by curiosity, and the good
name given to these new people, came to the settlement, and their chiefs
were entertained with a sumptuous feast on board a ship, which lay
anchored in the river, the King of Patuxent being seated at the table
between the Governor of Maryland, and the Governor of Virginia, who was
also present on a friendly mission.

When the storehouse was finished, and it became necessary to unload the
ships, the governor, in order to gratify his Indian friends, and make a
proper impression on all who were inclined to be enemies, directed it
to be done with all due solemnity. The colors were displayed, and the
colonists clad in military costume, paraded under arms, to the strains
of martial music, the sound of which so delighted the Indians, that they
clapped their hands in glee, and struck off in one of their national
festive dances.

Volleys of musketry were fired on shore, and answered by discharges of
cannon on board the ship, which terrified the Indians so highly, that
they fled some distance into the woods; but finding no harm done, they
returned greatly impressed with the power of the people who could bring
“the big thunder” to their aid. Some of the sachems from a distance,
being present at this exhibition, took occasion to warn the Indians of
Yaocomoco, (or St. Mary’s, as it was now called,) to keep the league
they had made with the English.

The old King of Patuxent in particular showed undecided partiality for
the “good men,” as he called them. He remained in town several days,
during which he was treated with becoming attention, and when about to
leave, made use of this remarkable expression, to the governor: “I love
the English so well, that if they should go about to kill me, I would
command the people not to avenge my death; for I know they would do no
such a thing, except it were through my own fault.”

[Illustration: 0319]

At length the ship sailed, leaving the colonists alone with their
red brethren. Before he left, however, the captain called the Indians
together, and told them he was going, and they must be kind to the
people he left behind, and he would tell his great lord how good they
were.

The Indians seemed much affected when he told them he was going, and
pressed around to take a farewell. They accompanied him to the boat, and
brought some of their forest furs, and bows, and ornamented pipes, which
they begged him to give “to great white chief, and tell him how much his
Indian children love him--thank him very much, for the good people he
send to live among Indians,--we love him much, and we love his people.
We be all English.”

No community could now be happier than the little colony on the St.
Mary’s. It seemed as if the golden age was realized, when all men should
dwell together in peace and unity. The English and the Indians lived
together in St. Mary’s, each occupying half the town according to a
stipulation between them, and the utmost harmony prevailed.

[Illustration: 0322]

Once a party of them visiting the governor’s, they were shown a portrait
of the proprietor, Cecil Calvert, the second Lord Baltimore, which they
regarded in silence for some time, and then exclaimed, “great father,
good father--He love us much--we love him,” and eagerly inquired if he
would ever come over and see them.

Frequently they would enter the chapel when the congregation was at
worship, and would look with respectful attention on the ceremonies.
The worthy pastor of the colonists, early took a great interest in the
welfare of the Indians. He delighted to see them in the chapel, and
would tell them to come often. A class of native children was soon
formed to learn the catechism, and some few of the adults were won over
to the catholic faith, and were received into the church by baptism,
with becoming ceremony. The good priest was very kind to his Indian
charge; he would enter their wigwams and talk to them, and give them
little pictures of the saints, and small rosaries, which they stuck up
in conspicuous places and highly esteemed.

In this way he won their gratitude and affection, until he came to be
regarded by them with dutiful awe and reverence, and received the title
of father, the same which the whites gave him. They would say,
“big chief great man--Father also great, he be good--talk kind to
Indian--Indian sick--he give him good medicine make him well. Father
great medicine-man, him big doctor beat Indian medicine-man.”

The natives testified their friendly disposition, by going every day
into the woods with their new neighbors, pointing out the best resorts
of game, joining in the chase with them, and when the whites were too
busy to hunt, they would go alone, and bring home venison and wild
turkies in abundance, which they would lay at the feet of the settlers,
and go away well satisfied with the cheap requital of knives, beads, and
toys.

[Illustration: 0325]

Observing that the whites, one day in the week, use fish instead of
meat, and were desirous of obtaining a sufficient supply of it, they
would go and fish for them, and bring every Friday morning an abundance
for the whole settlement.

They likewise showed them the best places in the river for fishing
stations, and instructed them in their own methods of catching the
various kinds of fish that inhabited the shallow waters.

From these resources, the colonists were so abundantly supplied, and
the provisions they had brought with them so extended, that every one
enjoyed plenty through the entire winter, and the times of starving and
desolation so common in the history of other colonies were unknown in
the homes of the peaceful Marylanders.

Altogether, the settlers and the aborigines were so thoroughly mixed in
friendship and intercourse, that they seemed as one people in thought
and feeling, differing only in the distinctions which nature herself had
imposed. The Indians were allowed freely to enter the dwellings of the
whites, at any time they chose, the doors never being fastened against
them. They would frequently come and eat with them, and sleep under
their roofs, and many of the whites would pay similar visits to the
lodges at the other end of the town.

Their women also instructed the wives of the colonists in making
bread of maize, which soon became a staple article of diet, and the
cultivation of corn was extensively entered into. As a certain mark of
entire confidence of the Indians, their women and children became in a
great measure domesticated in the the English families, and were treated
in every respect on a perfect equality with the whites.

During the cold weather, when the men were in a great measure
unemployed, the natives instructed them in the various ways of pursuing
game, the snares laid for them, and the best method of approaching the
unsuspecting prey. One very singular mode of gaining on the deer, in
which they initiated the whites, until they became by practice almost as
expert as themselves, deserves particular mention: An Indian hunter and
a party of whites, go into the woods together, and presently discover
a deer in the distance, feeding, and warily watching for danger, the
whites, as directed, would hide themselves behind a rock, and the
Indian, putting on the skin of a deer, to which the head and horns were
left attached, would creep along, in a circuitous direction, towards the
deer, mimicking to perfection the gait and appearance of that animal.
Cautiously advancing, pretending all the time to be feeding, he would
approach the animal, until he had excited its attention, when it would
raise its head and look curiously at him, when he was within a few feet
of it, he would partially, disengage himself from his covering, and
drawing out his bow and arrow, with which he was previously provided,
would take deliberate and fatal aim, and speedily bring the noble beast
to the ground.

[Illustration: 0329]

In the following spring, the natives from a distance assembled to
carry on a trade with the strangers, which was conducted to the mutual
advantage of both parties. The articles exchanged were deer skins,
and the furs of smaller animals, on the one side, and strips of
cloth, tools, and various trinkets on the other, and by these means a
considerable quantity of peltries was collected.

Shortly after this, to the joy of all parties, a ship arrived with
stores and reinforcements from England, and having on board a no
less distinguished personage than the noble Lord of Baltimore. He was
welcomed with an enthusiastic delight, and the highest honors their
little state could bestow.

Nor were the Indians less pleased to hear of his arrival. The
representations of the governor, and the amiable conduct of his people,
had so favorably impressed them that they were willing to reverence him
before they had seen him.

The next day a large party desired an interview with his lordship, and
he was pleased to gratify them. They had brought with them many tokens
of good feeling and respect, which they deposited before him. Some
brought a whole deer, others a package of dried fish, wampum belts,
tobacco, and such other things as valuing themselves they thought would
be pleasing to him. They presented their offerings with such genuine
expressions of gratitude and devoted attachment that the good Calvert
was highly moved at his reception by these rude foresters.

One of the chiefs then made a speech to him, in which he expressed
on behalf of himself and companions, the great joy they felt on being
permitted to behold their great father, they thanked him for the good
message he had sent them from the first, declared their willingness to
serve him in any manner they were able.

Calvert replied in an appropriate style, of which they expressed their
approbation by the wild gesticulations of their own race; he then
invited them to a grand entertainment, prepared for them in the garden,
at which he presided, with the chiefs on his right hand, and completely
won their hearts by his dignified bearing, his sweetness of manners,
and the interest he appeared to take in his guests. After the feast
was over, they performed for his diversion a number of their national
dances. A circle was formed, and the assurances of friendship renewed,
the pipe of peace was then produced, and passed around from mouth to
mouth, Baltimore, to their delight, indulging in a few whiffs; they
then separated and returned to their places.

Nothing could exceed the kindly interest this good nobleman displayed in
the welfare of the Indians. Almost as soon as he landed he made himself
active in their cause, the first business he engaged in being an inquiry
into the treatment of the Indians.

He professed himself highly gratified, by the faithful manner in which
his instructions had been carried out by the colonists, and commended
them therefor. He immediately renewed and extended, all the rights and
privileges originally retained by them, and decreed that all offences
committed against them should be punished exactly as aggressions against
the whites. He visited them in their wigwams, distributing a large
quantity of valuable presents he had brought with him for the purpose.

He endeavored to make himself acquainted with their internal
arrangements, and to observe their manners and customs, he went with
them into the woods, to witness their mode of hunting and fishing, which
they were proud to display before him, and in token of the esteem his
conduct had won from them, they bestowed upon him the endearing title of
“our own chief.” With the assistance of the good padre, the proprietor
perfected many plans for ameliorating the condition of his Indian
subjects, for their moral and intellectual culture, a school was at once
opened, and thither resorted a number of children of the surrounding
tribes.

One day a great chieftain from beyond the mountains, in the most western
part of the colony, repaired to St. Mary’s, to make his obeisance to the
proprietor, the fame of whose merits and condescension had reached his
ears. He heard with wonderment, the many strange stories told him by his
friends, who lived among the whites, and approached the palace of the
governor with superstitious awe.

By command of Baltimore he was received with as much show and parade as
they could assume, and it seemed to have had its intended effect upon
him; everything in the place attracted his attention, and called forth
expressions of delight. Seeing the fondness he evinced for bright
things, the governor presented him with a shining pewter dish, which he
suspended around his neck and seemed to regard it as a peculiar mark of
honor and distinction.

More settlers continued to arrive, and under the fostering care of Lord
Baltimore, aided by the friendship of the Indians, the new colony in a
short time became exceedingly flourishing and prosperous.

Not very long after the arrival of Baltimore, the good priest, whom the
Indians loved, contracted a fatal disease, while visiting them, and in
a short time died, deeply lamented by both his white and red friends. To
testify their respect for him, they, attended his funeral in a body,
and looked on with a tearful eye, while the remains of their friend were
lowered in the grave. When the funeral service was over, one of them
stepped forth, and in an appropriate speech, signified to the governor
their sincere sorrow and condolence in the loss which both parties had
sustained.

They then retired to their lodges, where a solemn fast and lamentation
for the dead was held, the squaws beating their breasts and tearing
their hair in a frantic manner, while the men sat around in solemn and
dignified silence.

Thus happily were the seeds of the future commonwealth of Maryland
planted; thus kindly and considerately were the natives treated, and
nobly did they repay it, in the peace, good-feeling, and fellowship they
long entertained for the settlers.

[Illustration: 0337]

[Illustration: 0388]




RED JACKET.

[Illustration: 9338]

HE famous Red Jacket was a chief of the Senecas. His Indian name,
Sagouatha, or, _one who keeps awake_, was affixed to many of the
important treaties concluded between the Senecas and the white people,
and he became renowned among both races for his wisdom and eloquence.
Without the advantages of illustrious descent, and with no extraordinary
military talents, Red Jacket rose to a high position in the esteem of
the red men. In the year 1805, a council was held at Buffalo, New York,
at which many of the Seneca chiefs and warriors were present. At this
council, Red Jacket made a speech, in answer to a missionary from
Massachusetts, which in force and eloquence was worthy of the great
orators of antiquity. The following is the most remarkable portion of
this great effort:

“_Friend and Brother_: It was the will of the Great Spirit that we
should meet together this day. He orders all things, and he has given
us a fine day for our council. He has taken his garment from before
the sun, and caused it to shine with brightness upon us; our eyes are
opened, that we see clearly; our ears are unstopped, that we have been
able to hear distinctly the words that you have spoken; for all these
favors we thank the Great Spirit, and him only.

“Brother, this council-fire was kindled by you; it was at your request
that we came together at this time; we have listened with attention to
what you have said; you request us to speak our minds freely; this gives
us great joy, for we now consider that we stand upright before you, and
can speak what we think; all have heard your voice, and all speak to you
as one man; our minds are agreed.

“Brother, you say you want an answer to your talk before you leave this
place. It is right you should have one, as you are a great distance from
home, and we do not wish to detain you; but we will first look back a
little, and tell you what our fathers have told us, and what we have
heard from the white people.

“Brother, listen to what I say. There was a time when our forefathers
owned this great island. Their seats extended from the rising to the
setting sun. The Great Spirit had made it for the use of Indians. He had
created the buffalo, the deer, and other animals for food. He made the
bear, and the beaver, and their skins served us for clothing. He had
scattered them over the country, and taught us how to take them. He had
caused the earth to produce corn for bread. All this he had done for
his red children because he loved them. If we had any disputes about
hunting-grounds, they were generally settled without the shedding of
much blood: but an evil day came upon us: your forefathers crossed the
great waters, and landed on this island. Their numbers were small; they
found friends, and not enemies; they told us they had fled from their
own country for fear of wicked men, and come here to enjoy their
religion. They asked for a small seat; we took pity on them, granted
their request, and they sat down amongst us; we gave them corn and
meat; they gave us poison in return. The white people had now found our
country, tidings were carried back, and more came amongst us; yet we did
not fear them, we took them to be friends; they called us brothers; we
believed them, and gave them a larger seat. At length their numbers had
greatly increased; they wanted more land; they wanted our country. Our
eyes were opened, and our minds became uneasy. Wars took place; Indians
were hired to fight against Indians, and many of our people were
destroyed. They also brought strong liquors among us: it was strong and
powerful, and has slain thousands.”

The effect of this speech was such that the missionaries who had called
the council, were forced to give up all attempts at making converts
among the Senecas. Red Jacket took part with the Americans in the war
of 1812, and on all occasions displayed a cool and deliberate bravery,
which contrasted well with the rashness of Tecumseh and other great
chiefs. He became attached to some of the American officers, and after
the war regretted much to part with them.

Like Tecumseh, Red Jacket made a skilful use of superstition to obtain
an influence over his tribe. Having, in some way, lost the confidence
of his red brethren, he prevailed upon his brother to announce himself
a prophet, commissioned by the Great Spirit to restore his countrymen
to their lost land and power. By skilful reasoning, Red Jacket persuaded
the superstitious Indians to believe in his brother’s infallibility.
Good resulted from this deception. The Onondagas were at that period the
most drunken and profligate of the Iroquois. They were now persuaded to
abstain from ardent spirits, became sober and industrious, and observed
and obeyed the laws of morality. But the imposture was at length
exposed by the extremes into which it led many of the red men. Many were
denounced as possessed by evil spirits, and would have been burned by
the superstitious, if the whites had not interfered.

[Illustration: 0344]

In a council of Indians held at Buffalo creek, Red Jacket was denounced
as the author of these troubles, and brought to trial; but his eloquence
saved his life and greatly increased his fame. In a speech of three
hours’ length, he completely overthrew the accusations of his enemies,
and was triumphantly acquitted. This was one of the most remarkable
displays of eloquence to be found in history.

Many anecdotes are related of Red Jacket, which illustrated his
qualities of head and heart. When at Washington he visited the rotunda
of the capitol, and was shown, the panel which represented the first
landing of the pilgrims at Plymouth, with an Indian chief presenting
them with an ear of corn, in token of welcome. Red Jacket said, “That
was good; he knew they came from the Great Spirit, and was willing to
share the soil with his brothers.” But when he turned to view another
panel, representing Penn’s Treaty, he said, “Ah’! all’s gone now!” These
few words expressed a deal of truth and a feeling of regret.

When Lafayette was at Buffalo, in 1825, among those who called upon
him was Red Jacket, who resided near that town, and by years and
intemperance had been much worn down. He remembered Lafayette, having
seen him at an Indian council held at Fort Schuyler, 1784. He asked the
general if he recollected that meeting. The general replied that he had
not forgotten it, and asked Red Jacket if he knew what had become of
the young chief, who, in that council, opposed with such eloquence the
burying of the tomahawk. Red Jacket replied, “_He stands before you!_”
 The general observed that time had much changed them since that meeting.
“Ah,” said Red Jacket, “time has not been so severe upon you as it has
upon me. It has left you a fresh countenance, and hair to cover your
head; while to me--behold!” And taking a handkerchief from his head, he
showed that it was entirely bald.

Red Jacket always opposed the introduction of missionaries among his
people, and with a force of reasoning, the white agents could not
resist. He believed that the whites should first practice the virtues
they preached to the red men; and he had seen too much evil follow in
the white man’s steps to wish his men to tread the same path.

Not long before his death, Red Jacket was visited by Mr. Catlin, the
celebrated author of a most complete work upon the Indians of North
America. He then resided near Buffalo, and was the head chief of all the
remaining Iroquois.

[Illustration: 0349]

Mr. Catlin painted his portrait, and represented him as he wished,
standing on the Table Rock, at the Falls of Niagara; about which place
he thought his spirit would linger after his death. Red Jacket died in
1836. A handsome and appropriate monument was erected over his grave,
by Mr. Henry Placide, the comedian; and more lasting monuments, in
historical form, have been written by distinguished authors. As an
orator, this gifted chief was equal to any of modern times. His speeches
display the greatest sagacity and sublimity of ideas, with the greatest
force and condensation of expression. His gestures while speaking are
said to have been singularly significant; and the features of his face,
particularly his piercing eyes, full of expression. He was in truth, a
“forest-born Demosthenes.”


[Illustration: 0351]

WEATHERFORD.

[Illustration: 9351]

EATHERFORD was the principal chief of the

Creeks during the war in which the power of that nation was broken and
destroyed by General Jackson. In his character was found that union
of great virtues and vices which has made up the character of many
celebrated men among civilized nations. With avarice, treachery, lust,
gluttony, and a thirst for blood, nature gave Weatherford, genius,
eloquence, and courage. Seldom has an Indian appeared, more capable of
planning and executing great designs. His judgment and eloquence secured
him the respect of the old; his vices made him the idol of the young
and unprincipled. In his person, he was tall, straight, and well
proportioned; his eyes black, lively, and piercing; his nose aquiline
and thin; while all the features of his face, harmoniously arranged,
spoke an active and disciplined mind.

It was Weatherford’s talents and determined spirit which prolonged the
war against the whites, which began in August, 1813. When the power of
the Creeks had been broken, and great numbers of them had fallen, many
of their chiefs and warriors came to General Jackson, and surrendered
themselves prisoners. Weatherford, with a few followers, boldly
maintained his hostile attitude. General Jackson, to test the fidelity
of those chiefs who submitted, ordered them to deliver, without delay,
Weatherford, bound, into his hands, that he might be dealt with as he
deserved. The warriors made known to Weatherford what was required of
them. His noble spirit would not submit to such degradation; and he
resolved to yield himself without compulsion.

[Illustration: 0353]

Accordingly, Weatherford proceeded to the American camp, unknown, and
under some pretence, was admitted to the presence of the commanding
general. He then boldly said: “I am Weatherford, the chief who commanded
at Fort Mimms. I desire peace for my people, and have come to ask it.”
 Jackson was surprised that he should venture to appear in his presence,
and told him, for his inhuman conduct at Fort Mimms, he well deserved to
die; that he had ordered him to be brought to the camp, bound, and had
he been so bound, he would have been treated as he deserved. To this
Weatherford replied:

“I am in your power--do with me as you please. I am a soldier. I have
done the white people all the harm I could. I have fought them and
fought them bravely. If I had an army, I would yet fight; I would
contend to the last. But I have none. My people are all gone. I can only
weep over the misfortunes of my nation.”

General Jackson was pleased with his boldness, and told him that, though
he was in his power, yet he would take no advantage; that he might yet
join the war party, and contend against the Americans, if he chose, but
to depend upon no quarter if taken afterward; and that unconditional
submission was his and his people’s only safety. Weatherford rejoined in
a tone as dignified as it was indignant,--“You can safely address me in
such terms now. There was a time when I could have answered you--there
was a time when I had a choice--I have none now. I have not even a hope.
I could once animate my warriors to battle--but I cannot animate the
dead. My warriors can no longer hear my voice. Their bones are at
Tallahega, Tallushatchee, Emuckfaw, and Tohopeka. I have not surrendered
myself without thought. While there was a single chance of success, I
never left my post, nor supplicated peace. But my people are gone, and I
now ask it for my nation, not for myself. I look back with deep sorrow,
and wish to avert still greater calamities. If I had been left to
contend with the Georgia army, I would have raised my corn on one
bank of the river, and fought them on the other. But your people have
destroyed my nation. You are a brave man. I rely upon your generosity.
You will exact no terms of a conquered people, but such as they should
accede to. Whatever they may be, it would now be madness and folly to
oppose them. If they are opposed, you shall find me amongst the
sternest enforcers of obedience. Those who would still hold out, can be
influenced only by a mean spirit of revenge. To this they must not, and
shall not sacrifice the last remnant of their country. You have told our
nation where we might go and be safe. This is good talk, and they ought
to listen to it. They shall listen to it.”

[Illustration: 0357]

The treaty concluded between the Creeks and the whites was faithfully
observed by the former, and Weatherford’s conduct proved, that he could
be a warm friend if conciliated, as well as a formidable and determined
foe in war. Passionately fond of wealth, he appropriated to himself
a fine tract of land, improved and settled it. To this he retired
occasionally, and relaxed from the cares of his government, indulging in
pleasures, censurable and often disgusting. The character of this chief
reminds us of some of the old Roman heroes and politicians. The same
genius, activity, ambition, and love of vicious pleasures belonged to
those Cæsars and Antonys who have received more historical encomiums
than is rightfully their due.

[Illustration: 0360]

[Illustration: 0362]

[Illustration: 0363]




THE BATTLE OF SACO POND.

[Illustration: 9363]

O event is oftener mentioned in New England story than the memorable
fight between the English and Indians, at Saco Pond. The cruel and
barbarous murders almost daily committed upon the inhabitants of the
frontier settlements, caused the general court of Massachusetts to offer
a bounty of £100 for every Indian’s scalp. This reward induced Captain
John Lovewell to raise a volunteer company, and make excursions into the
Indian country for scalps. He was very successful and returned to Boston
with scalps for which he received £1000.

The Indians, however continued their depredations, and the Pequawkets,
under the terrible chief, Paugus, especially distinguished themselves
for their frequent predatory incursions. About the middle of April,
1725, Captain Lovewell, with forty-six men, marched on an expedition
against Paugus. The party arrived near the place where they expected
to find the Indians, on the 7th of May; and and early the next morning,
while at prayers, heard a gun, supposed to be fired by one of the
Indians, and immediately prepared for the encounter. Divesting
themselves of their packs, they marched forward, but in an opposite
direction from where the Indians were posted.

This mistake gave Paugus an advantage. He followed the track of the
English, fell in with their packs, and learned their numbers. Encouraged
by superiority, he having eighty men with him, he pursued the English,
and courted a contest. Lovewell, after marching a considerable distance,
during which time he took one scalp, and was mortally wounded by the
last fire of the Indian who had been scalped, ordered his men to return
for their packs. The wary Paugus expected this, and lay in ambush to cut
them off. When the English were completely encircled, the Indians rose
from the coverts, and advanced towards them with arms presented.
They expected the English to surrender to their superior force, and
accordingly threw away their first fire. But Lovewell, though wounded,
led on his men to the attack. The Indians were driven back several rods,
and many killed and wounded. But they soon returned and attacked their
white foes vigorously; killed Lovewell and eight men, and wounded three
others. The English then retreated to the shore of Saco Pond, so as to
prevent their being surrounded. The banks afforded a kind of breastwork,
behind which they maintained the contest until night, when the Indians
drew off and they saw no more of them. Only nine of the English escaped
unhurt, though several that were wounded lived to return to Dunstable.

Paugus was killed in the course of the fight by one John Chamberlain, a
noted hunter. It is said that they both came to the shore of the pond to
quench their thirst, when the encounter took place, in which Paugus was
shot through the heart.

A son of the chief, after peace was restored, came to Dunstable, to
revenge his father’s death, by killing Chamberlain; but not going
directly to him his design was suspected by some one, and communicated
to the intended victim, who kept himself upon his guard, and had a hole
cut through the door of his house. Through this hole, Chamberlain
one morning discovered an Indian, behind a pile of wood, with his gun
pointed toward the door. Making use of his advantage, he fired upon and
killed the son of Paugus.

In the ballad, in which the events of Love-well’s fight are
commemorated, we find some singular details of the escape of the wounded
white men. Solomon Keyes, having received three wounds, said he would
hide himself and die secretly, so that the Indians could not get his
scalp? As he crawled upon the shore of the pond, a short distance from
the battle-ground, he found a canoe, into which he rolled himself, and
was drifted away by the wind. To his astonishment, he was cast ashore
near Fort Ossippee, to which he crawled, and there found several of his
companions, with whom he returned home. The most of those who escaped
did not leave the battle-ground till near midnight. When they arrived
at the fort, they expected to find refreshment, and the few men they had
left in reserve. But a deserter had so frightened the men left in the
fort, that they fled in dismay towards Dunstable.

Fifty New Hampshire volunteers afterwards marched to the scene of
action, and buried the dead. They found but three Indians, one of whom
was Paugus. The remainder were supposed to have been taken away when
they retreated. The pond, on the banks of which the battle was fought,
has ever since received the name of Lovewell’s Pond. Some rural Homer,
the author of the ballad to which we have alluded, thus pathetically
concludes his narrative:

``Ah, many a wife shall rend her hair,

``And many a child cry, “Woe is me,”

``When messengers the news shall hear,

``Of Lovewell’s dear-bought victory.=

``With footsteps slow shall travellers go,

``Where Love well’s pond shines clear and bright

``And mark the place where those are laid,

``Who fell in Love well’s bloody fight.=

``Old men shall shake their heads, and say,

``Sad was the hour and terrible,

``When Lovewell, brave, ‘gainst Paugus went,

``With fifty men from Dunstable.=

[Illustration: 0370]

[Illustration: 0371]




WINGINA

[Illustration: 9371]

INGINA was the first chief known to the English settlers of Virginia.
The voyagers, Amidas and Barlow, sent out by Sir Walter Raleigh, in the
summer of 1584, landed upon the island of Wokoken, adjacent to Virginia.
They saw several of the natives, and made them presents. Wingina was at
this time confined in his cabin, from wounds received in battle, and did
not see the English. He had not much faith in their good intentions, and
would not trust them far.

Soon after the return of Amidas and Barlow to England, Sir Richard
Grenville intruded upon the territories of Wingina. It was he who
committed the first outrage upon the natives, which excited their
constant and deadly hostility. He made one short excursion into the
country, during which, to revenge the loss of a silver cup, which had
been stolen by an Indian, he burned a town. Grenville left one hundred
and eight men to found a settlement on the island of Roanoke, and
appointed Ralph Lane, governor. The English made several excursions into
the country, in hopes of discovering mines of precious metal, of which
the Indians, to delude them, spoke, and encouraged them to seek.

Wingina bore the insults and provocations of the intruders, until the
death of the old chief, Ensenore, his father. Under pretence of honoring
his funeral, he assembled eighteen hundred of his warriors, with
the intent, as the English say, of destroying them. The English were
informed of the deadly design, by Skiko, the son of the chief Menatonon;
and Governor Lane resolved to anticipate it. Upon a given signal, his
men attacked the natives on the island where Wingina lived, having
secured the canoes to prevent their escape. But five or six of the
Indians were killed, and the rest escaped to the woods, where Lane knew
it would be dangerous to follow them.

This attack was the signal for the commencement of hostilities. The
English were few in number, but their skill and bravery in war was
well known to the red men, and they dreaded them, as if they had been
superior in number. Lane aimed at securing the person of Wingina, and
thus striking terror into his people; and accordingly watched every
opportunity to gain information of his whereabouts. At length he
ascertained that the chief had not been able to escape from the island,
and that with a number of his chiefs and warriors, he was lurking in the
forests of the island which was his capital. The English captain taking
with him about one half of his men, placed them in ambush near the spot
which Wingina frequented daily. It was the burial place of his father,
and the chief, with a few companions, came there to give himself to
weeping and mournful reflection.

The English had little consideration for the place or the purpose of
the chief’s visit. When they saw he was fairly within their power, they
rushed from their concealment, and before the chief and his warriors
could recover from their surprise and attempt to escape, shot them down.
Lane then returned to the remainder of his men. The bodies of Wingina
and his braves were found by his people, attracted to the spot by the
report of the fire-arms; and for a time, it seemed as if the desire of
revenge would induce them to follow the English and attack them. But the
wiser portion of them, knowing the advantage which the English possessed
in the use of fire-arms, restrained them. But Lane was not suffered to
remain quiet in the enjoyment of his triumph. Conspiracies were detected
in various quarters, and finally, the Indians compelled the whole
English party to return to Europe. We cannot wonder at the rooted enmity
to the whites which the Indians afterwards displayed. Not content with
invading and taking possession of the country, the early visitors from
England burned the towns and murdered the natives upon the slightest
provocation. Early impressions are most lasting, and what could the
English expect after giving the red men such an idea of their character?

[Illustration: 0375]

[Illustration: 0376]




HAROLD DEAN; OR, THE INDIAN’S REVENGE.

[Illustration: 9376]

HE Indian ever regards the constant pursuit of revenge for an injury an
evidence of a high character. Instances are many, in which years have
intervened between a revengeful resolve, and the favorable opportunity,
yet no sign of relenting would be found in the injured one. Such a
disposition is natural to those who are taught to look on war as the
chief business of life, and mercy to foes as despicable weakness.
The following narrative will illustrate this feature of the Indian
character.

About the period of the first settlement of the disciples of George
Fox, on the banks of the Delaware, a party of young men, of respectable
families, filled with the hopes excited by the glowing accounts of the
new country, and having a love of adventure which could not be gratified
in their thickly settled and strictly governed native land, resolved to
come to America; and putting their resolve in execution they arrived
on the banks of the Delaware. The reasons for their preferring to visit
Penn’s settlement were very pardonable. Although they loved adventure,
they preferred to seek it where the red men were least disposed to
use the hatchet and scalping knife, and where there was the clearest
prospect of making a good settlement if they felt so disposed.

The party consisted of six young gentlemen of the average age of
twenty-two years. Their names were Harold Dean, George Sanford, William
Murdstone, James Ballybarn, Richard Gwynne, and Morton Williams. The
first was a daring, quick, and restless spirit, and by general consent
the leader of the party. He was a winning companion, but selfish, and
seemed to have cut loose from all moral principle. The character of the
others contained no extraordinary features. They were all possessed of
good intentions, and a considerable degree of intelligence; but being
destitute of that activity and force of will which belonged to the
character of Harold Dean.

The young men arrived in Penn’s settlement, as we have said, and being
well provided with all the necessaries of a hunter’s life, resolved
to build some cabins on the the banks of the beautiful Schuylkill.
But first, Harold Dean succeeded in making the acquaintance of the
neighboring Indians. These red men belonged to the great tribe, which
the English named the Delawares. They, however, called themselves the
Leni Lenape. They were generally well disposed towards the whites, on
account of the honorable and peaceful conduct of the founder of the
settlement, and received the young Englishmen with every testimonial of
friendship and respect. The chiefs assured the young men that they might
build their cabins and hunt without the fear of being disturbed by the
red men.

Accordingly, Dean selected a high bank, rocky and castellated at the
water’s side, and bare of trees for a considerable distance inland, for
the site of two cabins. The labor of building log cabins was novel to
the young men. Yet, though difficult, its novelty and romantic character
made it pleasing. James Ballybarn was a regularly taught carpenter and
joiner, and his knowledge was brought into use. Dean planned the cabins
in the simplest but most comfortable manner, and all hands worked hard
at cutting down trees and hewing them into the proper size and form.
While the cabins were preparing, the young pioneers slept in a rude hut
constructed of their chests and tools, and covered with the boughs of
small trees.

The cabins were finished, much to the gratification of the workmen. They
stood within about five yards of each other and presented quite a fine
appearance, amid the solitude of the wilderness. Each one was occupied
by three young men. By the aid of a friendly Delaware, two canoes were
also constructed in the usual Indian style by hollowing out the trunks
of large trees. And now the real hardships of the hunter’s life were
to be endured; and though our young pioneers succeeded very well for
beginners supplying themselves with food, and skins for sale, yet the
labor was more difficult than they had expected. One or two began to
compare their situation with what it had been in England, and the result
of the comparison, was by no means favorable to their remaining in the
wilderness. But Harold Dean had fallen in love with the hunter’s life.
It offered plenty of exciting occupation to his quick and daring spirit;
and he forgot friends and relations at home. His influence over his
companions was undisputed. He had a love of being first in every thing,
and never spared labor to make himself such. His companions submitted to
his lead, and after a little argument, were persuaded that there was no
life like a hunter’s.

The party had become very intimate with the Indians, and Harold Dean
especially was a general favorite among them. He had cultivated the
friendship of a young Indian hunter, named Pakanke. Pakanke was
brave, adventurous, and skilled in all the mysteries of woodcraft. He
instructed Harold Dean in that art, which was to him so necessary, and
joined the young Englishmen in many a hunting excursion.

But other attractions induced Harold to seek the company of Pakanke, and
frequently to spend a day at his wigwam. The Indian hunter had a
sister, who was one of the most beautiful young women of her tribe, and
decidedly the most intelligent. Her father had been killed in battle,
and her brother was necessarily her guardian. Many of the young
Delawares, foremost in war and the chase, coveted the beautiful
Narramattah, but she had refused to share the wigwam of the bravest.
Harold Dean met her at the cabin of her brother, and was charmed with
her appearance and manners. His fine person and winning attentions also
captivated the guileless maid. Pakanke regarded the growing attachment
of his English friend and sister with undisguised pleasure, and did all
in his power to increase it.

Harold’s friends were now frequently deprived of his company, yet as
he told them of the beauties of the sister of Pakanke, they guessed
the reason and readily excused him. But was it a fact that Harold loved
Narra-mattah? That she loved him there could not be a doubt; she was
never happier than when in his presence, and she told him that he had
became her Manito, or idol. Harold admired her--that he confessed to
himself. But he laughed to scorn the assertions of his friends that he
really loved an Indian girl.

At length the precise state of his feelings was divulged. Richard Gwynne
rallied him one evening, after the return from the day’s hunting, upon
being captivated by a dusky forest beauty.

“Pshaw!” replied Harold, with a contemptuous expression of features,
“Gwynne, have you no idea of whiling away the time with women, apart
from falling in love with them? You are completely fresh. I love an
ignorant savage! I have known too many of the intelligent and enchanting
girls of merry old England, to be so foolish. I’ll beguile the time with
this Narramattah, but could not for a moment think of loving her, or of
going through the Indian sanction of a marriage ceremony.”

So saying, Harold turned away from Gwynne, and entered the cabin. But
what he had said had struck one ear and touched one heart for which it
was not intended. Pa-kanke had parted from Harold a moment before Gwynne
had spoken to him, and hearing his sister’s name mentioned, had checked
his pace to hear what was said of her. Eavesdropping is a vice practised
by the untutored children of the forest as well as by civilized men, and
it is sometimes pardonable. Pa-kanke understood sufficient English to
comprehend that Harold Dean was confessing that he was trifling with
Narramattah’s love, and never intended to marry her. In an instant, all
his esteem and friendship for the young Englishman had turned to the
gall of hatred and revenge. He at first thought of seeking him at once,
and demanding redress for the insult offered to his family and race. But
reining his passion, he resolved to wait a more promising opportunity.

The next day, Harold Dean and Pakanke went upon the hunt together, and
the Indian took the earliest occasion, when they were alone, to explain
to the Englishman the extent of his sister’s affection for him, and
to demand that he should marry her. Harold endeavored to soothe the
indignant feelings of the red man, and told him that he could love his
sister, but could not marry her, as he had a wife already in England.
Pakanke told him that he was deceitful; that he was a snake, whose
bright colors lured simple maidens near that he might sting them; that
he had seemed a friend, but to be a more deadly foe; and that he should
marry Narra-mattah, or feel that the red man can revenge an insult as
he can repay a kindness. He concluded in these forcible words: “Take to
your wigwam, pale face, the maiden you have loved; keep and take care of
the wild flower which you have sought and trained to await your coming,
or the big wind shall hurl you to the earth!”

Harold evaded the demand, and finally induced the young Indian to wait
until the next day, when they should see Narramattah together, and then
he would decide. But the deceitful Englishman did not intend to see the
maiden, he had wronged, again. It was a mere ruse to escape the Indian’s
vengeance for a time. The next day, when Pakanke came for Harold he was
not to be found at the cabin; and Pakanka turned to Narramattah, to tell
her of her wrongs, and his burning resolve to revenge them. The poor,
trusting forest maiden seemed as if struck speechless by the information
that Harold had fled, after declaring that he never intended to take her
to his wigwam. The wild flower was crushed by the ruthless blast; and
her mind, unable to withstand the shock, became distracted. When Pakanke
arose in the morning, his sister was gone. He searched eagerly every
where in the neighborhood of the village for her, but in vain. At length
news was brought him that Narrantattah’s mangled body had been found at
the foot of a high precipice, near the Wissahicon creek. He hurried to
the spot, and found the information true.

The distracted girl had either thrown herself from the precipice, or
accidentally fallen from it in her wanderings. Pakanke paused to drop
the few tears of grief forced from his eyes; and then, over his sister’s
body, bade the Great Spirit mark his vow, never to rest until the
murderer of his sister had met the fate he deserved. The body of
Narramattah was given to her friends to be placed in the cold grave near
her father; and many were the tears shed for her unhappy fate, by the
Delaware women.

Pakanke, alone, again sought the cabins of the Englishmen, and this
time, he found the object of his search. Harold Dean, calculating the
exact time of Pakanke’s visit on the day before, had gone with his
friends on a hunting expedition far into the country, and had returned
with them to the cabins just before Pakanke arrived. He calculated that
the Indian would be satisfied with any trifling excuse invented for the
occasion, and did not dream that the affair had reached a tragic
crisis. Pakanke’s appearance in the cabin surprised him. The Indian was
unusually calm and collected, and betrayed no sign of any but the most
peaceable intentions. He said he came for Harold to fulfil his promise
to accompany him to the wigwam; and finding there could be no further
evasion, Harold consented to accompany him.

The two hunters left the cabins and proceeded through the woods, as
Harold thought, towards the Delaware village, but as Pakanke knew, in a
different direction. They spoke occasionally, concerning hunting and the
game of the season; but the Indian was afraid to trust himself to many
words, and Harold was meditating some plan of escape from the proposed
marriage. At length they approached what seemed to be a deep ravine, and
Harold’s eye wandered around for the best place for crossing. They were
nearing the high over-hanging precipice, and Pakanke knew it. “This is the
best crossing,” said he to Harold, as they approached the tree-covered
edge of the rock from which Narramattah had thrown herself, or fallen.
“This is rather a disagreeable path, I think,” said Harold, as he
looked over to the opposite bank of the creek. “It leads to thy grave!”
 shrieked Pakanke, as, with an effort, made giant strong by passion, he
snatched Harold’s rifle, stabbed him in the back, and hurled him from
the rock. Then he leaned over its edge to look down. The rock was about
one hundred feet high, and its top projected far beyond its base. Harold
shrieked as he was thrown from the rock, but all was soon over. Pakanke
saw, as he leaned over the edge, that his victim had been literally
dashed to pieces; and a smile of gratified revenge appeared upon his
lips as he turned away to descend to the spot, to secure the scalp.
After this customary trophy from a conquered foe had been obtained,
Pakanke returned to the Delaware village, and gladdened the ears of the
chiefs and warriors with the circumstances of his exploit. He then sent
information of it to Harold’s friends, accompanied with an assurance
that if they were snakes they would be served in the same way, but if
friends, they would not be disturbed.

The terrible death of Harold appalled the young Englishmen, and they
were so mistrustful of the good intentions of the red men, that they
unanimously resolved to quit the vicinity and return to the settlement
at once. Accordingly, the most valuable of their skins and all their
necessary articles of clothing, and their fire-arms, were packed up,
the cabins set on fire, and they set out for the settlement. Two of them
remained in Philadelphia, the others returned to England, and conveyed
the news of the death of Harold Dean to his parents. They were not
disconsolate, although they wept for him. He had always been a wild
spirit and a bad son, and his treachery to poor Narramattah was but one
additional item in a catalogue of such deeds, which had made his fame
ignoble in England.

[Illustration: 0390]

[Illustration: 0392]

[Illustration: 0393]




BIENVILLE’S EXPEDITION AGAINST THE CHICKASAWS.

[Illustration: 9393] |

FTER the destruction of the power of the Natchez Indians, by the French,
in 1731, the remnant of that nation took refuge among the powerful
and ferocious tribe of Chickasaws, who were the determined and
uncompromising enemies of the colonists of Louisiana. The united nations
could bring a large and efficient force into the field; and besides,
they had five strong palisaded forts, and many fortified villages.
Bienville, governor of Louisiana, could only command about three hundred
Frenchmen at the commencement of the war; but the Choctaws were his
allies, and although not the best and bravest of warriors, their aid was
valuable. A desultory warfare was carried on until early in 1736, when
the French government sent additional troops to Bienville, and ordered
him to undertake an expedition against the Chickasaws.

In obedience to these instructions, Bienville had sent word to the
younger D’Arta-guette, the commander of the Illinois district, to
collect all the French and Indian forces he could control, and to meet
him on the 31st of March, 1736, at the Chickasaw villages. In the month
of January of that year, Bienville drew from Natchez, Natchitoches,
and the Balize all the officers and soldiers he could muster, without
weakening too much the garrisons stationed at those places. He formed a
company of volunteers, composed of traders and transient persons then in
New Orleans, and another company of unmarried men belonging to the city,
and which was called the “company of bachelors.” A depot of ammunition,
provisions, and all that was necessary for the intended campaign was
established on the Tombigbee, at the distance of two hundred and seventy
miles from Mobile, where the several detachments of the army were sent,
through the Lakes, as fast as conveyances could be procured. Several
large vessels containing provisions and utensils of every sort were
despatched down the Mississippi to Mobile, and on the 4th of March,
Bienville departed from New Orleans, leaving behind him only four
companies of regulars under Noyan, which were to follow him as soon as
they could be transported. The boats having to struggle against adverse
winds, the whole of the French forces did not reach Mobile before the
22d, and it was only on the 28th, that the last of the vessels carrying
provisions entered the harbor, when it was discovered that her cargo had
been much damaged by the sea. On the 1st of April, the expedition left
Mobile, and it was only on the 23d that the army reached the Tombigbee
depot, after having had to contend against currents, freshets, storms,
and constant rains.

While waiting for the arrival of the Choctaws, Bienville reviewed his
troops, and found them to consist of five hundred and forty-four white
men, excluding the officers, forty-five negroes, and a body of Indians.
At length six hundred Choctaw warriors arrived, and the army resumed its
march. On the 22d of May, it encamped about twenty-seven miles from the
Chickasaw villages. On the 23d, Bienville ordered fortifications to be
constructed for the protection of his boats, and placed twenty men under
Captain Vanderck in them. The next day, the army with provisions for
twelve days, marched six miles further, and encamped on account of a
tempest. On the 25th, within the space of twelve miles, the army had to
cross three deep ravines running through a thick cane-brake, and had
to wade through water rising up to the waist. It then emerged on a
beautiful open prairie, on the edge of which they encamped, at the
distance of six miles from the Chickasaw villages.

The intention of Bienville was to turn round those villages of the
Chickasaws to march upon the village of the Natchez, which was in the
rear, and to attack first those whom he considered as the instigators of
the Chickasaw war. But the Choctaws insisted with such pertinacity upon
attacking the Villages which were nearer, and which, they said contained
more provisions than that of the Natchez, and they represented with
such warmth, that, in the needy condition in which they were, it was
absolutely necessary they should take possession of these provisions,
that Bienville yielded to their importunities. The prairie, in which
these villages were situated, covered a space of about six miles. The
villages were small, and built in the shape of a triangle, on a hillock
sloping down to a brook which was almost dry; further off was the main
body of the Chickasaw villages, and the smaller ones seemed to be a sort
of vanguard. The Choctaws having informed Bienville that he would find
water no where else, he ordered the army to file off close to the wood
which enclosed the prairie, in order to reach another hillock that was
in sight. There the troops halted to rest and take nourishment. It was
past twelve o’clock.

The Indian scouts whom Bienville had sent in every direction to look for
tidings of D’Artaguette, whom he had expected to operate his junction
with him on this spot, had come back and brought no information. It was
evident, therefore, that he could no longer hope for the co-operation on
which he had relied, and that he had to trust only to his own resources.
It was impossible to wait; and immediate action was insisted upon by
the Choctaws and the French officers, who thought that the three small
villages, which have been described, and which were the nearest to
them, were not capable of much resistance. Bienville yielded to the
solicitations of his allies and of his troops, and at two in the
afternoon, ordered his nephew Noyan, to begin the attack, and to put
himself at the head of a column composed of a company of grenadiers, of
detachments of fifteen men taken from each one of the eight companies
of the French regulars, of sixty-five men of the Swiss troops, and
forty-five volunteers.

The French had approached within carbine shot of the forts, and at that
distance, could plainly distinguish Englishmen, who appeared to be very
active in assisting the Chickasaws in preparing their defence, and who
had hoisted up their flag on one of the forts. Bienville recommended
that they should not be assailed, if they thought proper to retire, and
in order to give them time, should they feel so disposed, he ordered to
confine the attack to the village, named Ackia, which flag was the most
remote from the one under the English flag.

The order of the attack being given, the division commanded by Noyan
moved briskly on, and under the protection of mantelets carried by the
company of negroes, arrived safely at the foot of the hill on which the
villages stood. But there, one of the negroes being killed, and another
wounded, the rest flung down the mantelets, and took to their heels. The
French pushed on, and penetrated into the village, with the company
of grenadiers at their head. But being no longer under cover, and much
exposed to the fire of the enemy, their losses were very heavy. The
noble and brilliant Chevalier de Contre Coeur, a favorite in the army,
was killed, and a number of soldiers shared his fate, or were disabled.
However, three of the principal fortified cabins were carried by the
impetuosity of the French, with several smaller ones which were burned.
But as a pretty considerable intervening space remained to be gone over,
to assail the chief fort and the other fortified cabins, when it became
necessary to complete the success obtained, Noyan, who had headed the
column of attack, turning round, saw that he had with him only the
officers belonging to the head of the column, some grenadiers, and
a dozen of volunteers. The troops had been dismayed by the death of
Captain De Lusser, of one of the sergeants of the grenadiers, and of
some of the soldiers of this company who had fallen, when they had
attempted to cross the space separating the last cabin taken from the
next to be taken; seeking for shelter against the galling fire of the
enemy, they had clustered behind the cabins of which they had already
taken possession, and it was impossible for the officers who commanded
the tail of the column, to drive them away, either by threats, promises,
or words of exhortation, from their secure position. Pitting themselves
at the head of a few of their best soldiers, in order to encourage the
rest, the officers resolved to make a desperate attempt to storm the
fortified block-house they had in front of them. But in an instant,
their commander, the Chevalier de Noyan, D’Hauterive, the captain of the
grenadiers, Grondel, lieutenant of the Swiss, De Yelles, Montbrun, and
many other officers were disabled. Still keeping his ground, De Noyan
sent his aid-de-camp, De Juzan, to encourage and bring up to him the
wavering soldiers, who had slunk behind the cabins. But, in making this
effort, this officer was killed, and his death increased the panic of
the troops.

Grondel, who had fallen near the walls of the enemy, had been abandoned,
and a party of Indians was preparing to sally out to scalp him, when
a sergeant of grenadiers, ashamed of the cowardice which had left an
officer in this perilous and defenceless position, took with him four of
his men, and rushed to the rescue of Grondel, without being intimidated
by bullets as thick as hail. These five intrepid men reached in safety
the spot where Grondel lay, and they were in the act of lifting him up
to carry him away, when a general discharge from the fort prostrated
every one of them dead by the side of him they had come to save. But
this noble deed was not lost upon the army; the electrical stroke had
been given, and was responded to by the flashing out of another bright
spark of heroism. A grenadier, named Regnisse, rather inflamed than
dastardized by the fate of his companions, dashed out of the ranks of
his company, ran headlong to the place where Grondel lay weltering
in his blood, from the five wounds he had received, took him on his
athletic shoulders, and carried him away in triumph, amid the general
acclamations and enthusiastic bravos of those who witnesses the feat. To
the astonishment of all, he had the good luck to pass unscathed through
the fire which was poured upon him by the enemy, but the inanimate
body of Grondel which he was transporting received a sixth wound.
So generously saved from the Indian tomahawk, this officer slowly
recovered, and when subsequently raised to a high rank in the French
army.

Noyan, seeing at last that he was exposing himself and his brave
companions in vain and fainting from the effects of his wounds, ordered
a retreat from the open field, and taking shelter in one of the cabins,
sent word to Bienville, that he had lost about seventy men, and that
if prompt relief was not sent the detachment would be annihilated. On
hearing this report, Bienville sent Beauchamp with a reserve of eighty
men, to support the troops engaged, and to bring off the wounded and
dead. Beauchamp reached the spot where the little band of Frenchmen
was concentrated, and where the strife had been hottest. Seeing that no
headway could be made he covered the retreat of the band, and brought
off to the French camp most of the wounded and dead. The Choctaws, who
had left the French to shift for themselves, seeing them retreat, wished
to show their spirit, and made a movement, as if to storm the village.
But a general discharge from the enemy, killing twenty-two of their men
caused them to make a retrogade movement, much to the amusement of the
French. The battle had lasted during three hours, and when evening came,
the scene was as quiet as if the blast of war had never scared the birds
from the trees or the cattle from the plain.

After the severe repulse which the French had met, nothing remained but
for them to retreat. Bienville saw that he could not depend upon the
Choctaws, and the fortifications of the Chickasaws were too strong to be
carried without cannon and mortars. On the 22d of May, the day following
that of the battle of Ackia, Bienville had litters made to transport the
wounded; and at one in the afternoon, the army formed itself into two
columns, which had been the order of marching in coming, it began its
retrogade movement. The troops were much worn out with the fatigue they
had undergone, and the labor of transporting the baggage and wounded
was difficult. Slow marching disgusted the Choctaws, and one portion of
them, headed by the chief Red Shoe, wished to abandon the French. But
the more numerous part, aided by the eloquence of Bienville, succeeded
in inducing them to remain.

On the 29th, the French reached the place where they had left their
boats. They found the river falling fast, and they hastened to embark
the same day. After a laborious passage, they arrived at Tombigbee on
the 2d of June, and from, thence returned to New Orleans. The expedition
had been well planned, and vigorously executed, but unforseen
circumstances defeated it. The Chickasaws had proven much better
warriors than they had been thought to be, and had defended themselves
with an obstinacy as unexpected as it was successful. The English
supported that tribe in their war with the French, and they were thus
enabled to main-themselves against all the expeditions sent against
them.

[Illustration: 0406]










End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Indian: On the Battle-Field and in
the Wigwam, by John Frost

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