execution than any other man on the field. Mounted on horseback, he
freely exposed himself wherever the combat was most furious. He was
armed with a rifle and carried two pistols. His powder and bullets were
carried in belts slung over his shoulders, convenient for instant use. He
usually had the bullet needed for the next load ready in his mouth. "He
would pour in the powder," said an eye-witness, "wad it down, blow in the
bullet, prime, and fire, more rapidly than one can tell the facts."
The savages had a wholesome fear of Wells, and they fled from his aim in
all directions. They broke from him right and left. In the effort to
protect the women and children he closely watched the movements of the
Indians toward the wagons, and presently saw a young savage come up and
enter one of them in which twelve of the children had been collected.
Before he could prevent him, the savage ruthlessly tomahawked the entire
group; and when Wells caught sight of this horrid deed, he shouted in
rage: "Is that their game--butchering women and children?"
But his own end was near. He received a shot which passed through his
lungs, and realizing that it was a mortal wound, he rode up to his niece,
Mrs. Heald, still maintaining his position upon his horse. Seizing her
hand, he exclaimed, "Farewell, my child." Mrs. Heald, who, though thus
addressed, was nearly as old as her uncle, replied, "Why, uncle, I hope
you will get over this." "No, my child," he said, "I cannot." She then
saw that blood was coming from his nose and mouth, and he said that he
could not last five minutes longer. He then gave his niece his last
message in these words: "Tell my wife, if you live to get there,--but I
think it doubtful if a single one gets there,--tell her I died at my
post doing the best I could. There are seven red devils over there that I
have killed."
Wells's horse had already been shot through the body, and at that
moment fell exhausted, with his rider pinioned beneath him. Wells then
saw several Indians coming toward him, bent on taking advantage of his
apparent helplessness. He summoned his failing strength and from his
prostrate position took aim and killed one of them on the spot. The
others approached closer to the wounded lion, determined to strike a blow
or fire a shot that would instantly end his life. Mrs. Heald saw the
movement and cried out, "Uncle, there is an Indian pointing right at the
back of your head." He put his hand back and held up his head, in spite
of his failing strength, so that better aim might be taken, and then
exclaimed, "Shoot away!"
The Indian fired and Captain Wells fell dead. Thus perished the man
to whom in a greater degree than to any other person those who still
remained alive upon the scene looked for help and guidance in this awful
extremity. Without him, the thickening perils of the hour seemed the
climax of despair.
Some time later the news of the death of Captain Wells reached his widow
(the daughter of the chief Little Turtle), long before Mrs. Heald, who
survived the massacre, was able to convey the message entrusted to her.
One of the Indians present who witnessed the scene, though he took no
part in the perpetration of that dark deed, was a friend of Wells, whom
he had known in former years and whom he regarded as a brother. It was
this Indian who went to Fort Wayne after the battle was over and gave
Mrs. Wells the first intimation of her husband's death. After doing so he
disappeared, and it was supposed that he returned to his tribe, as he was
not seen again.
The two younger officers. Ensign George Ronan and Surgeon Isaac Van
Voorhis, had been all this time gallantly bearing their part in the
unequal struggle with the savage hordes that surrounded them, and both
of them had received dangerous wounds. In her account of the battle,
Mrs. Helm says that, overwrought by his fighting and pain, the surgeon
came up and addressed her. He had been wounded, his horse had been shot
under him, and he was in a state of terror. Aware of Mrs. Helm's lifelong
experience with the Indians, though she was much younger than himself,
he said to her: "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 Voorhis," said the seventeen-year-old girl, "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!" he exclaimed. "I am not fit to die. If I had but
a short time to prepare! Death is awful!" Mrs. Helm pointed to Ensign
Ronan, who, though even then mortally wounded, was down on one knee and
was still fighting with desperate courage.
"Look at that man," she said. "At least he dies like a soldier." "Yes,"
replied the surgeon, "but he has no terrors of the future--he is an
unbeliever!"
The wounded surgeon's fear, thus shown under these trying circumstances,
was entirely natural. He was then only twenty-two years of age and had
entered the service on the frontier but the year before. The bravest men
have often passed through a similar experience in moments of danger. An
unbeliever, in his view, would not concern himself with the hereafter;
but he considered that he himself was unfit to appear before the bar of
God. What more natural than that this young man's heart should fail him
in that supreme moment?
There was no opportunity, however, even had he been able, to show his
mettle by a renewed effort to stem the tide of disaster, for almost
immediately afterwards he was tomahawked by one of the Indians, and was
seen dead on the ground when Mrs. Helm passed that way a little time
later as the captive of the chief Black Partridge, on their way to the
river.
In an obituary notice, published in _The Political Index_, November
17, 1812, at Newburg, New York, there is the following notice of the
unfortunate young surgeon: "Among the slain (at the Fort Dearborn
Massacre) was Dr. Isaac Van Voorhis, of Fishkill, surgeon in the army.
He was a young man of great merit, and received his early education at
the academy in this village. He possessed an enterprising and cultivated
mind, and was ardent in the support of the interest and honor of his
country."
Ensign George Ronan, who was also only twenty-two, had entered the
service on the frontier the previous year. He was a graduate of West
Point, with the rank of ensign, corresponding to that of second
lieutenant in the modern army regulations. He is always referred to as a
brave and enterprising young officer. He won the admiration of all during
the months previous to the events here narrated, and especially for the
courage and devotion shown by him in the last scene, when he perished on
the field of battle.
From his position on the battle-field, Captain Heald saw the Indians
making signs to him to approach and consult with them. Heald advanced
alone in response to this invitation. Through a half-breed interpreter,
Peresh Leclerc, he was asked to surrender to them, the Indians at the
same time promising to spare the lives of all the prisoners. A Potawatami
chief, named Black Bird, was the spokesman for the Indians. Captain Heald
in his report says that after a few moments' consideration he concluded
it would be most prudent to comply with this request, although he did
not put entire confidence in the promise. In fact, Heald was reduced to
extremities, and a parley with the Indians was his only hope. They were
surrounded by the savages. Lieutenant Helm was wounded and a prisoner
in the hands of the enemy, who indeed had possession of all the horses,
wagons, and property of every description, besides having killed or
captured all the women and children. He was obliged to make the best
terms possible, for though a surrender might be followed by treachery,
there was really no other course for him to take.
The surrender was then agreed to and the fighting ceased. The air was
filled with the shouts of the savages exulting over their victory, while
from the wounded issued moans of pain, and from the distance could be
heard the wailings of cruelly bereaved mothers.
After delivering up their arms, the survivors were taken back to the
encampment of the Indians near the fort, and distributed among the
different tribes. The number of their warriors, Heald said, was between
four hundred and five hundred, mostly of the Potawatami nation, and the
loss on their side was about fifteen. There were about sixty of the
whites killed in the battle and the massacre which followed, but when
the troops surrendered and the Indians promised that the lives of the
survivors should be spared, it was found that the savages regarded the
wounded as exempted from this condition. Accordingly, many of the wounded
were ruthlessly tomahawked after the surrender, and in the same evening
five of the soldiers were tortured to death. A number of others perished
from the privations they suffered while in the hands of the Indians
during the ensuing season.
The boat containing the Kinzie family and the servants accompanying them
at first kept near the mouth of the river, the occupants watching the
troops and the wagon train passing along the beach toward the south. They
heard the discharge of the guns when the Indians attacked, and the boat's
course was directed so as to approach as nearly as possible to the scene
of the fighting. They saw a woman on horseback led by an Indian not far
from the edge of the water.
"That is Mrs. Heald," cried Mrs. Kinzie. "That Indian will kill her.
Run, Chandonnais, take the mule that is tied there and offer it to him
to release her." The Indian was already attempting to take off her
bonnet, with the evident intention of scalping her, and she was resisting
vigorously.
The Indian paused long enough in the Struggle to listen to the offer
made by Chandonnais, who added the promise of two bottles of whiskey
as soon as they would reach their destination. "But," said the Indian,
"she is badly wounded--she will die. Will you give me the whiskey at all
events?" Chandonnais, who was well known to the Indians, promised that he
would, and the bargain was concluded. Several squaws, keen for plunder,
had followed the procession closely, and made an ineffectual attempt to
rob Mrs. Heald of her shoes and stockings. The savage had succeeded in
getting possession of her bonnet, and placed it on his own head. She was
taken on board the boat, and lay moaning with pain from the wounds she
had received.
As it was impossible to continue their journey under the circumstances,
the boat and its passengers returned to the Kinzie house, trusting to the
influence possessed by Mr. Kinzie to maintain their safety. They were
joined there by Mr. Kinzie, who had escaped injury from the savages.
Around them gathered a number of Indians still friendly to the Kinzie
family, whose Intentions were to assist them in a renewed attempt to
reach their proposed destination at St. Joseph.
Among the friendly Indians thus gathered was Black Partridge, who had
rescued Mrs. Helm and had safely brought her to the Kinzie house, where
she rejoined her family.
Thus were assembled the entire family of John Kinzie, except his
son-in-law, Lieutenant Helm. Mrs. Heald and Mrs. Helm were both suffering
from wounds. Both had been attacked by the savages while on horseback,
the former having perhaps escaped death, through the ransom negotiated by
Chandonnais, and the other having been rescued by Black Partridge.
John Burns, with his wife and infant child, had lived in the house west
of the Kinzies', on the north bank of the river, and were with the troops
at the time of the attack. It will be recalled that Mrs. Burns and her
one-day-old infant had been brought to the fort for safety at the time of
the Indian alarm in the previous April. Burns was killed while with the
troops, but his wife and child were made captives by one of the chiefs
and by him taken to his village and treated with great kindness; but his
squaw wife, excited by feelings of jealousy of the favors shown to the
captives, attempted to kill the child with a tomahawk thrown at it with
great force. The blow narrowly missed being fatal, but it inflicted a
wound the marks of which she carried through the remainder of her life.
The chief prevented further attempts of the kind by removing the captives
to a place of safety. Eventually the mother and child found their way
back to civilization.
"Twenty-two years after this," writes the younger Mrs. Kinzie, in
_Wau-Bun_, "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."
A somewhat similar case was that of Mrs. Charles Lee, whose husband owned
the farm on the South Branch where the two men were murdered by Indians
in the previous April. His son, a lad of twelve years, who, with the
discharged soldier, ran to the fort from the farm and gave the alarm
on that occasion, was also with the troops in company with his father.
Lee and his son were both killed in the battle, but Mrs. Lee and her
young child were captured, and later came into the possession of Black
Partridge. This "knightly rescuer of women" proved the worth of his
friendship toward the whites in the case of Mrs. Lee and her child, as he
had already done in the rescue of Mrs. Helm.
The story of John Cooper, surgeon's mate at Fort Dearborn, was similar
in many of its details to that of others in the battle. Cooper was
accompanied by his wife and two young daughters, the elder of whom was
named Isabella. Cooper was among the killed, and when the Indians made
a rush for the women and children in the wagons, a young Indian boy
attempted to carry off Isabella, but encountered so lively a resistance
that he was obliged to throw her down. He succeeded in scalping her, and
would have killed her outright had not an old squaw prevented him. The
squaw, who knew the Cooper family, took Mrs. Cooper and her children to
her wigwam and cured the girl of her wound.
The family remained in captivity two years, when they were ransomed.
They afterwards lived in Detroit. The mark of the wound on the girl's
head caused by the young Indian's scalping knife was about the size of a
silver dollar, and, of course, remained with her through her life.
An infant of six months was with its mother among the survivors of that
dreadful day. Corporal Simmons had with him on the march his wife and two
children, the eldest a boy of two years, and a little girl an infant in
its mother's arms. The mother and her children were in the army wagon,
which was entered by the Indian, who despatched the children as rapidly
as he could reach them. Mrs. Simmons, while not able to save her boy,
succeeded in concealing the baby in a shawl behind her, and the child
survived the scenes of that day. The corporal himself was among those who
were slain.
When the division of prisoners took place after the action Mrs. Simmons
was carried off by the Indians to Green Bay, the whole distance to
which she walked, carrying her child in her arms. On arriving at their
destination the captives were required to "run the gauntlet," according
to the brutal custom of the savages, but in doing so she was able to
protect her precious charge by bending over it as she held it in her
arms. She received many cruel blows and half dead she reached the goal
where a friendly squaw gave her and her child a kind reception. In the
following year, after many weary wanderings, Mrs. Simmons reached a
frontier post in Ohio and was at length set at liberty.
This child grew up and became the wife of Moses Winans, and in later
life she and her husband lived in California, but she never returned to
Chicago again. She died in 1903, at the advanced age of ninety years.
Of the nine women who set out with the troops, two were killed; the
others, except Mrs. Heald and Mrs. Helm, were carried off by the savages,
and some did not survive the hardships of the life they were compelled
to undergo. There were eighteen children, of whom twelve were killed
outright, and but few of the others were ever heard of.
The following fall and winter the British, then in possession of Detroit,
were urged by some of the American residents of that place to exert their
influence among their Indian allies to return the captives to the custody
of the British military authorities. Tardy efforts were made, and at
length the agent who was appointed for that work reported that he had
gathered at the St. Joseph River seventeen soldiers, four women, and some
children. There were, however, several other survivors not included among
those whom the British agent was able to find, as appears from some other
accounts. The soldiers were taken to Detroit and became prisoners of
war, but their condition was thus only slightly ameliorated. Young John
Kinzie, then a lad ten years of age, recalled that while his father's
family were living in their own house at Detroit during that winter,
themselves practically prisoners of war, he saw the miserable captives
suffering from exposure in the severe cold weather without adequate
shelter, and but little could be done for them by their American friends.
The perils surrounding the Kinzie family when they were once more
gathered under the family roof were of the most serious character. Here
were assembled a company of the survivors after a day of excitement,
bloodshed, and distress hardly to be paralleled in the lives of
civilized people. Across the river from the Kinzie house could be seen
the victorious savages indulging in wild antics, shouting and dancing
exultantly, ransacking and plundering the buildings within the fort, and
preparing to torture some of the prisoners to death. They had arrayed
themselves in women's hats, shawls, and ribbons, and filled the air with
their savage outcries.
Notwithstanding the fact that the house and its inmates were closely
guarded by their Indian friends, and that Black Partridge and other
friendly Indians had established themselves in the porch of the building
as sentinels, to protect the family from any evil that the young men of
the tribes might endeavor to commit, their peril was extreme. Everything
remained tranquil, however, during the day, and the following night was
passed in comparative freedom from alarms.
The next day the Indians set fire to the fort and the entire place was
consumed. A party of Indians from the Wabash arrived at this time, having
heard of the intended evacuation of the fort, and eager to share in the
plunder. They were disappointed and enraged on finding that their arrival
was too late, that the spoils had been divided, and the scalps all taken.
These Indians had no particular regard for the Kinzies, and it at once
became evident that their presence boded destruction to the devoted
inmates of the house. They blackened their faces and proceeded to the
Kinzie house as the most promising spot to carry out their plundering and
bloodthirsty designs.
Black Partridge was especially anxious in behalf of Mrs. Helm, whose
safety he wished to assure. By his directions she disguised herself and
took refuge in the house of Ouilmette. Ouilmette, being a Frenchman, and
living with an Indian wife, was never molested by the Indians at any
time, being regarded as one of themselves.
The Indians approached this house first and entered without ceremony.
Mrs. Bisson, sister of Ouilmette's wife, hastily concealed Mrs. Helm by
covering her with a feather bed. She then took her seat in front of the
bed and occupied herself with her sewing. The Indians looked into every
part of the room, but did not raise the feather mattress under which Mrs.
Helm was lying, half smothered. Mrs. Bisson was in terror for her own
safety, but bravely maintained an air of indifference during this trying
ordeal, and presently the Indians left the house.
They then went over to the Kinzie dwelling, entered the principal room,
and seated themselves on the floor in ominous silence. Black Partridge
then spoke in a low voice to Waubansee, who was with him as one of the
guards, and said: "We have endeavored to save our friends, but it is in
vain--nothing will save them now."
At that moment a friendly whoop, loud and clear, was heard from the
bank of the river opposite to the house, and Black Partridge instantly
arose and ran toward the landing, calling out, "Who are you?" "I am the
Sauganash," came the reply. Black Partridge replied, "Then make all speed
to the house; your friend is in danger, and you alone can save him."
Sauganash, also known as Billy Caldwell, was a half-breed and was a chief
of the Potawatami tribe, and a man of great influence among the Indians.
He was not present at the evacuation and massacre of the day before, but
had come in time to save the lives of many of the prisoners. With him had
come the chief Shabbona, who also used his influence in moderating the
brutality of the younger members of the tribes.
The Sauganash hastened across the river, while the threatening savages
waited in wonder for his appearance. He calmly entered the room, stood
his rifle behind the door, and gazed about him at the silent savages
squatting on the floor. He boldly asked them why they had blackened their
faces. "Is it that you are mourning for the friends you have lost in
battle?"--thus purposely misunderstanding their evil designs, which he
easily penetrated. "Or is it," he continued, "that you are fasting? If
so, ask our friend here, and he will give you to eat. He is the Indians'
friend, and never yet refused them what they had need of."
The savages were taken by surprise at this speech, and none among them
had the courage to say what the purpose was in their minds. One of them
answered that they had come to ask for some white cotton cloth in which
they might wrap the bodies of their dead friends before placing them in
their graves. As soon as this was said they were provided with a quantity
of cloth, and to the relief of everyone they took their departure
peaceably.
Quartermaster Sergeant William Griffith escaped the general massacre by
a series of remarkable strokes of good fortune. While the troops were
leaving the fort it was discovered that the horses carrying the surgeon's
apparatus and medicines had strayed off. Griffith went to search for
them and bring them up, but being unsuccessful, he hastened to join the
column on foot. Before he had proceeded very far he was met and made a
prisoner by the chief Topenebe, who was friendly to the whites. The chief
took him to the river and put him in a canoe, paddled it across the river
and told him to hide himself in the thick woods on the north side.
The next day he cautiously appeared in the vicinity of Ouilmette's house,
and the place seeming to be quiet, he entered the cabin at the rear. This
was just after the Wabash Indians had left the house for that of Mr.
Kinzie.
The family were greatly alarmed at his appearance, and he was at once
stripped of his army uniform; he was arrayed in a suit of deerskin, with
belt, moccasins, and pipe, like a French engagé. His dark complexion
and black whiskers favored the disguise, and all were instructed to
address him in French, although he was ignorant of the language. In this
character he joined the Kinzie family and with them eventually reached a
place of safety.