CHAPTER I.

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[Illustration: JOHN TANNER

SHAW-SHAW-WA BE-NA-SE—The Falcon

New York, Published by G. & C. H. Carvill 1830]

CAPTIVITY OF JOHN TANNER

This book is set in ten point Times Roman type, and printed in an edition

of two thousand copies. This is copy

Nº 1308

A NARRATIVE OF

THE CAPTIVITY AND ADVENTURES

OF

JOHN TANNER

(U. S. INTERPRETER AT THE SAUT DE STE. MARIE)

During Thirty Years Residence among

the Indians in the

Interior Of North America

Prepared for the Press

by Edwin James, M.D.

Editor of an Account of Major Long’s Expedition from

Pittsburgh to the Rocky Mountains

Ross & Haines, Inc.

Minneapolis, Minnesota

1956

INTRODUCTION

The story of John Tanner is the tragic and age-old story of a man who had

no country, no people, no one who understood him, no place to lay his

head.

His _Narrative_, which is the story of his thirty years’ captivity

among the Ojibways, was written a few years after he settled once more

among the civilized whites. The material was written down and edited

by Doctor Edwin James, and James’s foreword gives a hint of the almost

insurmountable difficulties that surrounded Tanner’s attempt to establish

himself among the whites. However, the real story of John Tanner’s long

and tragic life unraveled after the book was printed in 1830, for Tanner

spent sixteen more years trying to find a place for himself in white

society.

Here was a man who had lived as a white boy only nine years, had

then been captured and had spent thirty years among the Indians, had

married an Indian woman and produced half-breed children, had in every

way—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—lived as an Indian

for so long that he forgot his own name and could no longer speak the

English language, but still was impelled by some ancient hunger to try to

find his own people, to be a member of the society that had borne him.

He found it—as so many other Indian captives have found it—impossible.

Though he rejected his Indian foster people and settled among the

whites, educated his halfbreed children in white schools, still he was

too much Indian to change environment. His Indian characteristics made

him “different.” He was distrusted by the whites. He was not prepared

or equipped to make a living according to the white standard. Confused

and bewildered, his white heritage constantly fighting with his acquired

Indian environmental factors, in his later years he was lonely and

“bitter.” He is said to have threatened violence against those who

opposed him, but to his credit it must be said that no major act of

violence has ever been proved against him; the charges have been founded

entirely on supposition, and it is obvious that a factor in those charges

was his “difference.”

What follows here is largely the story of Tanner’s life after the

publication of the _Narrative_, during the years of struggle when, not

understanding and not understood, he tried desperately to be a “white”

once more.

Henry R. Schoolcraft, who firmly believed Tanner had killed his brother,

said: “ ... now a grey-headed, hard-featured old man, at war with

everyone. Suspicious, revengeful, bad-tempered.”

Elizabeth T. Baird said he was cruel and no religion could be discussed

before him.

Mrs. Angie Bingham Gilbert, who had known him as an old man when she was

a young child, said he had a strange and terrible personality, a violent

and uncontrolled temper, but was very religious and almost noble-looking.

It rather looks as if Mrs. Gilbert, having spoken her mind, wanted to

soften her remembrance of him.

On the opposite hand, William H. Keating, journalist for Major Long, said

he never drank or smoked, was honorable, was attached to his children,

and had great affection for his Indian foster mother and her family. The

latter two items are quite apparent even in his matter-of-fact telling of

the _Narrative_.

The truth probably lies in a combination of these points of view. Keating

knew Tanner in 1823, before Tanner had a chance to become disillusioned

as to his place in society. Even before Tanner left the Indians he

learned to drink, but rather conservatively, it would seem on the whole.

The other commentators knew him later, after he had fought his personal

battle with civilization and had lost; when he had found at last that he

could not live in an Indian hut, under Indian conditions of sanitation,

follow Indian customs in treatment of his family, and still be accepted

as a white. Here then, it might seem, was a man who, battling with his

own inner turmoil of ideas and evaluations, unaccountably found himself

in desperate conflict with the mores of his native race. He fought back,

it would seem, with considerable restraint, considering his background,

and in the end, lonely, friendless, his oldest daughter separated from

him by legislative edict, the people of his adopted town holding him in

alternate contempt and awe, even his friends beginning to fear violence

from him, he disappeared under a cloud.

That summer of 1846 in Sault Ste. Marie was known as the Tanner Summer;

everything bad that happened was accredited to John Tanner. He was hunted

by soldiers and bloodhounds, accused specifically of the murder of James

Schoolcraft, but he was never found. He disappeared completely, and the

time and manner of his death are yet a mystery; the last resting place of

his bones is yet unknown to man.

Years later a skeleton was found in a swamp near Sault Ste. Marie and

was thought to be his, but there were some doubters. Years after that an

ex-army officer confessed the killing of James Schoolcraft, but it was

too late to help John Tanner. To the people of Sault Ste. Marie he was

still known as Old Tanner, or the White Indian, or the Old Liar.

The book itself has been both praised and condemned. The charge is made

that he gives himself the benefit of all doubts, but this, remember,

means doubts from the “civilized” point of view. It rather seems that

from the Indian point of view he was quite honest. He did not equivocate

over the fact that he had been spending his nights in Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa’s

teepee before he married her, nor is he in any manner boastful. He seems

honest enough about his drinking; for a long time he did not drink at

all, but later on he took it up to a certain extent. Likewise he tells in

Indian fashion—the usual word is “stoical”—about sending a little slave

girl into the cold without a blanket because she had allowed his tent

to burn down. Actually stoicism implies the control of feelings, but it

was not that with Tanner. He had no feeling about the matter; the girl

had caused them suffering; therefore she was sent away. The element of

punishment was not as large as the element of self-protection—which was

why Tanner took the girl’s blanket from her: he and the surviving boy

would need it to keep warm. In a country where all one’s resources are

called on to maintain existence, there is not, biologically speaking,

much encouragement to sentiment.

The _Narrative_ has the full ring of truth and sincerity if one remembers

that this was, to all effect, an Indian speaking. His viewpoint was

Indian, his philosophy was Indian, and the _Narrative_ is not to be

judged from “civilized” point of view, either as of 1830 or as of 1956.

And if anyone doubts Tanner’s innate decency, he has only to read

Tanner’s matter-of-fact relation of homosexuality among the Ojibways to

realize that here was a man truly sophisticated (in that he pointed no

finger of reprehension) but also truly conventional, for while he did not

cast aspersions on those who practiced it, neither did he want anything

to do with it himself.

From various accounts of his life it is possible to reconstruct a

tentative time-table of John Tanner’s career.

He was born about 1780, and captured by Shawnees in 1789. He was married

in 1800, and returned home to Kentucky about 1817. About 1818 he must

have gone back to his Indian family; in 1819 his brother found him in

Canada. In 1820 he left Selkirk Settlement, with his wife and three

children, for Kentucky again; another child was born enroute, and his

wife stayed at Mackinac, Michigan, while he went on to Kentucky, where

one daughter, Mary, died. In 1823 he returned to the Red River to get

his wife and two other daughters. On this occasion he apparently was not

successful, for his wife hired an Indian to shoot him, and she then ran

off with the Indian, while his daughters disappeared.

Sometime in the next few years, however, he must have effected a

reconciliation, for his wife lived with him several years and produced

two more children. In 1828 he moved from Mackinac to Sault Ste. Marie. In

1830 Martha, his daughter, was taken from him. In 1832 the mother left

Mackinac for good.

These are the facts as deduced from his various biographers. Perhaps,

however, they did not trouble to read the _Narrative_, for still other

facts appear:

He mentions a child who died of measles (this could have been Mary); he

confirms that one son was thoroughly Indian and chose to remain with

the Ojibways; he mentions a child who died in 1821, 80 miles from

Grand Prairie (this might have been Mary); he tells us that (probably

about 1810) he had left his first wife and had taken another, by whom

he had three children; this second wife was the one who would not go to

Mackinac, it would seem. He also reveals the great trouble caused by

his second mother-in-law, for she was often on the scene, and his wife

deserted him in company with his mother-in-law; his wife returned a year

later (sometime before 1814), and he says she “laughed” as she resumed

her place in his household.

It is worth noting that no bitterness or resentment appears in the

_Narrative_ against either his wife, his mother-in-law, or the medicine

man who seems to have had much undue influence in his domestic troubles.

It is significant too that during the winter when his wife was gone, he

took care of his children, hunting meat by day, repairing their clothing

by night, and he says casually that during that winter he slept very

short hours because of his many duties.

Probably in the early 1840’s, in a last desperate attempt to secure

acceptance as a white, he married a white woman of Detroit. She bore

him one child, but left him because of what to her were squalor and

brutality; eventually she was granted a divorce by the legislature. In

1846, perhaps not too long after his wife left him, he disappeared about

the time of James Schoolcraft’s murder. There never has been a word from

him since, and, as far as known, no human eye ever again saw him as a

living man.

He was dis-enamored of his first wife before he married her, and his life

after he returned to civilization with his second wife was most unhappy,

she wanting to return to her people, he determined to remain with his.

She wanted him to marry her in Mackinac according to white customs, she

being a Roman Catholic by that time, but his Indian upbringing asserted

itself and he refused. Presumably she went back to Red River and was

swallowed up in the anonymity of Indian records, which except for unusual

happenings were kept only as long as they could be heard from the mouth

of one living; three generations were the usual extent.

The third wife was variously described as a poor but respectable member

of the Baptist church, and by another writer as a chambermaid in Ben

Woodworth’s hotel (an obviously slurring reference; again the writers’

personal sympathies and antipathies color their writings). There seems

little doubt, however, that she could not endure conditions in the Tanner

menage, which must have been very Indian-like, and asked men in Sault

Ste. Marie to advise her. The advice was not given, but a purse was made

up to help her “escape.”

There is likewise some confusion as to his children. Quite likely Martha

was the oldest, having been born about 1808, and she lived a long and

useful life as a teacher. Mary may have been the second, born in 1809,

and it was she who died in 1820. Lucy, the baby born in 1820, was drowned

in a shipwreck on Lake Michigan. She had been given up for adoption by

Tanner before she was a year old, and, Indian-like, he never more had

anything to do with her.

Since there were two other children with him in 1820, James and John

must have been on the scene. One report mentions two Johns; another says

one brother was an Indian chief, and another says John was killed at the

Battle of Bull Run. James became a minister; he was not too well spoken

of, and died in a fall from a wagon about the time of the Riel Rebellion.

Of the two children born after 1820, nothing appears—nor of the one born

to his wife from Detroit.

The killing of James Schoolcraft requires some elaboration, for it is

that crime that put Tanner under a cloud. True, he was unsocial and

often violent and had been locked up in jail to recover from his fits

of temper, but he had not committed a felony. He had threatened Doctor

James for writing things that made people ridicule him, but no printed

record appears that he ever tried to implement the threat, though Thomas

W. Field flatly says Tanner tried to kill Doctor James (this seems to be

on the authority of Henry Schoolcraft, who does not say that; he says

Tanner “threatened” to kill the doctor). Field’s is a strong statement,

especially so since in the same sentence Field says Tanner “actually

murdered” James Schoolcraft. A murder, of course, is a legal conviction,

and it does not seem reasonable that Tanner was ever tried in court,

for he was never found. Further, the army officer, Lieutenant Tilden,

is said by two writers to have confessed years later to the killing of

Schoolcraft, and even the people of Sault Ste. Marie seem to have lost

their strong conviction of Tanner’s guilt in this matter after a few

years.

James Schoolcraft was a “gay, handsome” man, and Tanner was supposed to

have killed him for having improper relations with Tanner’s daughter.

This would imply a young daughter, for among Indians the value of

chastity was realistically appraised; it was common practice among many

tribes to put a higher value on a girl, for purposes of marriage, if she

was a virgin. Bear in mind that a husband invariably paid the parents

for a girl he married, and her marriage value decreased as her sexual

experience increased. In this respect the Indians were quite civilized.

But none of Tanner’s children had lived with him for years; all accounts

agree on that. Therefore it appears that the last two children born to

his second wife must have returned with her to her people, and likely the

small child of his third wife must have been taken with her; this last

child, at any rate, would have been too young for any normal relationship

with James Schoolcraft—and nothing else is even implied. Therefore there

was only Martha who may have been in Sault Ste. Marie (Lucy and Mary both

having died), and Martha was probably 38 years old, and far beyond the

age where an Indian would feel impelled to kill to preserve her value,

or a white parent to protect her honor. In other words, she had reached

the age of discretion. For the record, however, no hint is ever given

that Martha was involved, and all accounts say that she lived a good and

useful life.

Who, then, did kill Schoolcraft? One account offers this answer:

Schoolcraft and Lieutenant Tilden were rivals for the attention of

a woman. Likewise, there were other bits of evidence that seemed to

indicate Tilden, while the main thing against Tanner was his unsocial

attitude. For those who consider character in the nature of evidence, it

is interesting to know that Lieutenant Tilden was later court-martialed

in Mexico. The two reports of Tilden’s confession must be considered,

and likewise the fact that the body found years later was presumed to be

Tanner’s. If it was, how did he die?

On the whole, John Tanner is representative of a class of persons not

uncommon on the old frontier: repatriated captives. A great many of them

had a hard life, and the reasons were several: they acquired Indian mores

during their captivity, and it was never easy for them to reconcile their

Indian ways with the new—to them—ways of the whites. Second, anything

connected with Indians was looked on with deep suspicion by whites on the

frontier; John Tanner was not only feared but also mistrusted. It would

seem the public attitude toward him softened a great deal in retrospect,

for in after years the citizens of Sault Ste. Marie refused to give

Tilden a clean bill of health over the Schoolcraft killing.

It is, however, inescapable that Tanner’s attempt to live among the

people of his blood was a tragic experience. He was not only a man

without a country but a man without a race.

Here, then, is John Tanner’s _Narrative_, as it was first printed a

hundred and twenty-six years ago. It is not a flowery and sensational

tale of adventure, as were most Indian captivity stories of that time; it

is rather a study of Indian life and customs, and would be much better

known if it had been more readily available. But the book never appeared

in more than the first edition, and is classed as quite rare. It was

printed in New York in 1830 by G. & C. & H. Carvill; in London also in

1830; in Paris (French translation) in 1835 without the vocabularies; in

Leipzig (German translation) in 1840 without the vocabularies. A partial

mimeographed edition was produced in this country in 1940, but otherwise

this work, which in all respects is deserving of the term “classic,” has

been almost inaccessible to most persons. It would seem, therefore, that

the present edition is a real service to students of the frontier.

Noel M. Loomis.

Minneapolis, Minn., Aug. 25, 1956.

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER

John Tanner, whose life and adventures are detailed in the following

pages, is now about fifty years of age. His person is erect and rather

robust, indicating great hardiness, activity, and strength, which,

however, his numerous exposures and sufferings have deeply impaired. His

face, which was originally rather handsome, bears now numerous traces

of thought and passion, as well as of age; his quick and piercing blue

eyes, bespeak the stern, the violent, and unconquerable spirit, which

rendered him an object of fear to many of the Indians while he remained

among them, and which still, in some measure, disqualifies him for that

submissive and compliant manner which his dependent situation among

the whites renders necessary. Carefully instructed in early youth, in

all those principles and maxims which constitute the moral code of the

unsophisticated and uncorrupted Indians, his ideas of right and wrong,

of honourable and dishonourable, differ, of course, very essentially

from those of white men. His isolated and friendless situation, in the

midst of a community where the right of private warfare is recognized

as almost the only defence of individual possessions, the only barrier

between man and man, was certainly in the highest degree unfavourable

to the formation of that enduring and patient submissiveness, which, in

civilized societies, surrenders so great a share of individual rights

to the strong guardianship of the law. Accordingly, to a correct sense

of natural justice, he unites a full share of that indomitable and

untiring spirit of revenge, so prominent in the Indian character. The

circumstances into which he has been thrown, among a wild and lawless

race, have taught him to consider himself, in all situations, the avenger

of his own quarrel; and if, in the better regulated community into which

he has been recently drawn, he has, by the consciousness of aggravated

insult, or intolerable oppression, been driven to seek redress, or to

propose it to himself, we cannot be surprised that he should have

recurred to the method, which long habit, and the paramount influence

of established custom, have taught him to consider the only honourable

and proper one. He returns to the pale of civilization too late in life

to acquire the mental habits which befit his new situation. It is to

be regretted that he should ever meet among us with those so destitute

of generosity as to be willing to take advantage of his unavoidable

ignorance of the usages of civilized society. He has ever been found just

and generous, until injuries or insults have aroused the spirit of hatred

and revenge; his gratitude has always been as ardent and persevering as

his resentment. But it would be superfluous to dwell on the features

of his character, which are best displayed in his narrative of those

events and scenes, to which he might, with so much propriety, apply the

hackneyed motto,

quae que ipse miserrima vidi,

Et quorum pars magna fui.

The preceding remarks would not, perhaps, have been hazarded, had

not some harsh imputations been made to rest on the character of our

narrator, in the district where he has for some time past resided, in

consequence of differences growing, as appears to us, entirely out of

the circumstance of the Indian character, with many of its prominent

peculiarities being indelibly impressed upon him. However such a

character may, under any circumstances, excite our disapprobation or

dislike, some indulgence is due where, as in this case, the solitary

savage, with his own habits and opinions, is brought into contact with

the artificial manners and complicated institutions of civilized men.

In an attempt to aid this unfortunate individual in addressing his

countrymen, it seemed desirable to give his narrative, as nearly as

possible, in his own words, and with his own manner. The narrator himself

is not without a share of that kind of eloquence which we meet with

among the Indians; but as this consists more in action, emphasis, and

the expression of the countenance, than in words and sentences, he has

been followed in the style of the humblest narration. This plainness, it

is hoped, will render the history little less acceptable to the general

reader, while the philosophic inquirer will undoubtedly prefer to trace,

in the simplest possible guise, the operations of a mind subjected for

so long a time to the influence of all the circumstances peculiar to

savage life. It ought to be distinctly understood, that his whole story

was given as it stands, without hints, suggestions, leading questions,

or advice of any kind, other than “to conceal nothing.” The sentiments

expressed in relation to the character and conduct of individuals on the

frontiers, or in the Indian country, or on other subjects connected with

the condition of the Indians, are exclusively his own. One liberty it

has been found necessary to take, namely, to retrench or altogether to

omit many details of hunting adventures, of travelling, and other events,

which in the simple lives of the Indians have only a moderate share of

importance, but on which, in the lack of other matter, they learn to

dwell very much at length in those long narrative conversations with

which it is their habit to amuse each other. It is probable the narrator

might have proved more acceptable to many of his readers had this

retrenchment been carried to a greater extent; but it is to be remembered

that the life of the savage, like that of the civilized man, is made up

of a succession of little occurrences, each unimportant by itself, but

which require to be estimated in making up an opinion of the character of

either.

Some particulars in Mr. Tanner’s narrative will doubtless excite a

degree of incredulity among such as have never attended particularly to

the history and condition of the Indian tribes. Many will find their

confidence in him much impaired, when he tells of prophetic dreams, and

of the fulfilment of indications, and promises, necessarily implying the

interference of invisible and spiritual beings. He will appear to some,

weakly credulous—to others, stupidly dishonest;—so would any one among

us, who should gravely relate tales, which the advance of education,

and the general intelligence have, within two centuries, converted from

established doctrines to “old wives fables.” To enforce this remark,

we need not refer to the examples of Cotton Mather, and others of his

times, not less renowned for human learning than for exemplary piety.

The history of the human mind in all ages, and among all nations,

affords abundant examples of credulity; closely resembling that which we

feel disposed to ridicule or to pity in the savage. It may be of some

importance toward a clear comprehension of the Indian character, to be

assured that the powerful mind of our narrator, was at all times strongly

influenced by a belief in the ubiquity, and frequent interpositions

in the affairs of men, of an overruling Providence. His may have been

a purer and more consistent Theism than that of many of his untaught

companions, but in many important particulars his belief was the same

as theirs. If he was less entirely than his Indian associates the dupe

of those crafty prophets, who are constantly springing up among them;

yet it will be found he had not, at all times, entire confidence in the

decisions of his own mind, which taught him to despise their knavery, and

to ridicule their pretensions. In all times of severe distress, or of

urgent danger, the Indians, like other men, are accustomed to supplicate

aid from superior beings, and they are often confident that a gracious

answer has been granted to their petitions. This belief need not shock

the pious; as it certainly will not appear in any respect remarkable to

those who have accustomed themselves to close observance of the workings

of the human mind, under all variations of circumstances. We believe

there is nothing inconsistent with true religion, or sound reason, in

supposing that the _same Lord over all, is gracious unto all_ who worship

him in sincerity. It will be manifest also that this inherent principle

of religious feeling is made the instrument by which superior minds

govern and influence the weaker. Among the Indians, as among all other

races, from the times of the philosophic leader of the Retreat of the Ten

Thousand, to the present day, religion has been an engine in the hands of

the few, who in virtue of intellectual or accidental superiority, assume

the right to govern the many.

Doubtless many of the representations in the following narrative are

somewhat influenced by peculiarities in the mental constitution, and

the accidental circumstances of the narrator; yet making all admissible

allowances, they present but a gloomy picture of the condition of

uncivilized men. Having acquired some idea of those things considered

most reprehensible among us, it would be surprising if he should not

have felt some reluctance to giving an explicit detail of all his

adventures, in a community whose modes of thinking are on many subjects

so different from ours. Traits, which must in our estimation constitute

great blemishes, he has freely confessed; whether other or greater faults

remain undivulged is unknown; but it should not be forgotten, that

actions considered among us not only reprehensible, but highly criminal,

are among them accounted shining virtues. In no part of his narrative

will he probably appear in a more unfavourable light than when he details

his severity to an unfortunate captive girl, through whose negligence his

lodge, and all his little property, was consumed by fire in the midst of

winter. This kind of cruelty, as well as the abandonment of the sick, the

aged, and the dying, practised so extensively by the Chippewyans, and

other northern Indians, and more or less by all the tribes, remind us how

much even in what seem spontaneous and natural courtesies, we owe to the

influence of civilization. The conduct of the Indians in all these cases,

however we may see fit to call it, is certainly not unnatural, being in

strict and implicit obedience to that impulse of nature which prompts

so irresistibly to self-preservation. How admirable is that complicated

machinery which in so many instances avails to overcome and control this

impulse—which postpones the interest, the happiness, or the life of the

individual to the good of the associated whole!

The sketch which the following narrative exhibits of the evils and

miseries of savage life, is probably free from exaggeration or

distortion. Few will read it without some sentiments of compassion for

a race so destitute, so debased, and hopeless; gladly would we believe

it may have a tendency to call the attention of an enlightened and

benevolent community to the wants of those who are _sitting in darkness_.

In vain do we attempt to deceive ourselves, or others, into the belief

that in whatever “relates to their moral condition and prospects, the

Indians have been gainers by their intercourse with Europeans.”[1] Who

can believe that the introduction of ardent spirits among them, “has

added no new item to the catalogue of their crimes, nor substracted one

from the list of their cardinal virtues?” Few, comparatively, have the

opportunity, fewer have the inclination, to visit and observe the Indians

in their remote haunts, or even on our immediate frontiers; all who have

done so must be convinced that wherever, and for whatever purpose, the

Indian and the white man come in contact, the former, in all that relates

to his moral condition, is sure to become severely and irretrievably a

sufferer. Every unbiased inquirer who will avail himself of the abundant

means of information before the public will be convinced that during

more than two hundred years, in despite of all the benevolent exertions

of individuals, of humane associations, and of governments, the direct

tendency of the intercourse between the two races has been the uniform

and rapid depression and deterioration of the Indians.

Among the most active of the extraneous causes which have produced this

conspicuous and deplorable change must be reckoned the trade for peltries

which has been pushed among them from the earliest occupation of the

country by the whites. The ensuing narrative will afford some views of

the fur trade, such as it formerly existed in the northwest, such as

it now exists throughout the territories claimed by the United States.

These views are certainly neither those of a statesman, or a political

economist, but they may be relied on as exhibiting a fair exposition of

the influence of the trade upon the aborigines. Recently, the Indians

in all that wide portion of North America occupied by the Hudson’s Bay

Fur Company, have been, by the consolidation of two rival associations,

relieved alike from the evils, and deprived of the advantages accruing

from an active competition in the trade. Among other advantageous results

supposed to be attained by this exclusion of competition one, and

probably the most important, is the effectual check it interposes to the

introduction of spirits into the Indian country. Even the clerks and

agents stationed at the remote interior posts are forbidden to introduce

the smallest quantity of spirit or wine among their private stores.

This one measure, incalculably of more value than all that has been

effected in times remote or recent, by the interference of governments

or the exertions of benevolent associations, has originated in the

prudent foresight, and well instructed love of gain of an association of

merchants; and while it makes us fully acquainted with the views of those

best informed in relation to the effect of the introduction of whiskey

among the Indians, it shows the possibility of remedying this great evil.

In former times, when the whole of the northwest of our continent was

open to the competition of rival traders, all the evils and all the

advantages of the system at present existing in the United States

territories were felt to the remotest and least accessible of those

dreary regions. The Indian could probably in all instances realize a

higher price for his peltries than he can hope to do at present. The

means of intoxicating himself and his family were always to be had at

some rate, and the produce of his hunt was artfully divided and disposed

of in the manner which seemed to promise him the greatest share of this

deadly indulgence. During the times of active competition, it was found

accordingly that the fur bearing animals, and the race of native hunters,

were hastening with equal and rapid strides towards utter extinction.

The effect of a competitionary trade, managed as it will always be,

in districts for the most part or wholly without the jurisdiction of

the governments of civilized countries, upon the animals whose skins

constitute the sole object of the visits of the traders, must be

obvious. The vagrant and migratory habits of the Indians would render it

impossible for any individual, or any association of men, to interrupt or

even to check the destruction of animals, wherever they could be found.

The rival trader was ever at hand to take advantage of any forbearance

a prudent foresight might dictate. Thus it will appear that districts

where game had existed in the greatest abundance, were in the course of

a few years so stripped that the inhabitants could avoid starvation only

by migrating to some less exhausted region. Wherever the Indians went,

the traders were sure to follow as the wolves and buzzards follow the

buffalo. But in the state of things at present existing in the north,

the traders are represented to have entire control of the motions of

the Indians. The most valuable part of the territories of the Hudson’s

Bay Company is the forest country. With the Indians of the plains, who

subsist almost entirely by hunting the buffalo, they concern themselves

no further than to purchase such robes or other peltries as they may,

on their visit to a post, offer for ready pay. The people of the plains

having few possessions beside their horses, their bows and arrows, and

their garments of skins, are so independent, and the animals they hunt

of so little value to the traders, that they are left to pursue whatever

course their own inclination may point out, and at present they never

receive _credits_. With the forest Indians the case is quite different.

Such is their urgent necessity for ammunition and guns, for traps, axes,

woollen blankets, and other articles of foreign manufacture, that at

the approach of winter, their situation is almost hopeless if they are

deprived of the supplies they have so long been accustomed to receive. A

consciousness of this dependance sufficed, even in times of competition,

to some extent, but far more at present, to render them honest, and

punctual in discharging the debts they had incurred. The practice of the

traders now is, whenever they find the animals in any district becoming

scarce, to withdraw their trading establishment, and by removing to some

other part, make it necessary for the Indians to follow. Regions thus

left at rest, are found to become, in a few years, in a great measure

replenished with the fur-bearing animals. The two regulations by which

the clerks and agents are forbid to purchase the skins of certain

animals if killed before they have attained their full growth, and by

which the use of traps, which destroy indiscriminately old and young, is

interdicted, doubtless contribute essentially to the attainment of this

important result. It cannot be otherwise, than that the moral condition

of the hunter population in the north must be somewhat improved by the

severe discipline which convenience and interest will equally prompt the

Company possessing the monopoly to introduce and maintain; but whether

this advantage will, in the event, counterbalance the effect of the rigid

exactions to which the Indians may be compelled to submit, must be for

time to determine.

It is manifest that plans of government adopted and enforced to subserve

the purposes of the fur traders, will be framed with the design of

keeping the Indians in a state of efficiency as hunters, and must thus

in the end be directly opposed to all efforts to give them those settled

habits that attachment to the soil, and that efficient industry, which

must constitute the first step in their advance towards civilization.

Such are the climate and soil of a great part of the country northward of

the great lakes, as to render it extremely improbable that any other than

a rude race of hunters will ever be found there; and for them, it would

probably be in vain to hope for a milder government than such a kind

of despotism as can be swayed by a company of traders. But within the

country belonging to the United States are many rude tribes distributed

at intervals through boundless forests, or along smiling and fertile

plains, where it would seem that industry and civilization might be

introduced. Here it is not probable that the fur trade can ever become a

protected and exclusive monopoly; and since, while conducted as it is,

and as it must continue to be, it is the most prolific sources of evil to

the Indians, it may be allowed us, to look forward to the time when many

among the remnants of the native tribes shall escape from its influence

by becoming independent of the means of subsistence it offers them.

Some change may reasonably be supposed to have taken place in the

course of two centuries in the sentiments of the European intruders

towards their barbarous neighbours. In relative situation they have

changed places. Those who are now powerful were then weak; those who

now profess to offer protection, then looked with anxiety and trembling

upon the superior strength of the race which has so soon perished from

before them. In the early periods of our colonial history, the zeal

of religious proselytism, and the less questionable spirit of true

philanthropy, seem not to have availed, generally, to overcome the strong

hatred of the savage race, produced by causes inseparable from the

feeble and dependant condition of the colonies, and from the necessity

which compelled our forefathers to become intruders upon the rightful

possessions of the Indians. In the writings of the early historians,

particularly of the Puritanical divines of New England, we find these

people commonly described as a _brutal_ and _devil-driven_ race, _wild

beasts_, _bloodhounds_, _heathen demons_; no epithet was considered too

opprobrious, no execration too dire, to be pronounced against them.[2]

It may be supposed, that in losing the power which made them formidable,

they became less obnoxious to the hatred of the whites. Accordingly, we

find that it was long since the fashion to profess much good will and

compassion towards this ill-starred race. Some efforts have been made,

and many more have been talked of for their civilization and for their

conversion to the true religion. Here and there, a Penn has appeared

among our statesmen; an Elliot or a Brainerd among our religionists—some

have been incited by motives of pure benevolence, or by a love of

natural justice, to labour perseveringly and faithfully in the work of

reclaiming and benefiting the Indians. Could we trust implicitly to

the statements of many who in our day write and speak on this subject,

we might infer that the only sentiment influencing us, as a people, in

our intercourse with our Indian neighbours, is an ardent desire for the

promotion of their best interests. But if we estimate public sentiment by

the surer criterion of public measures, we must admit that the present

generation are seeking, with no less zeal and earnestness than their

forefathers, the utter extermination of these _bloody and idolatrous

canaanites_. The truth is, it has been, and still is, convenient to

consider this a _devil driven_ race, doomed by _inscrutable destiny_

to sudden and entire destruction. This opinion accords well with the

convenient dogma of the moral philosopher, who teaches that such as will

make the best use of the soil, should drive out and dispossess those

who, from ignorance or indolence, suffer it to remain uncultivated. It

is of little importance to cavil at the injustice of such a course. The

rule of _vis major_ seems to be with almost equal force obligatory on

both parties, and it would perhaps be now as impossible for us to avoid

displacing the Indians, and occupying their country, as for them to

prevent us.

The long agitated subject, of the “melioration of the condition of

the Indians,” appears therefore to present two questions of primary

importance: 1st. Can any thing be effected by our interference? 2d. Have

we in our collective character, as a people, any disposition to interpose

the least check to the downward career of the Indians? The last inquiry

will be unhesitatingly answered in the negative by all who are acquainted

with the established policy of our government in our intercourse with

them. The determination evinced by a great part of the people, and their

representatives, to extinguish the Indian title to all lands on this

side the Mississippi—to push the remnants of these tribes into regions

already filled to the utmost extent their means of subsistence will

allow—manifests, more clearly than volumes of idle and empty professions,

our intentions toward them. The vain mockery of treaties, in which it

is understood, that the _negotiation_, and the _reciprocity_, and the

benefits, are all on one side; the feeble and misdirected efforts we make

for their civilization and instruction, should not, and do not, deceive

us into the belief that we have either a regard for their rights, where

they happen to come in competition with our interests, or a sincere

desire to promote the cause of moral instruction among them. The efforts

of charitable associations, originating as they do in motives of the

most unquestionable purity, may seem entitled to more respectful notice;

but we deem these efforts, as far as the Indians are concerned, equally

misapplied, whether they be directed, as in the south, to drawing out

from among them a few of their children, and giving them a smattering

of “astronomy, moral philosophy, surveying, geography, history, and

the use of globes,”[3] or as in the north, in educating the half breed

children of fur traders and vagabond Canadians, in erecting workshops

and employing mechanics in our frontier villages, or building vessels

for the transportation of freight on the upper lakes. These measures may

be well in themselves, and are doubtless useful; but let us not flatter

ourselves that in doing these things we confer any essential benefit on

the Indians. The Chocktaws and Chickasaws will not long retain such a

knowledge of _astronomy_ and _surveying_, as would be useful to guide

their wanderings, or mete out their possessions in those scorched and

sterile wastes to which it is our fixed intention to drive them. The

giving to a few individuals of a tribe an education which, as far as it

has any influence, tends directly to unfit them for the course of life

they are destined to lead, with whatever intention it may be undertaken,

is certainly far from being an act of kindness. If, while we give the

rudiments of an education to a portion of their children, our selfish

policy is thrusting back into a state of more complete barbarism the

whole mass of the people, among whom we pretend to qualify them for

usefulness, of what avail are our exertions, or our professions in their

favour? We cannot be ignorant that in depriving the Indians of the means

of comfortable subsistence, we take from them equally the power and

the inclination to cultivate any of the branches of learning commonly

taught them at our schools. Will the Indian youth who returns from the

Mission school, after ten or fifteen years of instruction, be likely to

become a better hunter, or a braver warrior, than those who have remained

at home and been educated in the discipline of his tribe? Will he not

rather find himself encumbered with a mass of learning necessarily as

uncurrent, and as little valued among his rude companions, as would be

a parcel of lottery tickets or bank notes? On this subject, as on many

others, the Indians are qualified to make, and often do make, extremely

just reflections. To say that they consider the learning of the whites of

no value, would be to misrepresent them. On the contrary, they speak in

terms of the highest admiration of some branches, particularly writing

and reading, which, they say, enables us to know what is done at a

distance, to recall with the greatest accuracy all that we or others have

said in past times. But of these things they say, as of the religion of

the whites, “they are not designed for us.” “The Great Spirit has given

to you, as well as to us, things suited to our several conditions; He may

have been more bountiful to you than to us; but we are not disposed to

complain of our allotment.”

In relation to the other branch of this part of our subject, namely, the

practicability of benefiting the Indians by our instructions, a few words

may suffice. More than two hundred years have passed, during all which

time it has been believed that systematic and thorough exertions were

making to promote the civilization and conversion of the Indians. The

entire failure of all these attempts ought to convince us, not that the

Indians are irreclaimable, but that we ourselves, while we have built up

with one hand, have pulled down with the other. Our professions have been

loud, our philanthropic exertions may have been great, but our selfish

regard to our own interest and convenience has been greater, and to this

we ought to attribute the steady decline, the rapid deterioration of the

Indians. We may be told of their constitutional indolence, their Asiatic

temperament, destining them to be forever stationary, or retrogradent;

but while remaining monuments and vestiges, as well as historical

records of unquestionable authority, assure us that a few centuries ago

they were, though rude, still a great, a prosperous, and a happy people;

we ought not to forget that injustice and oppression have been most

active among the causes which have brought them down to their present

deplorable state. Their reckless indolence, their shameless profligacy,

their total self-abandonment, have been the necessary consequences of the

degradation and hopelessness of their condition.[4]

That there exists, in the moral or physical constitution of the Indians

any insuperable obstacle to their civilization, no one will now seriously

assert. That they will ever be generally civilized, those who know them

intimately, and who have observed the prevailing tone of feeling of both

races towards each other, will consider so extremely improbable that

they will deem it scarce worth while to inquire what system of measures

would be best calculated to effect this desirable object. Of what

advantage could any degree of civilization have been to those unfortunate

Seminoles, who were a few years since removed from their beautiful and

fertile lands in Florida, to those deep and almost impassable swamps in

the rear of Tampa Bay, where it has been found not only necessary to

confine them by a military force, but to subsist them, from day to day,

and from year to year, by regular issues of provisions? Need we give them

education that they may be the better able to estimate our munificence

and generosity in suffering them to roam at large, in cypress swamps, in

sandy deserts, or wherever else we may think the soil of no value to us?

The project of congregating the Indians, from the extended portions of

the United States, in some place not only _west of the Mississippi_, but

westward of the arable lands of Missouri and Arkansaw, in those burning

deserts which skirt the eastern base of the Rocky Mountains, is, perhaps,

more pregnant with injustice and cruelty to these people than any other.

Such is the inveterate and interminable hostility existing, time out

of mind, between the people of different stocks, portions of which are

already in too near vicinity, such as the Dahcotah and the Ojibbeways,

the Osages and Cherokees, that nothing but mutual destruction could be

the consequence of crowding them together into a region already more

than filled with warlike and jealous hunters. The region to which Mr.

McKoy, in his pamphlet, proposes to remove the Indians, would, such

is its naked and inhospitable character, soon reduce civilized men

who should be confined to it, to be barbarism; nothing but inevitable

destruction could there await a congregation of fierce, subtle, and

mutually hostile savages.

Of all plans hitherto devised to benefit the Indians, by far the best,

though doubtless attended with great difficulty in the execution is, _to

let them alone_. Were it possible to leave to them the small remnant

they still hold of their former possessions, to remove from them all the

poisoning influences of the fur trade and the military posts, and the

agencies auxiliary to it, necessity might again make them industrious.

Industry thoroughly re-established would bring in its train prosperity,

virtue, and happiness. But since we cannot reasonably hope that this

plan will ever be adopted, the friends of humanity must continue to

wish that some middle course may be devised, which may, in a measure,

palliate the misery which cannot be removed, and retard the destruction

which cannot be prevented. The first labour of the philanthropist,

who would exert himself in this cause, should be to allay or suppress

that exterminating spirit so common among us which, kept alive by the

exertions of unprincipled _land jobbers_, and worthless squatters, is

now incessantly calling for the removal of the Indians _west of the

Mississippi_. Many, and doubtless some of those who legislate, may

consider the region west of the Mississippi as a kind of fairy land where

men can feed on moonbeams, or, at all events, that the Indians, when

thoroughly swept into that land of salt mountains and horned frogs, will

be too remote to give us any more trouble. But suppose those who now so

pertinaciously urge this measure completely successful, let every Indian

be removed beyond the Mississippi, how soon will the phrase be changed,

to _west of the Rocky Mountains_? We may send them into the sandy wastes,

but cannot persuade them to remain there; they will soon become not less

troublesome to the settlers in the countries of Red River, White River,

and the Lower Arkansaw, than they are now to the people of Georgia,

Alabama, Missouri, and Illinois. Is it absolutely necessary that while

we invite to our shores, and to a participation in all the advantages of

our boasted institutions, the dissatisfied and the needy of all foreign

countries, not stopping to inquire whether their own crimes, or the

influence of an oppressive government, may have made the change desirable

for them, we should, at the same time, persist in the determination to

root out the last remnants of a race who were the original proprietors

of the soil, many of whom are better qualified to become useful citizens

of our republic than those foreigners we are so eager to naturalize? It

is certainly by no means desirable that any of the aboriginal tribes who

have retained, or acquired, or who shall acquire so much of civilization

as to be able to increase in numbers, and to gain strength, surrounded

by the whites, should be suffered to establish independent governments,

which may, in time, acquire such strength as to be highly troublesome

to their neighbours. Could the project of colonization be carried into

complete effect, the measure, leaving out of consideration its daring and

flagrant injustice, would be of as questionable policy as our unavailing

attempt to restore to Africa the descendants of her enslaved children.

It is believed by many that national as well as individual crimes, are

sure to be visited, sooner or later, by just and merited punishments. Is

it not probable that despite the efforts of the Colonization Society,

the African race, now so deeply rooted and so widely spread among us,

must inevitably grow to such a magnitude as to requite, fourfold, to our

descendants, our own and our forefathers crimes against the aborigines?

The past history and the present condition of the Indians make it

abundantly manifest that, if anything is intended on the part of the

United States, except their speedy and utter extinction, an immediate

change of measures is loudly called for. The most important particulars

of the course to be pursued should be the prevention, as far as possible,

of the evils resulting from competition; the introduction of whiskey, and

other existing abuses in the fur trade; the encouragement of agriculture

and domestic industry which may at length render them independent of

that trade. Donations of horses, cattle, tools, and farming utensils,

handsome clothes, neat and tasteful ornaments, bestowed as marks of

honourable distinction, and rewards for successful and persevering

industry, may by degrees, overcome the habitual indolence and contempt of

labour, so generally met with among the Indians. With the efforts for the

promotion of industry, the cultivation of the mind, not in one out of ten

thousand, as at present, but in the whole mass of the children; and the

introduction of the English language should keep equal pace. No effort

should be spared to advance either. We deem it important that they should

not only learn the English language, but, at the same time, lay aside

and forget their own, and with it their entire system of traditional

feelings and opinions on all subjects. Could all this be effected; could,

furthermore, the rights and privileges of citizenship be held out as a

reward for a prescribed course of conduct, or attach as a right to the

possession of a certain amount of property, the effect would doubtless

be a great and rapid elevation of the Indian character. By a system of

measures of this kind, a portion of the remnants of these people might

probably be preserved by becoming embodied with the whites. As separate

and independent tribes, retaining their own languages, manners, and

opinions, it is probable they cannot long continue in existence.

TANNER’S NARRATIVE.

CHAPTER I.

Recollections of early life—capture—journey from the mouth of

the Miami to Sa-gui-na—ceremonies of adoption into the family

of my foster parents—harsh treatment—transferred by purchase to

the family of Net-no-kwa—removal to Lake Michigan.

The earliest event of my life, which I distinctly remember, is the death

of my mother. This happened when I was two years old, and many of the

attending circumstances made so deep an impression, that they are still

fresh in my memory. I cannot recollect the name of the settlement at

which we lived, but I have since learned it was on the Kentucky River, at

a considerable distance from the Ohio.

My father, whose name was John Tanner, was an emigrant from Virginia, and

had been a clergyman. He lived long after I was taken by the Indians,

having died only three months after the great earthquake, which destroyed

a part of New Madrid, and was felt throughout the country on the Ohio,

(1811.)

Soon after my mother’s death, my father removed to a place called Elk

Horn. At this place was a cavern—I used to visit it with my brother. We

took two candles; one we lighted on entering, and went on till it was

burned down; we then lighted the other, and began to return, and we would

reach the mouth of the cavern before it was quite burned out.

This settlement at Elk Horn was occasionally visited by hostile parties

of Shawneese Indians, who killed some white people, and sometimes killed

or drove away cattle and horses. In one instance, my uncle, my father’s

brother, went with a few men at night, and fired upon a camp of these

Indians; he killed one, whose scalp he brought home; all the rest jumped

into the river and escaped.

In the course of our residence at this place, an event occurred, to the

influence of which I attributed many of the disasters of my subsequent

life. My father, when about to start one morning to a village at some

distance, gave, as it appeared, a strict charge to my sisters, Agatha

and Lucy, to send me to school; but this they neglected to do until

afternoon, and then, as the weather was rainy and unpleasant, I insisted

on remaining at home. When my father returned at night, and found that

I had been at home all day, he sent me for a parcel of small canes, and

flogged me much more severely than I could suppose the offence merited.

I was displeased with my sisters for attributing all the blame to me,

when they had neglected even to tell me to go to school in the forenoon.

From that time, my father’s house was less like home to me, and I often

thought and said, “I wish I could go and live among the Indians.”

I cannot tell how long we remained at Elk Horn; when we moved, we

travelled two days with horses and wagons, and came to the Ohio, where my

father bought three flat boats; the sides of these boats had bullet holes

in them, and there was blood on them, which I understood was that of

people who had been killed by the Indians. In one of these boats we put

the horses and cattle—in another, beds, furniture, and other property,

and in the third were some negroes. The cattle boat and the family boat

were lashed together; the third, with the negroes, followed behind. We

descended the Ohio, and in two or three days came to Cincinnati; here

the cattle boat sunk in the middle of the river. When my father saw it

sinking, he jumped on board, and cut loose all the cattle, and they swam

ashore on the Kentucky side, and were saved. The people from Cincinnati

came out in boats to assist us, but father told them the cattle were all

safe.

In one day we went from Cincinnati to the mouth of the Big Miami,

opposite which we were to settle. Here was some cleared land, and one or

two log cabins, but they had been deserted on account of the Indians. My

father rebuilt the cabins, and enclosed them with a strong picket. It

was early in the spring when we arrived at the mouth of the Big Miami,

and we were soon engaged in preparing a field to plant corn. I think it

was not more than ten days after our arrival, when my father told us in

the morning, that from the actions of the horses, he perceived there were

Indians lurking about in the woods, and he said to me, “John, you must

not go out of the house to day.” After giving strict charge to my step

mother to let none of the little children go out, he went to the field,

with the negroes, and my elder brother, to drop corn.

Three little children, beside myself, were left in the house with my step

mother. To prevent me from going out, my step mother required me to take

care of the little child, then not more than a few months old; but as I

soon became impatient of confinement, I began to pinch my little brother,

to make him cry. My mother perceiving this uneasiness, told me to take

him in my arms and walk about the house; I did so, but continued to pinch

him. My mother at length took him from me to give him suck. I watched my

opportunity, and escaped into the yard; thence through a small door in

the large gate of the wall into the open field. There was a walnut tree

at some distance from the house, and near the side of the field, where I

had been in the habit of finding some of the last year’s nuts. To gain

this tree without being seen by my father, and those in the field, I had

to use some precaution. I remember perfectly well having seen my father,

as I skulked towards the tree; he stood in the middle of the field,

with his gun in his hand, to watch for Indians, while the others were

dropping corn. As I came near the tree, I thought to myself, “I wish I

could see these Indians.” I had partly filled with nuts a straw hat which

I wore, when I heard a crackling noise behind me; I looked round, and

saw the Indians; almost at the same instant, I was seized by both hands,

and dragged off betwixt two. One of them took my straw hat, emptied the

nuts on the ground, and put it on my head. The Indians who seized me

were an old man and a young one; these were, as I learned subsequently,

Manito-o-geezhik, and his son Kish-kau-ko[5]. Since I returned from Red

River, I have been at Detroit while Kish-kau-ko was in prison there; I

have also been in Kentucky, and have learned several particulars relative

to my capture, which were unknown to me at the time. It appears that

the wife of Manito-o-geezhik had recently lost by death her youngest

son—that she had complained to her husband, that unless he should bring

back her son, she could not live. This was an intimation to bring her

a captive whom she might adopt in the place of the son she had lost.

Manito-o-geezhik, associating with him his son, and two other men of his

band, living at Lake Huron, had proceeded eastward with this sole design.

On the upper part of Lake Erie, they had been joined by three other

young men, the relations of Manito-o-geezhik, and had proceeded on, now

several in number, to the settlements on the Ohio. They had arrived the

night previous to my capture at the mouth of the Big Miami, had crossed

the Ohio, and concealed themselves within sight of my father’s house.

Several times in the course of the morning, old Manito-o-geezhik had been

compelled to repress the ardour of his young men, who becoming impatient

at seeing no opportunity to steal a boy, were anxious to fire upon the

people dropping corn in the field. It must have been about noon when they

saw me coming from the house to the walnut tree, which was probably very

near the place where one or more of them were concealed.

It was but a few minutes after I left the house, when my father, coming

from the field, perceived my absence. My step mother had not yet noticed

that I had gone out. My elder brother ran immediately to the walnut tree,

which he knew I was fond of visiting, and seeing the nuts which the

Indian had emptied out of my hat, he immediately understood that I had

been made captive. Search was instantly made for me, but to no purpose.

My father’s distress, when he found I was indeed taken away by the

Indians, was, I am told, very great.

After I saw myself firmly seized by both wrists by the two Indians, I

was not conscious of any thing that passed for a considerable time. I

must have fainted, as I did not cry out, and I can remember nothing

that happened to me, until they threw me over a large log, which must

have been at a considerable distance from the house. The old man I did

not now see; I was dragged along between Kish-kau-ko and a very short

thick man. I had probably made some resistance, or done something to

irritate this last, for he took me a little to one side, and drawing his

tomahawk, motioned to me to look up. This I plainly understood, from the

expression of his face, and his manner, to be a direction for me to look

up for the last time, as he was about to kill me. I did as he directed,

but Kish-kau-ko caught his hand as the tomahawk was descending, and

prevented him from burying it in my brains. Loud talking ensued between

the two. Kish-kau-ko presently raised a yell; the old man and the four

others answered it by a similar yell, and came running up. I have since

understood that Kish-kau-ko complained to his father, that the short man

had made an attempt to kill his little brother, as he called me. The old

chief, after reproving him, took me by one hand, and Kish-kau-ko by the

other, and dragged me betwixt them; the man who had threatened to kill

me, and who was now an object of terror, being kept at some distance. I

could perceive, as I retarded them somewhat in their retreat, that they

were apprehensive of being overtaken; some of them were always at some

distance from us.

It was about one mile from my father’s house to the place where they

threw me into a hickory bark canoe, which was concealed under the

bushes, on the bank of the river. Into this they all seven jumped, and

immediately crossed the Ohio, landing at the mouth of the Big Miami,

and on the south side of that river. Here they abandoned their canoe,

and stuck their paddles in the ground, so that they could be seen from

the river. At a little distance in the woods they had some blankets and

provisions concealed; they offered me some dry venison and bear’s grease,

but I could not eat. My father’s house was plainly to be seen from the

place where we stood; they pointed at it, looked at me, and laughed, but

I have never known what they said.

After they had eaten a little, they began to ascend the Miami, dragging

me along as before. The shoes I had on when at home, they took off,

as they seemed to think I could run better without them. Although I

perceived I was closely watched, all hope of escape did not immediately

forsake me. As they hurried me along, I endeavored, without their

knowledge, to take notice of such objects as would serve as landmarks on

my way back. I tried also, where I passed long grass, or soft ground,

to leave my tracks. I hoped to be able to escape after they should

have fallen asleep at night. When night came, they lay down, placing

me between the old man and Kish-kau-ko, so close together, that the

same blanket covered all three. I was so fatigued that I fell asleep

immediately, and did not wake until sunrise next morning, when the

Indians were up and ready to proceed on their journey. Thus we journeyed

for about four days, the Indians hurrying me on, and I continuing to

hope that I might escape but still every night completely overpowered

by sleep. As my feet were bare, they were often wounded, and at length

much swollen. The old man perceiving my situation, examined my feet one

day, and after removing a great many thorns and splinters from them, gave

me a pair of moccasins, which afforded me some relief. Most commonly, I

travelled between the old man and Kish-kau-ko, and they often made me

run until my strength was quite exhausted. For several days I could eat

little or nothing. It was, I think, four days after we left the Ohio that

we came to a considerable river, running, as I suppose, into the Miami.

This river was wide, and so deep that I could not wade across it; the old

man took me on his shoulders and carried me over; the water was nearly

up to his arm pits. As he carried me across, I thought I should never

be able to pass this river alone, and gave over all hope of immediate

escape. When he put me down on the other side, I immediately ran up the

bank, and a short distance into the woods, when a turkey flew up a few

steps before me. The nest she had left contained a number of eggs; these

I put in the bosom of my shirt, and returned towards the river. When

the Indians saw me they laughed, and immediately took the eggs from me,

and kindling a fire, put them in a small kettle to boil. I was then very

hungry, and as I sat watching the kettle, I saw the old man come running

from the direction of the ford where we had crossed; he immediately

caught up the kettle, threw the eggs and the water on the fire, at the

same time saying something in a hurried and low tone to the young men.

I inferred we were pursued, and have since understood that such was the

case; it is probable some of my friends were at that time on the opposite

side of the river searching for me. The Indians hastily gathered up the

eggs and dispersed themselves in the woods, two of them still urging me

forward to the utmost of my strength.

It was a day or two after this that we met a party of twenty or thirty

Indians, on their way towards the settlements. Old Manito-o-geezhik had

much to say to them; subsequently I learned that they were a war party of

Shawneese; that they received information from our party of the whites

who were in pursuit of us about the forks of the Miami; that they went

in pursuit of them, and that a severe skirmish happened between them, in

which numbers were killed on both sides.

Our journey through the woods was tedious and painful: it might have

been ten days after we met the war party when we arrived at the Maumee

River. As soon as we came near the river, the Indians were suddenly

scattered about the woods examining the trees, yelling and answering

each other. They soon selected a hickory tree, which was cut down, and

the bark stripped off, to make a canoe. In this canoe we all embarked,

and descended till we came to a large Shawnee village, at the mouth of a

river which enters the Maumee. As we were landing in this village, great

numbers of the Indians came about us, and one young woman came crying

directly towards me, and struck me on the head. Some of her friends had

been killed by the whites. Many of these Shawneese showed a disposition

to kill me, but Kish-kau-ko and the old man interposed and prevented

them. I could perceive that I was often the subject of conversation,

but could not as yet understand what was said. Old Manito-o-geezhik

could speak a few words of English, which he used occasionally to direct

me to bring water, make a fire, or perform other tasks, which he now

began to require of me. We remained two days at the Shawnee village, and

then proceeded on our journey in the canoe. It was not very far from

the village that we came to a trading house, where were three or four

men who could speak English; they talked much with me, and said they

wished to have purchased me from the Indians, that I might return to

my friends; but as the old man would not consent to part with me, the

traders told me I must be content to go with the Indians, and to become

the old man’s son in place of one he had lost, promising at the same

time that after ten days they would come to the village and release me.

They treated me kindly while we stayed, and gave me plenty to eat, which

the Indians had neglected to do. When I found I was compelled to leave

this house with the Indians, I began to cry for the first time since I

had been taken. I consoled myself, however, with their promise that in

ten days they would come for me. Soon after leaving this trading house,

we came to the lake; we did not stop at night to encamp, but soon after

dark the Indians raised a yell, which was answered from some lights on

shore, and presently a canoe came off to us in which three of our party

left us. I have little recollection of any thing that passed from this

time until we arrived at Detroit. At first we paddled up in the middle

of the river until we came opposite the center of the town; then we ran

in near the shore where I saw a white woman with whom the Indians held a

little conversation, but I could not understand what was said. I also saw

several white men standing and walking on shore, and heard them talk, but

could not understand them; it is likely they spoke French. After talking

a few minutes with the woman, the Indians pushed off and ran up a good

distance above the town.

It was about the middle of the day when we landed in the woods and drew

up the canoe. They presently found a large hollow log, open at one end,

into which they put their blankets, their little kettle, and some other

articles; they then made me crawl into it, after which they closed up

the end at which I had entered. I heard them for a few minutes on the

outside, then all was still, and remained so for a long time. If I had

not long since relinquished all hope of making my escape, I soon found it

would be in vain for me to attempt to release myself from my confinement.

After remaining many hours in this situation, I heard them removing the

logs with which they had fastened me in, and on coming out, although it

was very late in the night, or probably near morning, I could perceive

that they had brought three horses. One of these was a large iron-gray

mare, the others were two small bay horses. On one of these they placed

me, on the others their baggage, and sometimes one, sometimes another of

the Indians riding, we travelled rapidly, and in about three days reached

Sau-ge-nong,[6] the village to which old Manito-o-geezhik belonged.

This village or settlement consisted of several scattered houses. Two

of the Indians left us soon after we entered it; Kish-kau-ko and his

father only remained, and instead of proceeding immediately home, they

left their horses and borrowed a canoe, in which we at last arrived at

the old man’s house. This was a hut or cabin built of logs like some of

those in Kentucky. As soon as we landed, the old woman came down to us

to the shore, and after Manito-o-geezhik had said a few words to her,

she commenced crying, at the same time hugging and kissing me, and thus

she led me to the house. Next day they took me to the place where the

old woman’s son had been buried. The grave was enclosed with pickets,

in the manner of the Indians, and on each side of it was a smooth

open place. Here they all took their seats; the family and friends of

Manito-o-geezhik on the one side, and strangers on the other. The friends

of the family had come provided with presents; mukkuks of sugar, sacks

of corn, beads, strouding, tobacco, and the like. They had not been long

assembled, when my party began to dance, dragging me with them about the

grave. Their dance was lively and cheerful, after the manner of the scalp

dance. From time to time as they danced, they presented me something of

the articles they had brought, but as I came round in the dancing to the

party on the opposite side of the grave, whatever they had given me was

snatched from me: thus they continued great part of the day, until the

presents were exhausted, when they returned home.

It must have been early in the spring when we arrived at Sau-ge-nong,

for I can remember that at this time the leaves were small, and the

Indians were about planting their corn. They managed to make me assist at

their labours, partly by signs, and partly by the few words of English

old Manito-o-geezhik could speak. After planting, they all left the

village, and went out to hunt and dry meat. When they came to their

hunting grounds, they chose a place where many deer resorted, and here

they began to build a long screen like a fence; this they made of green

boughs and small trees. When they had built a part of it, they showed me

how to remove the leaves and dry brush from that side of it to which the

Indians were to come to shoot the deer. In this labour I was sometimes

assisted by the squaws and children, but at other times I was left alone.

It now began to be warm weather, and it happened one day that having

been left alone, as I was tired and thirsty, I fell asleep. I cannot

tell how long I slept, but when I began to awake, I thought I heard some

one crying a great way off. Then I tried to raise up my head, but could

not. Being now more awake, I saw my Indian mother and sister standing by

me, and perceived that my face and head were wet. The old woman and her

daughter were crying bitterly, but it was some time before I perceived

that my head was badly cut and bruised. It appears that after I had

fallen asleep, Manito-o-geezhik, passing that way, had perceived me, had

tomahawked me, and thrown me in the bushes; and that when he came to his

camp he had said to his wife, “old woman, the boy I brought you is good

for nothing; I have killed him, and you will find him in such a place.”

The old woman and her daughter having found me, discovered still some

signs of life, and had stood over me a long time, crying, and pouring

cold water on my head, when I waked. In a few days I recovered in some

measure from this hurt, and was again set to work at the screen, but

I was more careful not to fall asleep; I endeavoured to assist them at

their labours, and to comply in all instances with their directions, but

I was notwithstanding treated with great harshness, particularly by the

old man, and his two sons She-mung and Kwo-tash-e. While we remained at

the hunting camp, one of them put a bridle in my hand, and pointing in a

certain direction, motioned me to go. I went accordingly, supposing he

wished me to bring a horse; I went and caught the first I could find, and

in this way I learned to discharge such services as they required of me.

When we returned from hunting, I carried on my back a large pack of

dried meat all the way to the village, but though I was almost starved,

I dared not touch a morsel of it. My Indian mother, who seemed to have

some compassion for me, would sometimes steal a little food, and hide it

for me until the old man was gone away, and then give it to me. After we

returned to the village the young men, whenever the weather was pleasant,

were engaged in spearing fish, and they used to take me to steer the

canoe. As I did not know how to do this very well, they commonly turned

upon me, beat me, and often knocked me down with the pole of the spear.

By one or the other of them I was beaten almost every day. Other Indians,

not of our family, would sometimes seem to pity me, and when they could

without being observed by the old man, they would sometimes give me food,

and take notice of me.

After the corn was gathered in the fall, and disposed of in the

Sun-je-gwun-nun, or Ca-ches, where they hide it for the winter, they went

to hunt on the Sau-ge-nong River. I was here, as I had always been when

among them, much distressed with hunger. As I was often with them in the

woods, I saw them eating something, and I endeavoured to discover what it

was, but they carefully concealed it from me. It was some time before I

accidentally found some beach-nuts, and though I knew not what they were,

I was tempted to taste them, and finding them very good, I showed them

to the Indians, when they laughed, and let me know these were what they

had all along been eating. After the snow had fallen, I was compelled

to follow the hunters, and oftentimes to drag home to the lodge a whole

deer, though it was with the greatest difficulty I could do so.

At night I had always to lie between the fire and the door of the lodge,

and when any one passed out or came in, they commonly gave me a kick; and

whenever they went to drink, they made a practice to throw some water

on me. The old man constantly treated me with much cruelty, but his ill

humor showed itself more on some occasions than others. One morning, he

got up, put on his moccasins, and went out; but presently returning, he

caught me by the hair of my head, dragged me out, rubbed my face for a

long time in a mass of recent excrement, as one would do the nose of

a cat, then tossed me by the hair into a snow bank. After this I was

afraid to go into the lodge; but at length my mother came out and gave

me some water to wash. We were now about to move our camp, and I was as

usual made to carry a large pack; but as I had not been able to wash my

face clean, when I came among other Indians they perceived the smell,

and asked me the cause. By the aid of signs, and some few words I could

now speak, I made them comprehend how I had been treated. Some of them

appeared to pity me, assisted me to wash myself, and gave me something to

eat.[7]

Often when the old man would begin to beat me, my mother, who generally

treated me with kindness, would throw her arms about me, and he would

beat us both together. Towards the end of winter, we moved again to the

sugar grounds. At this time, Kish-kau-ko, who was a young man of about

twenty years of age, joined with him four other young men and went

on a war-party. The old man also, as soon as the sugar was finished,

returned to the village, collected a few men, and made his preparations

to start. I had now been a year among them, and could understand a little

of their language. The old man, when about to start, said to me, “now I

am going to kill your father and your brother, and all your relations.”

Kish-kau-ko returned first, but was badly wounded. He said he had been

with his party to the Ohio River; that they had, after watching for some

time, fired upon a small boat that was going down, and killed one man,

the rest jumping into the water. He (Kish-kau-ko) had wounded himself in

his thigh with his own spear, as he was pursuing them. They brought home

the scalp of the man they had killed.

Old Manito-o-geezhik returned a few days afterwards, bringing an old

white hat, which I knew, from a mark in the crown, to be that of my

brother. He said he had killed all my father’s family, the negroes, and

the horses, and had brought me my brother’s hat, that I might see he

spoke the truth. I now believed that my friends had all been cut off, and

was, on that account, the less anxious to return. This, it appears, had

been precisely the object the old man wished to accomplish, by telling

me the story of which but a small part was true. When I came to see

Kish-kau-ko, after I returned from Red River, I asked him immediately,

“Is it true, that your father has killed all my relations?” He told me it

was not; that Manito-o-geezhik, the year after I was taken, at the same

season of the year, returned to the same field where he had found me;

that, as on the preceding year, he had watched my father and his people

planting corn, from morning till noon; that then they all went into the

house, except my brother, who was then nineteen years of age: he remained

ploughing with a span of horses, having the lines about his neck, when

the Indians rushed upon him; the horses started to run; my brother was

entangled in the lines, and thrown down, when the Indians caught him. The

horses they killed with their bows and arrows, and took my brother away

into the woods. They crossed the Ohio before night, and had proceeded a

good distance in their way up the Miami. At night they left my brother

securely bound, as they thought, to a tree. His hands and arms were tied

behind him, and there were cords around his breast and neck; but having

bitten off some of the cords, he was able to get a pen-knife that was in

his pocket, with which he cut himself loose, and immediately ran towards

the Ohio, at which he arrived, and which he crossed by swimming, and

reached his father’s house about sunrise in the morning. The Indians

were roused by the noise he made, and pursued him into the woods; but as

the night was very dark, they were not able to overtake him. His hat had

been left at the camp, and this they brought to make me believe they had

killed him. Thus I remained for two years in this family, and gradually

came to have less and less hope of escape, though I did not forget what

the English traders on the Maumee had said, and I wished they might

remember and come for me. The men were often drunk, and whenever they

were so, they sought to kill me. In these cases, I learned to run and

hide myself in the woods, and I dared not return before their drunken

frolic was over. During the two years that I remained at Sau-ge-nong,

I was constantly suffering from hunger; and though strangers, or those

not belonging to the family, sometimes fed me, I had never enough to

eat. The old woman they called Ne-keek-wos-ke-cheeme-kwa—“the Otter

woman,” the otter being her _totem_—treated me with kindness, as did

her daughters, as well as Kish-kau-ko and Be-nais-sa, the bird, the

youngest son, of about my own age. Kish-kau-ko and his father, and the

two brothers, Kwo-ta-she and She-mung, were blood-thirsty and cruel, and

those who remain of this family, continue, to this time, troublesome to

the whites. Be-nais-sa, who came to see me when I was at Detroit, and who

always treated me kindly, was a better man, but he is since dead. While

I remained with them at Sau-ge-nong, I saw white men but once. Then a

small boat passed, and the Indians took me out to it in a canoe, rightly

supposing that my wretched appearance would excite the compassion of the

traders, or whatever white men they were. These gave me bread, apples,

and other presents, all which, except one apple, the Indians took from

me. By this family I was named Shaw-shaw-wa ne-ba-se, (the Falcon,)

which name I retained while I remained among the Indians.

I had been about two years at Sau-ge-nong, when a great council was

called by the British agents at Mackinac. This council was attended by

the Sioux, the Winnebagoes, the Menomonees, and many remote tribes, as

well as by the Ojibbeways, Ottawwaws, etc. When old Manito-o-geezhik

returned from this council, I soon learned that he had met there his

kinswoman, Net-no-kwa, who, notwithstanding her sex, was then regarded as

principal chief of the Ottawwaws. This woman had lost her son, of about

my age, by death; and having heard of me, she wished to purchase me to

supply his place. My old Indian mother, the Otter woman, when she heard

of this, protested vehemently against it. I heard her say, “My son has

been dead once, and has been restored to me; I cannot lose him again.”

But these remonstrances had little influence, when Net-no-kwa arrived

with considerable whiskey, and other presents. She brought to the lodge

first a ten gallon keg of whiskey, blankets, tobacco, and other articles

of great value. She was perfectly acquainted with the dispositions

of those with whom she had to negotiate. Objections were made to the

exchange until the contents of the keg had circulated for some time;

then an additional keg, and a few more presents completed the bargain,

and I was transferred to Net-no-kwa. This woman, who was then advanced

in years, was of a more pleasing aspect than my former mother. She took

me by the hand after she had completed the negotiation with my former

possessors, and led me to her own lodge which stood near. Here I soon

found I was to be treated more indulgently than I had been. She gave me

plenty of food, put good clothes upon me, and told me to go and play with

her own sons. We remained but a short time at Sau-ge-nong. She would not

stop with me at Mackinac, which we passed in the night, but ran along to

Point St. Ignace, where she hired some Indians to take care of me while

she returned to Mackinac by herself, or with one or two of her young men.

After finishing her business at Mackinac, she returned, and continuing on

our journey, we arrived in a few days at Shab-a-wy-wy-a-gun. The corn

was ripe when we reached that place, and after stopping a little while,

we went three days up the river to the place where they intended to pass

the winter. We then left our canoes and travelling over land, camped

three times before we came to the place where we set up our lodges for

the winter. The husband of Net-no-kwa was an Ojibbeway, of Red River,

called Taw-ga-we-ninne, the hunter. He was seventeen years younger than

Net-no-kwa, and had turned off a former wife on being married to her.

Taw-ga-we-ninne was always indulgent and kind to me, treating me like an

equal, rather than as a dependant. When speaking to me, he always called

me his son. Indeed, he himself was but of secondary importance in the

family, as every thing belonged to Net-no-kwa, and she had the direction

in all affairs of any moment. She imposed on me, for the first year, some

tasks. She made me cut wood, bring home game, bring water, and perform

other services not commonly required of the boys of my age; but she

treated me invariably with so much kindness that I was far more happy and

content than I had been in the family of Manito-o-geezhik. She sometimes

whipped me, as she did her own children; but I was not so severely and

frequently beaten as I had been before.