[Illustration]
NARRATIVE
OF
MY CAPTIVITY
AMONG THE
SIOUX INDIANS.
BY
FANNY KELLY.
WITH A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF GENERAL SULLY’S INDIAN EXPEDITION IN 1864,
BEARING UPON EVENTS OCCURRING IN MY CAPTIVITY.
CINCINNATI:
WILSTACH, BALDWIN & CO., PRINTERS,
NO. 143 RACE STREET,
1871.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
FANNY KELLY,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
STEREOTYPED AT THE FRANKLIN TYPE FOUNDRY, CINCINNATI.
_DEDICATION._
TO THE
Officers and Soldiers of the Eleventh Ohio Cavalry,
FOR THEIR
PERSISTENT AND DARING
EFFORTS TO AID MY HUSBAND IN
EFFECTING MY RESCUE;
AND TO THE
Officers and Soldiers of the Sixth Iowa Cavalry,
FOR KINDNESS
SHOWN ME AFTER MY RANSOM
AND RETURN TO FORT SULLY, THIS
NARRATIVE IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.
INTRODUCTORY.
The summer of 1864 marked a period of unusual peril to the daring
pioneers seeking homes in the far West. Following upon the horrible
massacres in Minnesota in 1862, and the subsequent chastisements
inflicted by the expeditions under Generals Sully and Sibley in
1863, whereby the Indians were driven from the then western borders
of civilization, in Iowa, Minnesota, and the white settlements of
Dakota, in the Missouri Valley, the great emigrant trails to Idaho
and Montana became the scene of fresh outrages; and, from the wild,
almost inaccessible nature of the country, pursuit and punishment were
impossible.
I was a member of a small company of emigrants, who were attacked by
an overwhelming force of hostile Sioux, which resulted in the death of
a large proportion of the party, in my own capture, and a horrible
captivity of five months’ duration.
Of my thrilling adventures and experience during this season of terror
and privation, I propose to give a plain, unvarnished narrative, hoping
the reader will be more interested in facts concerning the habits,
manners, and customs of the Indians, and their treatment of prisoners,
than in theoretical speculations and fine-wrought sentences.
Some explanation is due the public for the delay in publishing this
my narrative. From memoranda, kept during the period of my captivity,
I had completed the work for publication, when the manuscript was
purloined and published; but the work was suppressed before it could be
placed before the public. After surmounting many obstacles, I have at
last succeeded in gathering the scattered fragments; and, by the aid of
memory, impressed as I pray no mortal’s may ever be again, am enabled
to place the results before, I trust, a kind-judging, appreciative
public.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. Page
Early History—Canada to Kansas—Death of my Father—My
Marriage—“Ho! for Idaho!”—Crossing the Platte
River—A Storm, 11
CHAPTER II.
The Attack and the Capture, 19
CHAPTER III.
My Husband’s Escape—Burial of the Dead—Arrival of the
Survivors at Deer Creek—An ill-timed Ball, 28
CHAPTER IV.
Beginning of my Captivity, 37
CHAPTER V.
Plan for Little Mary’s Escape—Tortures of
Uncertainty—Unsuccessful Attempt to Escape, 45
CHAPTER VI.
Continuation of our March into the Wilderness—Suffering from
Thirst and Weariness—Disappearance of my Fellow-prisoner—Loss
of the old Chief’s Pipe, and its Consequences to me—A Scene of
Terror, 49
CHAPTER VII.
Powder River—Another Attempt to Escape—Detection and Despair—A
Quarrel—My Life saved by “Jumping Bear,” 62
CHAPTER VIII.
The Storm—Arrival at the Indian Village—The old Chief’s
Wife—Some Kindness shown me—Attend a Feast, 72
CHAPTER IX.
Preparations for Battle—An Indian Village on the Move—Scalp
Dance—A Horrible Scene of Savage Exultation—Compelled to join
the Orgies—A Cause of Indian Hostility—Another Battle with
the White Troops—Burial of an Indian Boy—A Hasty
Retreat—Made to act as Surgeon of the Wounded—Mauve Terre, or
Bad Lands, 92
CHAPTER X.
Mourning for the Slain—Threatened with Death at the Fiery
Stake—Saved by a Speech from Ottawa—Starving Condition of the
Indians, 106
CHAPTER XI.
Meet another White Female Captive—Sad Story of Mary Boyeau—A
Child Roasted, and its Brains Dashed out—Murder of Mrs.
Fletcher—Five Children Slaughtered—Fate of their Mother, 112
CHAPTER XII.
First Intimation of my Little Mary’s Fate—Despair and
Delirium—A Shower of Grasshoppers—A Feast and a Fight—An
Enraged Squaw—The Chief Wounded, 120
CHAPTER XIII.
Arrival of “Porcupine”—A Letter from Captain Marshall—Hopes of
Rescue—Treachery of the Messenger—Egosegalonicha—The Tables
Turned—Another Gleam of Hope—The Indian “White
Tipi”—Disappointed—A White Man Bound and left to Starve—A
Burial Incident, 129
CHAPTER XIV.
Lost in the Indian Village—Black Bear’s White Wife—A small Tea
Party—The White Boy-captive, Charles Sylvester—The Sun
Dance—A Conciliating Letter from General Sibley—A Puzzle of
Human Bones—The Indian as an Artist—I Destroy a Picture and
am Punished with Fire-brands—A Sick Indian, 136
CHAPTER XV.
Preparing the Chi-cha-cha, or Killikinnick—Attack on Captain
Fisk’s Emigrant Train—Fourteen Whites Killed—A big Haul of
Whisky—A Drunken Debauch—I write a Letter to Captain Fisk
under dictation—Poisoned Indians—The Train saved by my
Clerical Strategy, 147
CHAPTER XVI.
Scenes on Cannon Ball Prairie—Reflections, 154
CHAPTER XVII.
A Prairie on Fire—Scenes of Terror, 159
CHAPTER XVIII.
Last days with the Ogalalla Sioux—Massacre of a Party returning
from Idaho—A Woman’s Scalp—A Scalp Dance—Suspicious
Circumstance—Arrival of Blackfeet Indians—Negotiations for my
Ransom—Treachery, 164
CHAPTER XIX.
Indian Customs, 175
CHAPTER XX.
An Indian tradition—Arrival at the Blackfeet Village—An offer
to purchase me indignantly rejected—A Yankton attempts my
Capture, 191
CHAPTER XXI.
Appearance of Jumping Bear—I prevail on him to carry a Letter to
the Fort—A War Speech—Intended Treachery—Resume our Journey
to the Fort—Singular Meeting with a White Man—“Has Richmond
Fallen?”—Arrival at the Fort—I am Free! 199
CHAPTER XXII.
Retrospection—A Border Trading post—Garrison Hospitality—A
Visit from the Commandant of Fort Rice—Arrival of my
Husband—Affecting Scene, 212
CHAPTER XXIII.
Sad Fate of Little Mary, 218
CHAPTER XXIV.
What occurred at Fort Laramie after my Capture—Efforts to
Rescue—Lieutenant Brown killed—Reward offered—It is the
Means of restoring another White Woman and Child—Her Rescuers
hung for Former Murders—A Letter announcing my Safe Arrival at
Fort Sully, 223
CHAPTER XXV.
Supper in Honor of our Re-union—Departure from Fort
Sully—Incidents by the way—Arrival at Geneva—Mother and
Child—A Happy Meeting, 228
CHAPTER XXVI.
Elizabeth Blackwell—Mormon Home—A brutal Father—The Mother
and Daughters flee to the Mountains—Death of the Mother and
Sisters from exposure—Elizabeth saved by an Indian—A White
Woman tortured—Rescued Children—The Boxx Family—Capture of
Mrs. Blynn, 238
CHAPTER XXVII.
Move to Wyoming—False Friends—The Manuscript of my Narrative
taken by another party and published—I go to Washington, 250
CHAPTER XXVIII.
General Sully’s Expedition, 255
POEM TO MRS. FANNIE KELLY, 268
CERTIFICATE OF INDIAN CHIEFS, 270
CERTIFIED COPIES OF MY CORRESPONDENCE WITH CAPTAIN FISK, 274
STATEMENT OF LIEUTENANT G. A. HESSELBERG, 279
STATEMENT OF OFFICERS AND MEMBERS OF THE SIXTH IOWA CALVARY, 282
[Illustration: THE CAMP.]
CAPTIVITY AMONG THE SIOUX.
CHAPTER I.
EARLY HISTORY—CANADA TO KANSAS—DEATH OF MY FATHER—MY
MARRIAGE—“HO! FOR IDAHO!”—CROSSING THE PLATTE RIVER—A STORM.
I was born in Orillia, Canada, in 1845. Our home was on the lake shore,
and there amid pleasant surroundings I passed the happy days of early
childhood.
The years 1852 to 1856 witnessed, probably, the heaviest immigration
the West has ever known in a corresponding length of time. Those who
had gone before sent back to their friends such marvelous accounts of
the fertility of the soil, the rapid development of the country, and
the ease with which fortunes were made, the “Western fever” became
almost epidemic. Whole towns in the old, Eastern States were almost
depopulated. Old substantial farmers, surrounded apparently by all the
comforts that heart could wish, sacrificed the homes wherein their
families had been reared for generations, and, with all their worldly
possessions, turned their faces toward the setting sun. And with what
high hopes! Alas! how few, comparatively, met their realization.
In 1856, my father, James Wiggins, joined a New York colony bound for
Kansas. Being favorably impressed with the country and its people, they
located the town of Geneva, and my father returned for his family.
Reaching the Missouri River on our way to our new home, my father was
attacked with cholera, and died.
In obedience to his dying instructions, my widowed mother, with her
little family, continued on the way to our new home. But, oh! with what
saddened hearts we entered into its possession. It seemed as if the
light of our life had gone out. He who had been before to prepare that
home for us, was not there to share it with us, and, far away from all
early associations, almost alone in a new and sparsely settled country,
it seemed as though hope had died.
But God is merciful. He prepares the soul for its burdens. Of a truth,
“He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.”
Our family remained in this pleasant prairie home, where I was married
to Josiah S. Kelly.
My husband’s health failing, he resolved upon a change of climate.
Accordingly, on the 17th of May, 1864, a party of six persons,
consisting of Mr. Gardner Wakefield, my husband, myself, our adopted
daughter (my sister’s child), and two colored servants, started from
Geneva, with high-wrought hopes and pleasant anticipations of a
romantic and delightful journey across the plains, and a confident
expectation of future prosperity among the golden hills of Idaho.
A few days after commencing our journey, we were joined by Mr. Sharp,
a Methodist clergyman, from Verdigris River, about thirty miles south
of Geneva; and, a few weeks later, we overtook a large train of
emigrants, among whom were a family from Allen County with whom we
were acquainted—Mr. Larimer, wife, and child, a boy eight years old.
Preferring to travel with our small train, they left the larger one and
became members of our party. The addition of one of my own sex to our
little company was cause of much rejoicing to me, and helped relieve
the dullness of our tiresome march.
The hours of noon and evening rest were spent in preparing our frugal
meals, gathering flowers with our children, picking berries, hunting
curiosities, or gazing in wrapt wonder and admiration at the beauties
of this strange, bewildering country.
Our amusements were varied. Singing, reading, writing to friends at
home, or pleasant conversation, occupied our leisure hours.
So passed the first few happy days of our emigration to the land of
sunshine and flowers.
When the sun had set, when his last rays were flecking the towering
peaks of the Rocky Mountains, gathering around the camp-fires, in our
home-like tent, we ate with a relish known only to those who, like us,
scented the pure air, and lived as nature demanded.
At night, when our camp had been arranged by Andy and Franklin, our
colored men, it was always in the same relative position, Mr. Kelly
riding a few miles ahead as evening drew near to select the camping
ground.
The atmosphere, which during the day was hot and stifling, became cool,
and was laden with the odor of prairie flowers, the night dews filling
their beautiful cups with the waters of heaven.
The solemnity of night pervaded every thing. The warblings of the
feathered tribe had ceased. The antelope and deer rested on the hills;
no sound of laughing, noisy children, as in a settled country; no
tramping of busy feet, or hurrying to and fro. All is silent. Nature,
like man, has put aside the labors of the day, and is enjoying rest and
peace.
Yonder, as a tiny spark, as a distant star, might be seen from the road
a little camp-fire in the darkness spread over the earth.
Every eye in our little company is closed, every hand still, as we lay
in our snugly-covered wagons, awaiting the dawn of another day.
And the Eye that never sleeps watched over us in our lonely camp, and
cared for the slumbering travelers.
Mr. Wakefield, with whom we became acquainted after he came to settle
at Geneva, proved a most agreeable companion. Affable and courteous,
unselfish, and a gentleman, we remember him with profound respect.
A fine bridge crosses the Kansas River. A half-hour’s ride through the
dense heavy timber, over a jet-black soil of incalculable richness,
brought us to this bridge, which we crossed.
We then beheld the lovely valley of the prairies, intersecting the deep
green of graceful slopes, where waves tall prairie grass, among which
the wild flowers grow.
Over hundreds of acres these blossoms are scattered, yellow, purple,
white, and blue, making the earth look like a rich carpet of variegated
colors; those blooming in spring are of tender, modest hue, in later
summer and early autumn clothed in gorgeous splendor. Solomon’s gold
and purple could not outrival them.
Nature seemingly reveled in beauty, for beauty’s sake alone, for none
but the simple children of the forest to view her in state.
Slowly the myriad years come and go upon her solitary places. Tender
spring-time and glorious summer drop down their gifts from overflowing
coffers, while the steps of bounding deer or the notes of singing birds
break upon the lonely air.
The sky is of wonderful clearness and transparency. Narrow belts and
fringes of forest mark the way of winding streams.
In the distance rise conical mounds, wrapped in the soft veil of dim
and dreamy haze.
Upon the beaten road are emigrants wending their way, their household
goods packed in long covered wagons, drawn by oxen, mules, or horses;
speculators working their way to some new town with women and children;
and we meet with half-breed girls, with heavy eye-lashes and sun-burnt
cheeks, jogging along on horseback.
I was surprised to see so many women among the emigrants, and to see
how easily they adapted themselves to the hardships experienced in a
journey across the plains.
As a rule, the emigrants travel without tents, sleeping in and under
wagons, without removing their clothing.
Cooking among emigrants to the far West is a very primitive operation,
a frying-pan and perhaps a Dutch oven comprising the major part of the
kitchen furniture.
The scarcity of timber is a source of great inconvenience and
discomfort, “buffalo chips” being the substitute. At some of the
stations, where opportunity offered, Mr. Kelly bought wood by the
pound, as I had not yet been long enough inured to plains privations to
relish food cooked over a fire made with “chips” of that kind.
We crossed the Platte River by binding four wagon boxes together, then
loaded the boat with goods, and were rowed across by about twenty men.
We were several days in crossing. Our cattle and horses swam across.
The air had been heavy and oppressively hot; now the sky began to
darken suddenly, and just as we reached the opposite shore, a gleam of
lightning, like a forked tongue of flame, shot out of the black clouds,
blinding us by its flash, and followed by a frightful crash of thunder.
Another gleam and another crash followed, and the dense blackness
lowered threateningly over us, almost shutting out the heights beyond,
and seeming to encircle us like prisoners in the valley that lay at our
feet.
The vivid flashes lighting the darkness for an instant only made its
gloom more fearful, and the heavy rolling of the thunder seemed almost
to rend the heavens above it.
All at once it burst upon our unprotected heads in rain. But such rain!
Not the gentle droppings of an afternoon shower, nor a commonplace
storm, but a sweeping avalanche of water, drenching us completely at
the first dash, and continuing to pour, seeming to threaten the earth
on which we stood, and tempt the old Platte to rise and claim it as its
own.
Our wagon covers had been removed in the fording, and we had no time to
put up tents for our protection until its fury was exhausted. And so
we were forced to brave the elements, with part of our company on the
other side of the swollen river, and a wild scene, we could scarcely
discern through the pelting rain, surrounding us.
One soon becomes heroic in an open-air life, and so we put up what
shelter we could when the abating storm gave us opportunity; and,
wringing the water out of clothes, hair, and eye-brows, we camped in
cheerful hope of a bright to-morrow, which did not disappoint us, and
our hundreds of emigrant companions scattered on the way.
Each recurring Sabbath was gratefully hailed as a season of thought and
repose; as a matter of conscience and duty we observed the day, and
took pleasure in doing so.
We had divine service performed, observing the ceremonies of prayer,
preaching, and singing, which was fully appreciated in our absence from
home and its religious privileges.
Twenty-five miles from California Crossing is a place called Ash
Hollow, where the eye is lost in space as it endeavors to penetrate its
depths. Here some years before, General Harney made his name famous by
an indiscriminate massacre of a band of hostile Indians, with their
women and children.
[Illustration: The Attack and Capture of Our Train, July 12th, 1864.]