Indians march to Niagara to fight the British.--Return with two
Prisoners, &c.--Sacrifice them at Fall-Brook.--Her Indian Mother's
Address to her Daughter.--Death of her Husband.--Bounty offered for the
Prisoners taken in the last war.--John Van Sice attempts to take her to
procure her Ransom.--Her Escape.--Edict of the Chiefs.--Old King of
the tribe determines to have her given up.--Her brother threatens
her Life.--Her narrow Escape.--The old King goes off.--Her brother
is informed of the place of her concealment, and conducts her
home.--Marriage to her second Husband.--Names of her Children.
When we arrived at Genishau, the Indians of that tribe were making
active preparations for joining the French, in order to assist them
in retaking Fort Ne-a-gaw (as Fort Niagara was called in the Seneca
language) from the British, who had taken it from the French in the
month preceding. They marched off the next day after our arrival,
painted and accoutred in all the habiliments of Indian warfare,
determined on death or victory; and joined the army in season to assist
in accomplishing a plan that had been previously concerted for
the destruction of a part of the British army. The British feeling
themselves secure in the possession of Fort Neagaw, and unwilling that
their enemies should occupy any of the military posts in that quarter,
determined to take Fort Schlosser, lying a few miles up the river from
Neagaw, which they expected to effect with but little loss. Accordingly
a detachment of soldiers, sufficiently numerous, as was supposed, was
sent out to take it, leaving a strong garrison in the fort, and marched
off, well prepared to effect their object. But on their way they were
surrounded by the French and Indians, who lay in ambush to deceive
them, and were driven off the bank of the river into a place called the
"Devil's Hole," together with their horses, carriages, artillery, and
every thing pertaining to the army. Not a single man escaped being
driven off, and of the whole number one only was fortunate enough to
escape with his life. [Footnote: For the particulars of that event, see
Appendix, No. 1.] Our Indians were absent but a few days, and returned
in triumph, bringing with them two white prisoners, and a number of
oxen. Those were the first neat cattle that were ever brought to the
Genesee flats.
The next day after their return to Genishau, was set apart as a day
of feasting and frolicing, at the expence of the lives of their two
unfortunate prisoners, on whom they purposed to glut their revenge, and
satisfy their love for retaliation upon their enemies. My sister was
anxious to attend the execution, and to take me with her, to witness the
customs of the warriors, as it was one of the highest kind of frolics
ever celebrated in their tribe, and one that was not often attended with
so much pomp and parade as it was expected that would be. I felt a kind
of anxiety to witness the scene, having never attended an execution,
and yet I felt a kind of horrid dread that made my heart revolt, and
inclined me to step back rather than support the idea of advancing.
On the morning of the execution she made her intention of going to the
frolic, and taking me with her, known to our mother, who in the
most feeling terms, remonstrated against a step at once so rash and
unbecoming the true dignity of our sex:
"How, my daughter, (said she, addressing my sister,) how can you even
think of attending the feast and seeing the unspeakable torments that
those poor unfortunate prisoners must inevitably suffer from the
hands of our warriors? How can you stand and see them writhing in the
warriors' fire, in all the agonies of a slow, a lingering death?
"How can you think of enduring the sound of their groanings and prayers
to the Great Spirit for sudden deliverance from their enemies, or from
life? And how can you think of conducting to that melancholy spot your
poor sister Dickewamis, (meaning myself), who has so lately been a
prisoner, who has lost her parents and brothers by the hands of the
bloody warriors, and who has felt all the horrors of the loss of her
freedom, in lonesome captivity? Oh! how can you think of making her
bleed at the wounds which now are but partially healed? The recollection
of her former troubles would deprive us of Dickewamis, and she would
depart to the fields of the blessed, where fighting has ceased, and the
corn needs no tending--where hunting is easy, the forests delightful,
the summers are pleasant, and the winters are mild!--O! think once, my
daughter, how soon you may have a brave brother made prisoner in battle,
and sacrificed to feast the ambition of the enemies of his kindred, and
leave us to mourn for the loss of a friend, a son and a brother, whose
bow brought us venison, and supplied us with blankets!--Our task is
quite easy at home, and our business needs our attention. With war we
have nothing to do: our husbands and brothers are proud to defend us,
and their hearts beat with ardor to meet our proud foes. Oh! stay then,
my daughter; let our warriors alone perform on their victims their
customs of war!"
This speech of our mother had the desired effect; we stayed at home and
attended to our domestic concerns. The prisoners, however, were
executed by having their heads taken off, their bodies cut in pieces
and shockingly mangled, and then burnt to ashes!--They were burnt on the
north side of Fall-brook, directly opposite the town which was on the
south side, some time in the month of November, 1759.
I spent the winter comfortably, and as agreeably as I could have
expected to, in the absence of my kind husband. Spring at length
appeared, but Sheninjee was yet away; summer came on, but my husband
had not found me. Fearful forebodings haunted my imagination; yet I felt
confident that his affection for me was so great that if he was alive he
would follow me and I should again see him. In the course of the
summer, however, I received intelligence that soon after he left me at
Yiskahwana he was taken sick and died at Wiishto. This was a heavy and
an unexpected blow. I was now in my youthful days left a widow, with one
son, and entirely dependent on myself for his and my support. My mother
and her family gave me all the consolation in their power, and in a few
months nay grief wore off and I became contented.
In a year or two after this, according to my best recollection of the
time, the King of England offered a bounty to those who would bring
in the prisoners that had been taken in the war, to some military post
where they might be redeemed and set at liberty.
John Van Sice, a Dutchman, who had frequently been at our place, and was
well acquainted with every prisoner at Genishau, resolved to take me
to Niagara, that I might there receive my liberty and he the offered
bounty. I was notified of his intention; but as I was fully determined
not to be redeemed at that time, especially with his assistance, I
carefully watched his movements in order to avoid falling into his
hands. It so happened, however, that he saw me alone at work in a
corn-field, and thinking probably that he could secure me easily, ran
towards me in great haste. I espied him at some distance, and well
knowing the amount of his errand, run from him with all the speed I was
mistress of, and never once stopped till I reached Gardow. [Footnote:
I have given this orthography, because it corresponds with the popular
pronunciation.] He gave up the chase, and returned: but I, fearing that
he might be lying in wait for me, stayed three days and three nights in
an old cabin at Gardow, and then went back trembling at every step
for fear of being apprehended. I got home without difficulty; and soon
after, the chiefs in council having learned the cause of my elopement,
gave orders that I should not be taken to any military post without my
consent; and that as it was my choice to stay, I should live amongst
them quietly and undisturbed. But, notwithstanding the will of the
chiefs, it was but a few days before the old king of our tribe told one
of my Indian brothers that I should be redeemed, and he would take me to
Niagara himself. In reply to the old king, my brother said that I should
not be given up; but that, as it was my wish, I should stay with the
tribe as long as I was pleased to. Upon this a serious quarrel ensued
between them, in which my brother frankly told him that sooner than I
should be taken by force, he would kill me with his own hands!--Highly
enraged at the old king; my brother came to my sister's house, where
I resided, and informed her of all that had passed respecting me; and
that, if the old king should attempt to take me, as he firmly
believed he would, he would immediately take my life, and hazard the
consequences. He returned to the old king. As soon as I came in, my
sister told me what she had just heard, and what she expected without
doubt would befal me. Full of pity, and anxious for my preservation,
she then directed me to take my child and go into some high weeds at no
great distance from the house, and there hide myself and lay still till
all was silent in the house, for my brother, she said, would return at
evening and let her know the final conclusion of the matter, of which
she promised to inform me in the following manner: If I was to be
killed, she said she would bake a small cake and lay it at the door, on
the outside, in a place that she then pointed out to me. When all was
silent in the house, I was to creep softly to the door, and if the cake
could not be found in the place specified, I was to go in: but if the
cake was there, I was to take my child and; go as fast as I possibly
could to a large spring on the south side of Samp's Creek, (a place that
I had often seen,) and there wait till I should by some means hear from
her.
Alarmed for my own safety, I instantly followed her advice, and went
into the weeds, where I lay in a state of the greatest anxiety, till all
was silent in the house, when I crept to the door, and there found, to
my great distress, the little cake! I knew my fate was fixed, unless I
could keep secreted till the storm was over, and accordingly crept back
to the weeds, where my little Thomas lay, took him on my back, and laid
my course for the spring as fast as my legs would carry me. Thomas was
nearly three years old, and very large and heavy. I got to the spring
early in the morning, almost overcome with fatigue, and at the same
time fearing that I might be pursued and taken, I felt my life an almost
insupportable burthen. I sat down with my child at the spring, and he
and I made a breakfast of the little cake, and water of the spring,
which I dipped and supped with the only implement which I possessed, my
hand.
In the morning after I fled, as was expected, the old King came to
our house in search of me, and to take me off; but, as I was not to
be found, he gave me up, and went to Niagara with the prisoners he had
already got into his possession.
As soon as the old King was fairly out of the way, my sister told my
brother where he could find me. He immediately set out for the spring,
and found me about noon. The first sight of him made me tremble with
the fear of death; but when he came near, so that I could discover his
countenance, tears of joy flowed down my cheeks, and I felt such a kind
of instant relief as no one can possibly experience, unless when under
the absolute sentence of death he receives an unlimited pardon. We were
both rejoiced at the event of the old King's project; and after staying
at the spring through the night, set out together for home early in the
morning. When we got to a cornfield near the town, my brother secreted
me till he could go and ascertain how my case stood; and finding that
the old King was absent, and that all was peaceable, he returned to me,
and I went home joyfully.
Not long after this, my mother went to Johnstown, on the Mohawk river,
with five prisoners, who were redeemed by Sir William Johnson, and set
at liberty.
When my son Thomas was three or four years old, I was married to an
Indian, whose name was Hiokatoo, commonly called Gardow, by whom I had
four daughters and two sons. I named my children, principally, after
my relatives, from whom I was parted, by calling my girls Jane,
Nancy, Betsey and Polly, and the boys John and Jesse. Jane died about
twenty-nine years ago, in the month of August, a little before the great
Council at Big-Tree, aged about fifteen years. My other daughters are
yet living, and have families.
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