Wau-bun, the Early Day in the Northwest - Chapters 18-21



CHAPTER XVIII.
MASSACRE AT CHICAGO.(*)

It was the evening of the 7th of April, 1812. The children of Mr. Kinzie
were dancing before the fire to the music of their father's violin. The
tea-table was spread, and they were awaiting the return of their mother,
who had gone to visit a sick neighbor about a quarter of a mile up the
river.

Suddenly their sports were interrupted. The door was thrown open, and Mrs.
Kinzie rushed in, pale with terror, and scarcely able to articulate, "The
Indians! the Indians!"

(* This Narrative, first published in pamphlet form in 1836, was
transferred, with little variation, to Brown's "History of Illinois," and
to a work called "Western Annals." It was likewise made, by Major
Richardson, the basis of his two tales, "Hardscrabble," and "Wau-nan-gee.")

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"The Indians? What? Where?" eagerly demanded they all.

"Up at Lee's Place, killing and scalping!"

With difficulty Mrs. Kinzie composed herself sufficiently to give the
information, "That, while she was up at Burns's, a man and a boy were seen
running down with all speed on the opposite side of the river; that they
had called across to give notice to Burns's family to save themselves, for
the Indians were at Lee's Place, from which they had just made their
escape. Having given this terrifying news, they had made all speed for the
fort, which was on the same side of the river that they then were."

All was now consternation and dismay. The family were hurried into two old
pirogues, that lay moored near the house, and paddled with all possible
haste across the river to take refuge in the fort.

All that the man and boy who had made their escape were able to tell, was
soon known; but, in order to render their story more intelligible, it is
necessary to describe the scene of action.

Lee's Place, since known by the name of Hardscrabble, was a farm
intersected by the Chicago River, about four miles from its mouth. The
farm-house stood on the western bank of the south branch of this river. On
the north side of the main stream, but quite near its junction with Lake
Michigan, stood (as has already been described) the dwelling-house and
trading-establishment of Mr. Kinzie.

The fort was situated on the southern bank, directly opposite this
mansion--the river, and a few rods of sloping green turf on either side,
being all that intervened between them.

The fort was differently constructed from the one erected

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on the same site in 1816. It had two block-houses on the southern side,
and on the northern a sally-port, or subterranean passage from the parade-
ground to the river. This was designed either to facilitate escape in case
of an emergency, or as a means of supplying the garrison with water during
a siege.

The officers in the fort at this period were Captain Heald, the commanding
officer, Lieutenant Helm, the son-in-law of Mr. Kinzie, and Ensign Ronan--
the two last were very young men--and the surgeon, Dr. Van Voorhees.

The command numbered about seventy-five men; very few of whom were
effective.

A constant and friendly intercourse had been maintained between these
troops and the Indians. It is true that the principal men of the
Pottowattamie nation, like those of most other tribes, went yearly to Fort
Malden, in Canada, to receive a large amount of presents, with which the
British Government had, for many years, been in the habit of purchasing
their alliance; and it was well known that many of the Pottowattamies, as
well as Winnebagoes, had been engaged with the Ottawas and Shawnees at the
battle of Tippecanoe, the preceding autumn; yet, as the principal chiefs
of all the bands in the neighborhood appeared to be on the most amicable
terms with the Americans, no interruption of their harmony was at any time
anticipated.

After the 15th of August, however, many circumstances were recollected
that might have opened the eyes of the whites, had they not been lulled in
a fatal security. One instance in particular may be mentioned.

In the spring preceding the destruction of the fort, two Indians of the
Calumet hand came to the fort on a visit to the commanding officer. As
they passed through the

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quarters, they saw Mrs. Heald and Mrs. Helm playing at battledoor.

Turning to the interpreter, one of them, Nau-non-gee, remarked, "The white
chiefs' wives are amusing themselves very much; it will not be long before
they are hoeing in our cornfields!"

This was considered at the time an idle threat, or, at most, an ebullition
of jealous feeling at the contrast between the situation of their own
women and that of the "white chiefs' wives." Some months after, how
bitterly was it remembered!

The farm at Lee's Place was occupied by a Mr. White and three persons
employed by him in the care of the farm.

In the afternoon of the day on which our narrative commences, a party of
ten or twelve Indians, dressed and painted, arrived at the house, and,
according to the custom among savages, entered and seated themselves
without ceremony.

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

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

As the afternoon was far advanced, the soldier walked leisurely towards
the canoes, of which there were two tied near the bank. Some of the
Indians inquired where he was going. He pointed to the cattle which were
standing among the haystacks on the opposite bank, and made

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signs that they must go and fodder them, and then they should return and
get their supper.

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

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

They stopped not nor stayed until they arrived opposite Burns's,(*) where,
as before related, they called across to advertise the family of their
danger, and then hastened on to the fort.

It now occurred to those who had secured their own safety, that the family
of Burns was at this moment exposed to the most imminent peril. The
question was, who would hazard his own life to bring them to a place of
safety? A gallant young officer, Ensign Ronan, volunteered, with a party
of five or six soldiers, to go to their rescue.

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

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

(* Burns's house stood near the spot where the Agency Building, or "Cobweb
Castle," was afterwards erected, at the foot of N. State Street.)

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

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

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

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

It was subsequently ascertained, from traders out in the Indian country,
that the perpetrators of this bloody deed were a party of Winnebagoes, who
had come into this

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neighborhood to "take some white scalps." Their plan had been, to proceed
down the river from Lee's Place, and kill every white man without the
walls of the fort. Hearing, however, the report of the cannon, and not
knowing what it portended, they thought it best to remain satisfied with
this one exploit, and forthwith retreated to their homes on Rock River.

The inhabitants outside the fort, consisting of a few discharged soldiers
and some families of half-breeds, now intrenched themselves in the Agency
House. This stood west of the fort, between the pickets and the river, and
distant about twenty rods from the former.

It was an old-fashioned log building, with a hall running through the
centre, and one large room on each side. Piazzas extended the whole length
of the building in front and rear. These were planked up, for greater
security, port-holes were cut, and sentinels posted at night.

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

One night a sergeant and private, who were out on a patrol, came suddenly
upon a party of Indians in the pasture adjoining the esplanade. The
sergeant fired his piece, and both retreated towards the fort. Before they
could reach it, an Indian threw his tomahawk, which missed the sergeant
and struck a wagon standing near. The sentinel from the block-house
immediately fired, and with effect, while the men got safely in. The next
morning it was ascertained, from traces of blood to a considerable
distance into the prairie, and from the appearance of a body having been
laid among the long grass, that some execution had been done.

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

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

On the afternoon of the 7th of August, Winnemeg, or Catfish, a
Pottowattamie chief, arrived at the post, bringing despatches from General
Hull. These announced the declaration of war between the United States and
Great Britain, and that General Hull, at the head of the North-western
army, had arrived at Detroit; also, that the island of Mackinac had fallen
into the hands of the British.

The orders to Captain Heald were, "to evacuate the fort, if practicable,
and, in that event, to distribute all the United States' property
contained in the fort, and in the United States' factory or agency, among
the Indians in the neighborhood."

After having delivered his despatches, Winnemeg requested a private
interview with Mr. Kinzie, who had taken up his residence in the fort. He
stated to Mr. K. that he was acquainted with the purport of the
communications he had brought, and begged him to ascertain if it were the
intention of Captain Heald to evacuate the post. He advised strongly
against such a step, inasmuch as the garrison was well supplied with
ammunition, and with provisions for six months. It would, therefore, be
far better, he thought, to remain until a reinforcement could be sent to
their assistance. If, however, Captain Heald

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should decide upon leaving the post, it should by all means be done
immediately. The Pottowattamies, through whose country they must pass,
being ignorant of the object of Winnemeg's mission, a forced march might
be made, before those who were hostile in their feelings were prepared to
interrupt them.

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

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

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

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

First--It was highly improbable that the command would be permitted to
pass through the country in safety

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

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

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

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well as from the soldiers, the capture of Mackinac had been kept a
profound secret.

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

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

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

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

"Then jerk(*) it," said the man, "as the Indians do their venison."

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

Any further manifestation of ill feeling was, however,

(* This is done by cutting the meat in thin slices, placing it upon a
scaffold, and making a fire under it, which dries it and smokes it at the
same time.)

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

Thus passed the time until the 12th of August. The feelings of the inmates
of the fort during this time may be better imagined than described. Each
morning that dawned seemed to bring them nearer to that most appalling
fate--butchery by a savage foe--and at night they scarcely dared yield to
slumber, lest they should be aroused by the war-whoop and tomahawk. Gloom
and mistrust prevailed, and the want of unanimity among the officers
debarred them the consolation they might have found in mutual sympathy and
encouragement.

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

In council, the commanding officer informed the Indians that it was his
intention to distribute among them, the next day, not only the goods
lodged in the United States' factory, but also the ammunition and
provisions, with

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which the garrison was well supplied. He then requested of the
Pottowattamies an escort to Fort Wayne, promising them a liberal reward on
arriving there, in addition to the presents they were now about to
receive. With many professions of friendship and good will, the savages
assented to all he proposed, and promised all he required.

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

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

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

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

On the 13th, the goods, consisting of blankets, broad-cloths,

(* A trading-establishment--now Ypsilanti.)

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

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

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

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

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

He had heard, at Fort Wayne, of the order for evacuating the fort at
Chicago, and, knowing the hostile determination of the Pottowattamies, he
had made a rapid

(* Captain Wells, when a boy, was stolen, by the Miami Indians, from the
family of Hon. Nathaniel Pope, in Kentucky. Although recovered by them, he
preferred to return and live among his new friends. He married a Miami
woman, and became a chief of the nation. He was the father of the late
Mrs. Judge Wolcott, of Maumee, Ohio.)

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march across the country, to prevent the exposure of his relative, Captain
Heald, and his troops, to certain destruction.

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

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

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

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

Among the chiefs were several who, although they shared the general
hostile feeling of their tribe towards the Americans, yet retained a
personal regard for the troops at this post, and for the few white
citizens of the place. These chiefs exerted their utmost influence to
allay the revengeful feelings of the young men, and to avert their
sanguinary designs, but without effect.

On the evening succeeding the council, Black Partridge, a conspicuous
chief, entered the quarters of the commanding officer.

"Father," said he, "I come to deliver up to you the medal I wear. It was
given me by the Americans, and I have long worn it in token of our mutual
friendship. But

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our young men are resolved to imbrue their hands in the blood of the
whites. I cannot restrain them, and I will not wear a token of peace while
I am compelled to act as an enemy."

Had further evidence been wanting, this circumstance would have
sufficiently proved to the devoted band the justice of their melancholy
anticipations. Nevertheless, they went steadily on with the necessary
preparations; and, amid the horrors of their situation, there were not
wanting gallant hearts, who strove to encourage, in their desponding
companions, the hopes of escape they were far from indulging themselves.

Of the ammunition there had been reserved but twenty-five rounds, besides
one box of cartridges, contained in the baggage-wagons. This must, under
any circumstances of danger, have proved an inadequate supply; but the
prospect of a fatiguing march, in their present ineffective state, forbade
the troops embarrassing themselves with a larger quantity.



CHAPTER XIX.
NARRATIVE OF THE MASSACRE, CONTINUED.

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

Mr. Kinzie, having volunteered to accompany the troops in their march, had
intrusted his family to the care of some friendly Indians, who promised to
convey them in a boat around the head of Lake Michigan to a point* on* The
spot now called Bertrand, then known as Parc aux Vaches, from its having
been a favorite "stamping-ground" of the buffalo which then abounded in
the country.

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the St. Joseph's River, there to be joined by the troops, should the
prosecution of their march be permitted them.

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

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

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

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

As the troops left the fort, the band struck up the Dead March. On they
came, in military array, but with solemn mien. Captain Wells took the lead
at the head of his little band of Miamis. He had blackened his face before
leaving the garrison, in token of his impending fate. They took their
route along the lake shore. When they

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reached the point where commenced a range of sand-hills intervening
between the prairie and the beach, the escort of Pottowattamies, in number
about five hundred, kept the level of the prairie, instead of continuing
along the beach with the Americans and Miamis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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was come, and endeavored to forget those I loved, and prepare myself for
my approaching fate.

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

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

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

"I pointed to Ensign Ronan, who, though mortally wounded and nearly down,
was still fighting with desperation on one knee.(*)

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

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

"At this moment a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me. By springing
aside, I partially avoided the blow, which was intended for my skull, but
which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him around the neck, and while
exerting

(* The exact spot of this encounter was about where 21st Street crosses
Indiana Avenue.)

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my utmost efforts to get possession of his scalping -knife, which hung in
a scabbard over his breast, I was dragged from his grasp by another and
older Indian.

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

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

"When the firing had nearly subsided, my preserver bore me from the water
and conducted me up the sand-banks. It was a burning August morning, and
walking through the sand in my drenched condition was inexpressibly
painful and fatiguing. I stooped and took off my shoes to free them from
the sand with which they were nearly filled, when a squaw seized and
carried them off, and I was obliged to proceed without them.

"When we had gained the prairie, I was met by my father, who told me that
my husband was safe and but slightly wounded. They led me gently back
towards the Chicago River, along the southern bank of which was the
Pottowattamie encampment. At one time I was placed upon a horse without a
saddle, but, finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Supported
partly by my kind conductor, Black Partridge, and partly by another
Indian, Pee-so-tum, who held dangling in his hand a scalp, which

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by the black ribbon around the queue I recognized as that of Captain
Wells, I dragged my fainting steps to one of the wigwams.

"The wife of Wau-bee-nee-mah, a chief from the Illinois River, was
standing near, and,seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle,
dipped up some water from a stream that flowed near,(*) threw into it some
maple-sugar, and, stirring it up with her hand, gave it me to drink. This
act of kindness, in the midst of so many horrors, touched me most
sensibly; but my attention was soon diverted to other objects.

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

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

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

"As the noise of the firing grew gradually less and the stragglers from
the victorious party came dropping in, I received confirmation of what my
father had hurriedly communicated in our rencontre on the lake shore;
namely, that the whites had surrendered, after the loss of about two-
thirds of their number. They had stipulated, through the interpreter,
Peresh Leclerc, for the preservation of their lives, and those of the
remaining women and children,

(* Along the present State Street.)

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and for their delivery at some of the British posts, unless ransomed by
traders in the Indian country. It appears that the wounded prisoners were
not considered as included in the stipulation, and a horrid seene ensued
upon their being brought into camp.

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

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

But in the mean time a horrible scene had been enacted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a Sergeant Holt, who, early in the engagement, received a ball
in the neck. Finding himself badly wounded, he gave his sword to his wife,
who was on horseback

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near him, telling her to defend herself; he then made for the lake, to
keep out of the way of the balls. Mrs. Holt rode a very fine horse, which
the Indians were desirous of possessing, and they therefore attacked her,
in hopes of dismounting her.

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

"The brave woman! do not hurt her!"

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

"That is Mrs. Heald," cried Mrs. Kinzie. "That Indian will kill her. Run,
Chandonnai," to one of Mr. Kinzie's

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

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clerks, "take the mule that is tied there, and offer it to him to release
her."

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

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

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

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

She had not lain long in the boat, when a young Indian of savage aspect
was seen appoaching. A buffalo robe was hastily drawn over her, and she
was admonished to suppress all sound of complaint, as she valued her life.

The heroic woman remained perfectly silent, while the savage drew near. He
had a pistol in his hand, which he rested on the side of the boat, while,
with a fearful scowl, he looked pryingly around. Black Jim, one of the
servants, who stood in the bow of the boat, seized an axe that lay near,
and signed to him that if he shot, he would cleave his skull; telling him
that the boat contained only the family of Shaw-nee-aw-kee. Upon this, the
Indian retired. It afterwards appeared that the object of his search

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was Mr. Burnett, a trader from St. Joseph's, with whom he had some account
to settle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being more remote, they had shared less than some of

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their brethren in the kindness of Mr. Kinzie and his family, and
consequently their sentiments of regard for them were less powerful.

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

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

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

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

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

Page 186

seated herself with her sewing upon the front of the bed.

It was a hot day in August, and the feverish excitement of fear and
agitation, together with her position, which was nearly suffocating,
became so intolerable, that Mrs. Helm at length entreated to be released
and given up to the Indians. "I can but die," said she; "let them put an
end to my misery at once."

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

This expostulation nerved Mrs. Helm with fresh resolution.

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

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

From Ouilmette's house the party of Indians proceeded to the dwelling of
Mr. Kinzie. They entered the parlor in which the family were assembled
with their faithful protectors, and seated themselves upon the floor in
silence.

Page 187

Black Partridge perceived from their moody and revengeful looks what was
passing in their minds, but he dared not remonstrate with them. He only
observed in a low tone to Wau-ban-see,--

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

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

"Who are you?" demanded he.

"A man. Who are you?"

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

"I am a Sau-ga-nash!"

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

Billy Caldwell,(*) for it was he, entered the parlor with a calm step, and
without a trace of agitation in his manner. He deliberately took off his
accoutrements and placed them with his rifle behind the door, then saluted
the hostile savages.

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

(* Billy Caldwell was a half-breed, and a chief of the nation. In his
reply, "I am a Sau-ga-nash," or Englishman, he designed to convey, "I am a
white man." Had he said, "I am a Pottowattamie," it would have been
interpreted to mean, "I belong to my nation, and am prepared to go all
lengths with them.")

Page 188

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

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

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

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

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

At length he determined to enter the house, and accordingly climbed up
through a small back window into the

Page 189

room where the family were. This was just as the Wabash Indians had left
the house of Ouilmette for that of Mr. Kinzie. The danger of the sergeant
was now imminent. The family stripped him of his uniform and arrayed him
in a suit of deer-skin, with belt, moccasins, and pipe, like a French
engage. His dark complexion and large black whiskers favored the disguise.
The family were all ordered to address him in French, and, although
utterly ignorant of the language, he continued to pass for a Weem-tee-gosh,
(*) and as such to accompany Mr. Kinzie and his family, undetected by his
enemies, until they reached a place of safety.

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

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

Captain and Mrs. Heald were sent across the lake to

(* Frenchman.)

Page 190

St. Joseph the day after the battle. The former had received two wounds,
the latter seven, in the engagement.

Lieutenant Helm, who was likewise wounded, was carried by some friendly
Indians to their village on the Au Sable, and thence to Peoria, where he
was liberated by the intervention of Mr. Thomas Forsyth, the half-brother
of Mr. Kinzie. Mrs. Helm accompanied her parents to St. Joseph, where they
resided in the family of Alexander Robinson,(*) receiving from them all
possible kindness and hospitality for several months.

After their arrival in Detroit, Mrs. Helm was joined by her husband, when
they were both arrested by order of the British commander, and sent on
horseback, in the dead of winter, through Canada to Fort George, on the
Niagara frontier. When they arrived at that post, there had been no
official appointed to receive them, and, notwithstanding their long and
fatiguing journey in weather the most cold and inclement, Mrs. Helm, a
delicate woman of seventeen years, was permitted to sit waiting in her
saddle, outside the gate, for more than an hour, before the refreshment of
fire or food, or even the shelter of a roof, was offered them. When
Colonel Sheaffe, who had been absent at the time, was informed of this
brutal inhospitality, he expressed the greatest indignation. He waited on
Mrs. Helm immediately, apologized in the most courteous manner, and
treated both her and Lieutenant Helm with the most considerate kindness,
until, by an exchange of prisoners, they were liberated, and found means
to reach their friends in Steuben County, N. Y.

Captain Heald had been taken prisoner by an Indian from the Kankakee, who
had a strong personal regard for

(* The Pottowattamie chief, so well known to many of the citizens of
Chicago, now (1870) residing at the Aux Plaines.)

Page 191

him, and who, when he saw the wounded and enfeebled state of Mrs. Heald,
released her husband that he might accompany his wife to St. Joseph. To
the latter place they were accordingly carried, as has been related, by
Chandonnai and his party. In the mean time, the Indian who had so nobly
released his prisoner returned to his village on the Kankakee, where he
had the mortification of finding that his conduct had excited great
dissatisfaction among his band. So great was the displeasure manifested,
that he resolved to make a journey to St. Joseph and reclaim his prisoner.

News of his intention being brought to To-pee-nee-bee and Kee-po-tah,
under whose care the prisoners were, they held a private council with
Chandonnai, Mr. Kinzie, and the principal men of the village, the result
of which was a determination to send Captain and Mrs. Heald to the island
of Mackinac, and deliver them up to the British.

They were accordingly put in a bark canoe, and paddled by Robinson and his
wife a distance of three hundred miles along the coast of Michigan, and
surrendered as prisoners of war to the commanding officer at Mackinac.

As an instance of the procrastinating spirit of Captain Heald, it may be
mentioned that, even after he had received certain intelligence that his
Indian captor was on his way from the Kankakee to St. Joseph to retake
him, he would still have delayed another day at that place, to make
preparation for a more comfortable journey to Mackinac.

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

Mrs. Burns, with her infant, became the prisoner of a chief, who carried
her to his village and treated her with

Page 192

great kindness. His wife, from jealousy of the favor shown to "the white
woman" and her child, always treated them with great hostility. On one
occasion she struck the infant with a tomahawk, and narrowly missed her
aim of putting an end to it altogether.(*) They were not left long in the
power of the old bag after this demonstration, but on the first
opportunity were carried to a place of safety.

The family of Mr. Lee had resided in a house on the Lake shore, not far
from the fort. Mr. Lee was the owner of Lee's Place, which he cultivated
as a farm. It was his son who ran down with the discharged soldier to give
the alarm of "Indians," at the fort, on the afternoon of the 7th of April.
The father, the son, and all the other members of the family had fallen
victims on the 15th of August, except Mrs. Lee and her young infant. These
were claimed by Black Partridge, and carried to his village on the Au
Sable. He had been particularly attached to a little girl of Mrs. Lee's,
about twelve years of age. This child had been placed on horseback for the
march; and, as she was unaccustomed to the exercise, she was tied fast to
the saddle, lest by any accident she should slip off or be thrown.

She was within reach of the balls at the commencement of the engagement,
and was severely wounded. The horse set off on a full gallop, which partly
threw her, but she was held fast by the bands which confined her, and hung
dangling as the animal ran violently about. In this state she was met by
Black Partridge, who caught the horse and disengaged her from the saddle.
Finding her so much wounded that she could not recover, and that she

(* Twenty-two years after this, as I was on a journey to Chicago in the
steamer Uncle Sam, a young woman, hearing my name, introduced herself to
me, and, raising the hair from her forehead, showed me the mark of the
tomahawk which had so nearly been fatal to her.)

Page 193

was suffering great agony, he put the finishing stroke to her at once with
his tomahawk. He afterwards said that this was the hardest thing he ever
tried to do, but he did it because he could not bear to see her suffer.

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

When he arrived at the residence of M. Du Pin, he entered the room where
he was, and carefully placed his burden on the floor.

"What have you there?" asked M. Du Pin.

"A young raccoon, which I have brought you as a present," was the reply;
and, opening the pack, he showed the little sick infant.

When the trader had prescribed for its complaint, and Black Partridge was
about to return to his home, he told his friend of the proposal he had
made to Mrs. Lee to become his wife, and the manner in which it had been
received.

M. Du Pin, entertaining some fears that the chief's honorable resolution
to leave it to the lady herself whether to accept his addresses or not,
might not hold out, entered at once into a negotiation for her ransom, and
so effectually wrought upon the good feelings of Black Partridge

Page 194

that he consented to bring his fair prisoner at once to Chicago, that she
might be restored to her friends.

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

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

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

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

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



Page 195

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

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

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

Everything that could be made available among the effects of the citizens
was offered, to ransom their countrymen from the hands of these inhuman
beings. The prisoners brought in from the River Raisin--those unfortunate
men who were permitted, after their surrender to General Proctor, to be
tortured and murdered by inches by his savage allies--excited the
sympathies and called for the action

Page 196

of the whole community. Private houses were turned into hospitals, and
every one was forward to get possession of as many as possible of the
survivors. To effect this, even the articles of their apparel were
bartered by the ladies of Detroit, as they watched from their doors or
windows the miserable victims carried about for sale.

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

The last bargain made was by black Jim, and one of the children, who had
permission to redeem a negro servant of the gallant Colonel Allen, with an
old white horse, the only available article that remained among their
possessions.

A brother of Colonel Allen afterwards came to Detroit, and the negro
preferred returning to servitude rather than remaining a stranger in a
strange land.

Mr. Kinzie, as has been related, joined his family at Detroit in the month
of January. A short time after, suspicions arose in the mind of General
Proctor that he was in correspondence with General Harrison, who was now
at Fort Meigs, and who was believed to be meditating an advance upon
Detroit. Lieutenant Watson, of the British army, waited upon Mr. Kinzie
one day with an invitation to the quarters of General Proctor on the
opposite side of the river, saying he wished to speak with him, on
business. Quite unsuspicious, he complied with the invitation, when to his
surprise he was ordered into confinement, and

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strictly guarded in the house of his former partner, Mr. Patterson, of
Sandwich. Finding that he did not return to his home, Mrs. Kinzie informed
some of the Indian chiefs, his particular friends, who immediately
repaired to the head-quarters of the commanding officer, demanded "their
friend's" release, and brought him back to his home. After waiting a time
until a favorable opportunity presented itself, the General sent a
detachment of dragoons to arrest Mr. Kinzie. They had succeeded in
carrying him away, and crossing the river with him. Just at this moment a
party of friendly Indians made their appearance.

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

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

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

A third time this officer made the attempt, and succeeded in arresting Mr.
Kinzie and conveying him heavily ironed to Fort Malden, in Canada, at the
mouth of the Detroit River. Here he was at first treated with great
severity, but after a time the rigor of his confinement was somewhat
relaxed, and he was permitted to walk on the bank of the river for air and
exercise.

On the 10th of September, as he was taking his promenade under the close
supervision of a guard of soldiers, the whole party were startled by the
sound of guns upon Lake Erie, at no great distance below. What could it
mean? It must be Commodore Barclay firing into some of the Yankees. The
firing continued. The time allotted

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the prisoner for his daily walk expired, but neither he nor his guard
observed the lapse of time, so anxiously were they listening to what they
now felt sure was an engagement between ships of war. At length Mr. Kinzie
was reminded that the hour for his return to confinement had arrived. He
petitioned for another half-hour.

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

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

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

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

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

Matters were growing critical, and it was necessary to transfer all
prisoners to a place of greater security than the frontier was now likely
to be. It was resolved therefore to send Mr. Kinzie to the mother-country.
Nothing has ever appeared which would explain the course of General
Proctor in regard to this gentleman. He had been taken from the bosom of
his family, where he was living quietly under the parole which he had
received, and protected by the stipulations of the surrender. He was kept
for months in confinement. Now he was placed on horseback under a strong
guard, who announced that they had orders to shoot him through the head if
he offered to speak to a person upon the road. He was tied upon the saddle
to prevent his escape, and thus they set out for Quebec. A little incident
occurred, which will help to

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illustrate the course invariably pursued towards our citizens, at this
period, by the British army on the Northwestern frontier.

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

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

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

In the mean time, General Harrison at the head of his troops had reached
Detroit. He landed on the 29th of September. All the citizens went forth
to meet him--Mrs. Kinzie, leading her children by the hand, was of the
number. The General accompanied her to her home, and

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took up his abode there. On his arrival he was introduced to Kee-po-tah,
who happened to be on a visit to the family at that time. The General had
seen the chief the preceding year, at the Council at Vincennes, and the
meeting was one of great cordiality and interest.

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

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

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

The few citizens of Chicago in those days, lived for the most part a very
quiet, unvaried life. The great abundance

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of game, and the immense fertility of the lands they cultivated, furnished
them with a superabundance of all the luxuries of garden, corn-field, and
dairy The question was once asked by a friend in the "East countrie,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is this the residence of Mr. Kinzie?"

"Yes, sir."

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

"Certainly, sir--walk in."

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

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

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

Now and then, when he was tired of reading, he would

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converse with the family, and seemed, upon the whole, by no means disposed
to hold himself aloof, but to indulge in a little becoming sociability,
seeing they were all there away in the woods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Kinzie, who, from the geographical position of this place, and the
vast fertility of the surrounding country, had always foretold its
eventual prosperity and importance,

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was not permitted to witness the realization of his predictions. He closed
his useful and energetic life on the 6th of January, 1828, having just
completed his sixty-fifth year.



CHAPTER XXI.
A SERMON.

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

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

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

Our only recreation was an occasional ride on horseback, when the weather
would permit, through the woods on the

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north side of the river, or across the prairie, along the lake shore on
the south.

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

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

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

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

Now and then there was a little excitement within the

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

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

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

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

"There was a kind of fear," he told us, "that was very nearly alee-a-nated
to love: so nearly, that it was not worth while splitting hairs for the
difference." He then went on to describe this kind of fear. He grew more
and more involved as he proceeded with his description, until at length,
quite bewildered, he paused, and exclaimed, "Come, let's stop a little
while, and clear away the brush." He unravelled, as well as he was able,
the tangled thread

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of his ideas, and went on with his subject. But soon, again losing his
way, he came to a second halt. "Now," said he, wiping the perspiration
from his forehead with a red cotton handkerchief many degrees from clean,
"now, suppose we drive back a little piece." Thus he recapitulated what he
wished to impress upon us, of the necessity of cherishing a fear that
maketh wise unto salvation, "which fear," said he, "may we all enjoy, that
together we may soar away, on the rolling clouds of æther, to a boundless
and happy eternity, which is the wish of your humble servant." And,
flourishing abroad his hands, with the best of dancing-school bows, he
took his seat.

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

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

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

"Now, my son," said his mother to Robert, "lay your

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claim on the corn-field at Wolf Point. It is fine land, and will always be
valuable for cultivation; besides, as it faces down the main river, the
situation will always be a convenient one."

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

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

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

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