THRILLING INCIDENTS
IN THE
INDIAN WAR OF 1862;
BEING A
PERSONAL NARRATIVE
OF THE
OUTRAGES AND HORRORS
WITNESSED BY
MRS. L. EASTLICK,
IN MINNESOTA.
MINNEAPOLIS, MINN.:
ATLAS STEAM PRESS PRINTING COMPANY.
1864.
PREFACE.
In presenting this pamphlet to the public, I have given merely a
plain, unvarnished statement of all the facts that came under my own
observation, during the dreadful massacre of the settlers of Minnesota.
Mine only was a single case among hundreds of similar instances. It is
only from explicit and minute accounts from the pen of the sufferers
themselves, that people living at this distance from the scene of
those atrocities can arrive at any just and adequate conception of
the fiendishness of the Indian character, or the extremities of pain,
terror and distress endured by the victims. It can hardly be decided
which were least unfortunate, those who met an immediate death at the
hands of the savages, or the survivors who, after enduring tortures
worse than death, from hunger, fear, fatigue, and wounds, at last
escaped barely with life.
My object in publishing my story is two-fold: I wish to inform the
public as to the extent of the wrongs inflicted upon the innocent
Minnesotians; and I also hope and expect to realize from the proceeds
of its sale sufficient pecuniary aid to enable me to return from my
temporary home in Grant County, Wisconsin, to my desolate home in
Minnesota--to the region where I left the bodies of my husband and
three children, on the bloody sod where they fell.
MRS. L. EASTLICK.
PLATTEVILLE, WIS., APRIL 1, 1864.
NARRATIVE.
I was born in the year 1833, in Broome county, New York. When I was
about one year old, my father, Mr. Giles Day, moved from that State to
Trumbull county, Ohio. Here I remained with my parents, till I reached
the age of fifteen, when I went with my brother’s family to Seneca
county, where I became acquainted with John Eastlick. In the year 1850
we were married, and we remained there until 1854, when we removed to
Indiana. My husband was a poor man, and seeing a little family growing
up around him, he began to feel keenly the need of a home. Thinking he
could obtain a homestead cheaper by going further west, we removed to
Illinois in the spring of 1856. But here it was entirely out of our
power to purchase, as the price of land was still higher than in the
place we had left. My husband now began to talk of going to Minnesota.
In the year 1857, our wagon was loaded once more, and we emigrated to
Minnesota, accompanied by one of our neighbors, named Thomas Ireland.
It was our intention to go to Bear Valley, but, on account of cold
wet weather setting in, we were obliged to stop in Olmsted county.
Here we staid until 1861, when my husband thought he could better his
condition by going to Murray county,--a distance of two hundred miles.
I felt a little fear of going there, knowing that there were a great
many Indians in that and the adjoining counties; still, I was willing
to accompany my husband wherever he thought he could best provide for
his family. We started on our journey in the fall, taking nothing with
us but our clothing, bedding, cattle, &c. Mr. Ireland again moved in
company with us; his family consisted of his wife and four children. My
husband chose to settle by a small lake, called Lake Shetek, where we
arrived on the 5th of November. We found that there was already a small
settlement here: but, after our arrival there were only eleven settlers
in all. The lake was about five miles long, with a belt of timber
running along the east side of it, where all the settlers had located
themselves.
My husband chose a beautiful spot for our home, situated about
midway between the two ends of the lake. In the spring of 1862, he
built a house and put in crops, and we began to feel quite happy and
contented in our new home. I no longer felt any fear of the Indians:
quite a number of them had lived by the lake all winter, and had been
accustomed to come to our home almost every day. Whenever any of them
came, they invariably begged for something to eat, which was never
refused them. We never turned them away, as did many of our neighbors,
and in return they appeared to be very friendly, and played with our
children, and taught them to speak the Indian language a little. In the
spring, they left the lake, and we saw no more of them for two or three
months.
About the last of July Mr. Eastlick left home to work during harvest.
He returned on the 17th of August, and said he had met sixteen Indians,
naked, and painted red, who seemed very friendly, and talked some time
with him. He seemed very much oppressed at heart, after his return,
as if some secret anxiety weighed heavily on his mind. I have since
thought that he must have seen or heard something that convinced him
there was great danger ahead. I heard him say often to Mr. Rhodes, who
had come home with him, that it would be a good plan to build a fort.
But when I asked him if there was danger to be apprehended from the
Indians, he answered evasively, to relieve my anxieties though his own
were so great, by saying he thought there was no danger, but that it
would do no harm to build a fort.
On Monday following, I went to the lower end of the lake to carry some
butter to Mrs. Everett, when, on my return home, I met six Indians with
their squaws and “_teepes_” or lodges. One of the Indians was “Pawn,”
with whom I was acquainted. I bowed, without speaking, as I passed him,
but he wished me to stop; more, I think, for the sake of seeing the
pony I was driving than myself. He came up, shook hands with me and
greeted me by saying “ho! ho! ho!” meaning “how do you do?” He talked
with me for some time, and said he was going to build his “teepe” at
Wright’s, and wait for some more Indians that were coming to go on a
buffalo hunt in the course of a few days.
On the morning of August 20th, I arose and prepared breakfast as usual
for my family, which consisted of my husband, myself, Mr. Rhodes, who
boarded with us, and our five children. The children were all boys:
the oldest was aged eleven years, and the youngest, fifteen months.
My husband and Mr. Rhodes had just sat down to the breakfast table,
when my oldest boy, Merton, came to the door, saying “Charley Hatch is
coming, as fast as he can run!” Hatch was a young man who lived with
his brother-in-law, Mr. Everett, and, thinking that perhaps some one
was sick, or hurt, I ran to the door. As soon as he came near enough
to me, I saw that he was very pale and quite out of breath. “Charley,
what is the matter?” I asked. He shouted--“The Indians are upon us!”
“It cannot be possible,” said I. “It is so,” said Charley, “they have
already shot Vought!” He then went on to relate all he knew about it:
but first let me relate the manner in which the Indians commenced their
attack upon our settlement, as we afterwards found out the facts. They
entered our neighborhood at the head of the lake, and begun operations
upon the farm owned by Mr. Myers. They tore down a fence and rode into
his corn, breaking it down and destroying it. As Mrs. Myers happened
to be sick at the time, Mr. Myers had risen quite early to wait upon
her, when he discovered what the Indians were doing. He called to them
and told them if they did not leave he would whip them, and asked if he
had not always used them well. They owned that he had. He then told
them there was plenty of room for them outside of his field. One Indian
outside the fence shouted to the rest, in his own tongue, saying that
Myers was a good man. He then rode away as fast as possible, and all
the rest followed him.
Thence they went on to the house of Mr. Hurd, who, in company with
Mr. Jones, had started on a journey to the Missouri river, about the
first of June, and, who never having been heard of afterwards, were
supposed to be murdered by the Indians. Mr. Hurd had left a German,
named Vought, to attend to things in his absence. When the Indians
approached the house Mrs. Hurd, who was out milking, hastened into the
house. The Indians followed her into the house, and with pretended
friendship, asked for some tobacco. Mr. Vought gave them some, and
they began to smoke, when Mrs. Hurd’s babe awoke, and began to cry;
Mr. Vought took the child in his arms, and walked out into the yard.
Just as he was turning to go into the house, one of the Indians stepped
to the door, raised his gun and deliberately shot him through the
breast. They then began to plunder the house, telling Mrs. Hurd that
if she made any noise they would kill her, too, but if not, they would
permit her to escape, and return to her mother. They broke open and
destroyed trunks, chests, beds, and all the other furniture of the
house, scattering the contents upon the ground. After compelling her to
see her home despoiled of all her household treasures, the savages sent
her away, showing her what direction she must take, and threatening
that if she tried to go to any of the neighbors, or make any outcry, to
warn them, they would follow and murder her. She was obliged to leave
by an unfrequented path, with two small children, the oldest of which
was three years of age, and the youngest not yet a year. After leaving
Mrs. Hurd, the Indians proceeded to the residence of Mr. Cook, who was
at the house at the time, while his wife was away in the corn-field,
keeping birds away from the corn. The Indians divided their force, a
part going to the house and the rest to the field. On coming up to Mrs.
Cook in the corn-field, they asked to see her husband’s gun, which she
had been using. She handed it over, and they kept it, refusing to give
it back, and telling her that she might go to her mother, for they were
going to kill off all the white men in the country. Those that went to
the house requested Mr. Cook to give them some water. As there was none
in the house, he was obliged to take the pail and go to the spring, to
supply their wants. But when about half way across the yard, one of the
cowardly villains shot him through the back. Mrs. Cook staid around
the premises, concealed from the Indians, till they had plundered to
their hearts content and taken their departure; then, returning to the
house and finding the corpse of her husband lying upon the ground, she
determined not to leave, without first alarming the settlement. After
going through brush and timber until her clothes were badly torn,
and wading along the edge of the lake until she was wet through, she
reached the lower part of the settlement undiscovered by the Indians.
Having wandered somewhat from my own tale, and brought the story of
their ravages up to near the time when they appeared at our place, I
will return to Charley Hatch’s account. Charles had gone, early in the
morning, to the head of the lake, on an errand. He rode a horse as far
as Mrs. Cook’s, but here he hitched his horse and proceeded on foot to
the house of Mr. Hurd, where he found the murdered body of Vought.
He returned to Mr. Cook’s where he had left the horse, but on coming
in sight of the house, he saw several Indians around it, and heard
the report of a gun. This so frightened the horse that it broke loose
and ran away, and while the Indians were trying to catch it Charles
got away unseen. He came down the lake and warned all the neighbors,
and when he came to our house he was nearly exhausted. He asked for a
horse, to ride to the lower end of the lake, to warn the rest of the
settlers. Mr. Rhodes had two horses there, and was willing he should
do so. Charles asked us for the bridle several times, but we were all
so horror-stricken and mute with fear and apprehension that we stood
for some minutes like dumb persons. At last I seemed to awake as from
a horrible dream, and began to realize the necessity of immediate and
rapid flight. I sprang into the house and got the bridle for him,
urging him to hurry away with all speed. He started off, and bade us
follow as fast as we could to Mr. Smith’s house.
On this, my husband caught little Johnny, our youngest, in his arms,
took his two rifles, and started, telling myself and the children to
hurry as fast as we could. I took some of my clothes, but my husband
told me to leave them. I asked him if I could not get my shoes, even,
but he said “no, we have no time to spare,” so I started, barefooted,
to follow Mr. Eastlick. Rhodes called to me, and asked if I was not
going to carry anything. So I went back, and he gave me some powder,
shot and lead. I took it in the skirt of my dress, and started as fast
as I could run; and that was but slowly, for my limbs felt very weak,
and I felt as if I should fall to the ground. My load seemed very
heavy, and the pieces of lead kept falling to the ground every few
rods. I felt so perfectly unnerved with fear that I gave up and told
John, my husband, that I could not go much further. He urged me to keep
on, and support myself by holding to his coat. This I did not do, but
told him if he would go slowly, I would try to get to Mr. Smith’s with
him.
When we came in sight of the house my strength began to return a
little, but on coming up, we saw no appearance of any one being at
home. My husband called “Smith!” several times, and, receiving no
answer, he concluded that they were all gone on to Mr. Wright’s. We
hurried on and soon overtook them. When we came in sight of the house
we could see the same Indians that had camped there on Monday, as
before mentioned. They motioned us to hurry along, pretending to be
much frightened, and when we came near the house a squaw met us first,
and asked what was the matter. I told her that some Indians had killed
Vought, and we expected they would kill all of us, upon which she
professed great sympathy for us, and even pretended to weep. We entered
the house and found Mrs. Wright very cool and collected. She encouraged
us very much by telling us that those Indians that were there would
fight for us. Soon all the nearest neighbors gathered in. Mr. Duly
and Uncle Tommy Ireland came without their families. Mr. Ireland was
obliged to leave his wife and children behind, for the Indians had been
shooting at him but not at his family. When the Indians arrived at the
road that led to our house and Mr. Duly’s, they left off pursuing Mr.
Ireland and went to our houses in search of more plunder.
Mr. Duly’s wife was much exhausted, from running, so he left her
concealed with the children in the bushes. Old “Pawn” volunteered to
go after them, so a party consisting of “Pawn,” Mr. Duly, Mr. Ireland,
and some squaws, set out to bring in the missing women and children.
They soon met Mrs. Ireland and her children, and, a little further on,
they found Mrs. Duly and her children, accompanied by Mrs. Cook. They
all came to Mrs. Wright’s, where we were, when Mrs. Cook, with tears
rising from her eyes, told us of the sad fate of her husband. My heart
was touched with sympathy for my dear friend. I threw my arms about her
neck, and begged her not to weep, telling her that, perhaps, ere night,
I should be left a widow, with five fatherless children, and that would
be still worse, for she had no children. Mrs. Wright gave her some dry
clothes, and she was soon made comfortable.
The men had, by this time, prepared the house as well as possible
for defending ourselves against our pursuers, by opening crevices in
numerous places, to be used as loop-holes for the rifles. They gave
us weapons, such as axes, hatchets, butcher-knives, &c., and sent us
all up stairs, where we had a good look-out from the windows. The men
told the Indians who still staid by us, that they could take their
stand in the stable, not liking to trust them in the house. They said
they would fight to the last for the white people, but that they had
no ammunition, whereupon two guns and a quantity of ammunition were
furnished them. I told my husband I had no confidence in them. He
replied that he did not know as they could do any better than to trust
them; if they proved friends, we should need their help very much,
but he said he should keep an eye on them. He then asked an Indian
who could talk a little English, if he would fight for the whites. He
replied that “he didn’t know.” Our enemies now made their appearance.
We could see them around the house of Mr. Smith, shaking some white
cloths, and making a great noise. Now and then an Indian would mount
his pony, ride out into the field, fire a gun, and then turn and ride
back as fast as he could. They performed in this manner a long time,
occasionally shooting an ox or cow, running loose in the field. The
Indians that were with us said that if we would all fire our guns it
would frighten them away. Accordingly they all went out, Mrs. Wright
with the rest. Her husband being gone at the time, down below Mankato,
she had slung the powder-horn and shot-pouch over her shoulder, and
loaded his gun. They all fired together, but the Indians, who reserved
their fire till after all the rest had fired. I went to my husband, and
begged of him not to discharge his gun again until after the Indians
had fired. I think they reserved their charges to shoot the white men,
when their weapons were all empty, but were too cowardly to do it,
when the time came to act. These volleys of musketry did not seem to
alarm the savage troop in the least. Old “Pawn” then said he would go
and meet them, and see how many there were, and what they wanted. But
before he had gone far, several Indians came towards him as fast as
they could ride. He stopped, and they called to him: he then went up
to them, and stopped there talking with them for some time. He finally
came running back, and reported that there were two hundred hostile
Indians coming, and if we would go peaceably away, they would not harm
us; but if not, they would burn down the house over our heads. Upon
this, the men held a short council: the majority of them decided that
it was best to leave the house. So we all started, across the prairie,
except Charley Hatch and Mr. Rhodes. These latter were sent with two
horses to the house of Mr. Everett, a distance of half a mile, to get
a wagon to carry the women and children, and some flour and quilts,
for we all expected to sleep on the prairie that night. Alas! some
of our group slept before night--yes, slept the sleep that knows no
waking. The two men overtook us in going the distance of half a mile,
and the women and children all got into the wagon, except Mrs. Wright,
myself, and my two oldest boys, Merton and Frank. In all, there were
thirty-four of us, including men, women and children. We traveled
over a mile in this manner, when the appalling cry was raised, that
the Indians were upon our track. The Indians, who had pretended to
be friendly at the house, had deserted us, and joined their fellow
savages in their demoniac quest of blood and plunder. All was terror
and consternation among us: our merciless foes were in sight, riding
at their utmost speed, and would soon be upon us. All now got into the
wagon that could. Mrs. Smith held the reins, while I, sitting on the
fore end of the wagon box, lashed the horses with all my strength, but,
with such a load, the poor brutes could not get along faster than a
walk. The Indians were fast gaining on us, and the men, thinking it was
only the horses they wanted, bade us leave the wagon. We accordingly
all jumped out, and ran along as fast as possible, while the men fell
in behind, to give the women and children what protection they could.
Some one asked if they should shoot at the Indians, or not: my husband
declared that he would shoot the first one that touched the horses.
When almost within gunshot, they spread themselves out, in a long line,
and approached, yelling and whooping like demons. They fired upon us,
but the first round did not touch us. They had now come up to our team;
one of them sprang from his pony, caught the horses by the bit, and
turned them around. Four of our men now fired upon them, and the one
who held the horses fell dead.
After the first fire from the savages, two of our men ran away from
the rest, keeping the road for some distance; they were called to come
back, and one of them turned around as if he was coming back. But there
were two or three Indians pursuing them, and close on their track, so
he went on, some distance, then turned and fired upon his pursuers.
One Indian snapped three caps at him, and then turned and rode back.
The two men made their escape without a scratch; one went to Dutch
Charley’s, and warned his family; the other went to Walnut Grove, and
warned two young men there, and they all made good their escape.
When the first Indian was shot, Mr. Duly called to us women and
children, and bade us go to a slough, not far off, which was the only
place that presented itself for concealing ourselves, and that was but
poor. We turned our course toward the slough, amid a shower of balls
and shot. One large ball entered my heel, which caused me much pain.
Mrs. Ireland’s youngest child was shot through the leg; Emma Duly
through the arm, and Willie Duly in the shoulder. We soon reached the
slough, and all concealed ourselves as best we could, by lying down
in the tall grass. This, however, only hid us from the sight, but not
from the shot and balls. For two hours, or more, we were exposed to
the random shots of our merciless foe. My husband tried several times
to shoot the savages, but his gun missed fire, and he was obliged
to work a long time before it would go off. Meanwhile, to me, every
minute seemed an hour, for I thought John could do good service with
his gun, being a good marksman and having a good rifle. Several times
our comrades called on him to shoot, saying, “There is an Indian! why
don’t you shoot him? for my gun will not reach him.” The Indians only
showed themselves one or two at a time, they would skulk behind the
hills, crawl up to the top, rise up, fire on us, and drop out of sight
instantly, thus proving themselves to be great cowards. The odds were
fearfully against us; two hundred Indians to six white men. We felt
that we were but weakly protected, and we could expect no mercy from
our inhuman enemy: we all knew that death or captivity was before
us, and I had no idea that any of our company would escape them. The
balls fell around us like hail. I lay in the grass with my little ones
gathered close around me: as it was very hot and sultry, I tried to
move a little distance from them, but could not get a foot away from
them, for they would follow me. Poor little dears! they did not know
how much they were destined to suffer, and they seemed to think if
they kept close to mother, they would be safe. I could now hear groans
about me in the grass, in various directions, and Mrs. Everett told me
she was shot in the neck; and in a few minutes more, I was struck by a
ball in the side. I told my husband I was shot. “Are you much hurt?”
he asked. “Yes, I think I shall die,” I answered, “but do not come
here, for you can do me no good; stay there, for you can do more good
with your rifle.” I knew he could not come without being discovered by
the Indians. Another ball soon struck me on the head, lodging between
the skull and the scalp, where it still remains. I could tell when a
ball struck any one, by the sound. My husband then said he thought he
would move a little, as the Indians had discovered his hiding-place.
He removed, re-loaded his gun, and was watching for a chance to shoot,
when I heard a ball strike some one. Fearing that he was the one, I
called to him, saying, “John, are you hurt?” He did not answer. I
called again, but there was no reply, save that I heard him groan
twice, very faintly. Then I knew that he was hurt, and thought I must
go to him, but Mrs. Cook begged me not to go. I told her that he was
badly hurt, and I _must_ go to him. “Do not, for God’s sake,” said Mrs.
Cook, “stay with your children; if you stir from that spot they will
all be killed; your husband is dead already, and you cannot possibly
do him any good, so stay with your children, I beg of you.” I took her
advice and staid with them, for they were all I had left in the world,
now, and I feared it could not be long before we were all to sleep in
the cold embrace of death, like my poor husband!
The whites now made but little resistance, for the men were all
wounded, and one of them killed. Three of the Indians now came from
their skulking place, and began calling upon the women to come out.
Mr. Everett answered them as he lay wounded in the grass. One of these
three Indians was old “Pawn,” who had professed to be our friend in
the morning, but who now proved to be as bitter a foe as we had. Pawn
knew the voice of Everett, and, calling him by the name, commanded him
to come out of the slough; Mr. Everett told him he could not, for he
was wounded, and could not walk, and asked Pawn to come to him. Pawn
replied, “You lie, you can walk well enough, if you want to.” Two
of the Indians then fired into the grass, in the direction in which
they heard his voice, and a bullet struck Mr. Everett near the elbow,
shattering the bone very badly. He then told his wife to tell Pawn
that he was killed: she boldly rose upright, in sight of the savages,
and in the most melting and piteous tones, told them her husband was
dead, and they had killed him. Pawn assured her that they would not
hurt the rest of them; but that they must come out, for he wanted her
and Mrs. Wright for his squaws. Mr. Everett, thinking that perhaps they
could obtain safety by obedience, until they could make their escape,
told her perhaps the best thing she could do was to go. She then called
out, and asked me to go with her. I told her I could talk but very
little with them, and asked Mrs. Wright to go, knowing that she could
speak Indian. She agreed to go with Mrs. Everett, and confer with the
Indians.
While Pawn was talking to Everett, Mr. Duly said he would shoot him;
but Mrs. Smith and myself begged him not to shoot, for well we knew
that if he did, the balls would shower around us again with renewed
fury. “It is too good a chance to throw away,” said he; “the Indians
will kill us all, sooner or later, and I’m bound to make one less of
them, while I have a chance!” The women then all begged him not to
shoot; and I urged as a reason that, perhaps, he might escape, and
let the world know what had been our fate. Upon this he desisted from
his purpose. After the savages had shot Mr. Everett, as I have just
related, Uncle Tommy Ireland rose up out of the grass, and plead with
them to save the women and children. Two of the Indians, who were only
three or four rods distant from him, drew up their guns, and fired with
murderous aim! He fell to the ground with a groan, shouting in anguish,
“Oh, God! I am killed!” He had received seven buck-shot, two of which
passed through his left lung, one through his left arm, and the rest
lodged in various parts of his body. When Mrs. Everett and Mrs. Wright
came back from their interview with old Pawn, they reported that he
said they would spare the women and children. We, therefore, thought
that since we were in their power so completely, we had better go with
them at once. When we all got out of the grass, I found there were not
as many killed as I had at first supposed, although many of us were
wounded. The rest all went to the place where these three Indians were
waiting for us, for they dared not go into the slough after us, but I
could not go without first seeing my husband. I went to him, and found
him fallen over upon his side, probably having died without a struggle.
One hand was lying on his face, and the other still grasped his trusty
rifle; his hat was on his head, and his dog lay by his side, watching
over his lifeless remains. I could see no blood about him. I kneeled
down beside him, and there, in the tall grass, alone with the dead,
but surrounded by cruel enemies seeking my life, and dead and dying
friends, I took my last farewell of poor John, expecting soon to follow
him. I took his cold hand in mine, leaned over and kissed his brow, and
looked, for the last time, on him who had been my companion for twelve
years, and had now laid down his life in trying to protect his wife and
little ones. I did not shed a tear, that I am aware of, when I parted
from him thus.
I now found that I was quite lame, and could scarcely walk. Merton
carried little Johnny in his arms, and Frank and Giles, two of my other
boys, assisted me to walk, by going on each side of me, and letting me
rest my weight partially upon them, by placing both hands upon their
little shoulders. As I came out of the slough, I saw Uncle Tommy
Ireland lying not far from me. He was still alive, but the blood and
froth were oozing from the wound made through his lungs, and I did not
think he could survive, for another hour. His wife was bending over
him, receiving his last words. He bade her and the little ones a last
adieu, thinking his end was nigh. The Indians had sent Mrs. Wright to
gather up the guns. As she came back, she passed close by him, upon
which he begged her to shoot him and put an end to his torment. She
told him she would be glad to help him, if it were possible, but she
could not kill a friend, even to relieve his sufferings. We came out
to where the Indians were, and found that three more had joined them,
making six in all. The prisoners seated themselves on the ground, and
we now learned how many had been wounded, while in the slough. The men
were all wounded, but kept concealed in the slough. Mrs. Smith was shot
through the hip, and could scarcely stir. Mrs. Everett was wounded
in the neck, and her clothes, on one side, were wet with blood, but
her wound had nearly ceased bleeding, and did not pain her much. Mrs.
Ireland’s next youngest child was shot through the bowels, and must
have been suffering greatly, for her face had turned spotted, and the
froth was running out of her mouth. I do not think she could have lived
long.
The sky now became overcast with heavy clouds, and a furious
rain-storm, accompanied with thunder and lightning, was coming on.
Soon the rain descended in torrents. The Indians now hurried and
caught their ponies, and made all preparations for starting away. We
expected to be all taken along with them, as prisoners, but we were
disappointed, for, as it afterwards proved, some were taken, while
others were put to death, or left in a dying condition. Those of us
who afterwards escaped, were for a long time in such a plight that
death seemed inevitably to stare us in the face. One Indian started,
taking Mrs. Cook, as his prisoner; another took one of Mr. Ireland’s
daughters; while a third started off, leading by the hand Mrs. Duly and
myself, neither of whom made any resistance. I stopped, however, and
looked around to see if my children were coming, and to tell them to
follow me. Little Freddy, one of my boys, aged five years, arose out of
the grass, at my call, and started to come. Then, for the first time, I
observed a hideous old squaw, who had just joined the Indians: she ran
after him, and felled him to the ground, with a blow upon the head from
something she carried in her hand. Weak, wounded, and tightly held by
my captor, as I was, I could only stand and look on at the scene which
follows, while such anguish racked my soul as, I pray God, that _you_
ye mothers who read this, may never feel. The old hag beat him for some
minutes upon the back part of the head, till I thought she had killed
him. She stepped back a few paces, when the little innocent arose,
and again started for me: but, oh! what a piteous sight for a mother
to behold! The blood was streaming from his nose, mouth and ears. The
old squaw, not yet satisfied, again knocked him down, and pounded him
awhile; then took him by the clothes, raised him as high as she could,
and, with all her force, dashed him upon the ground. She then took a
knife and stabbed him several times. I could not stop or return, for
my captor was by this time dragging me away, but my head was turned
around, and my eyes riveted upon the cruel murder of my defenceless
little ones. I heard some one call out, “Mother! mother!!” I looked,
and there stood little Frank, my next oldest child, on his knees, with
hands raised toward heaven, calling, “Mother!” while the blood was
streaming from his mouth. Oh! who could witness such a sight, and not
feel their hearts melt with pity! None but the brutal Indians could.
He had been shot in the mouth, knocking out four of his teeth--once
through the thigh, and once through the bowels. But what could I do?
Nothing, but gaze in silent horror on my children while they were
being murdered by savages. I was well aware that any interference of
mine, even were I capable of making it, would only occasion greater
cruelty. In the meantime, the Indians had been killing several women
and children, but I did not notice it at the time. I could not take my
attention from my own children, to observe what befell the rest. The
Indian now let me go, and went on without me. I fastened my eyes on the
pleading face of the little sufferer, but dared not go one step toward
him, while surrounded by our foes. Old Pawn now came along with Mrs.
Wright and her children. He brought a horse that belonged to Charley
Hatch, and ordered her to put her children on it, which she did. He
then gave her the halter strap, and sent her along, telling me to go
along with her. I looked around, as I started, and saw Mrs. Everett
running towards the slough, where her husband lay wounded, and an
Indian in pursuit of her, and just in the act of catching her, when
some one else shot her through the back. Next I saw Willie Duly fall,
shot through, a few yards in front of his mother; upon this, she turned
around and begged of old Pawn to spare her other children. One was a
girl, two years old, whom she carried in her arms; another, five years
old, she led by the hand; another, a boy, was hanging to the skirts of
her dress. I can never forget the pale, pleading face of my friend and
neighbor, Mrs. Duly. Pawn then told her, as usual, that he would not
kill them. I asked him what he intended to do with me, and if he meant
to kill me. He replied in the negative, then stopped, leaned on his
gun, and told me to hurry on.
I had now got some distance from the spot where I left my children,
and did not know whether all of them were murdered or not. I could now
walk without difficulty, for fear had driven away all pain. Part of
the prisoners were gone out of sight, and Mrs. Duly and Mrs. Wright
were fast leaving me. So I limped along at a rapid pace, but, looking
back, I saw old Pawn standing where I had left him, loading his gun,
and I instantly feared that, in spite of all his protestations, he was
going to shoot me. I had a small slough to cross, and when about half
way through it, some one, probably Pawn, shot me again, making four
bullets which I had received, in all. The ball struck me in the small
of the back, entering at the left side of the spine, and coming out
at the right side, just above my hip--also passing through my right
arm, between my elbow and wrist. I fell to the ground upon my face,
and lay here for some minutes, wondering if my back were broken, and
expecting the Indians would ride over me, as I had fallen in the trail.
Finding that I could move with great difficulty, I crawled about a
rod from the trail, and lay down again on my face. In a few moments
more I heard the step of an Indian, and held my breath, thinking he
would pass me, supposing me dead. But I was sadly mistaken. He came up
close beside me, stood a moment watching me, then commenced beating me
on the head with the butt of a gun. He struck me a great many times,
so hard that my head bounded up from the sod, at every stroke, and
then gave me three severe blows across the right shoulder. I did not
lose all presence of mind, although the blows fell heavy and fast. I
endeavored with all my might to hold my breath, in order to make him
think I was dead, but it was impossible: I was so nearly smothered with
my face beaten into the grass, that I caught my breath several times.
He probably supposed me to be dying, and threw down his gun. I thought
he was preparing to scalp me: I expected every moment to feel his hand
in my hair, and the keen edge of the scalping-knife, cutting around my
head. But, for once, I was happily disappointed, for he went away, and
left me, thinking, no doubt, I was dead. And, in fact, I _was_ so dead
to every feeling but fear, that I believe he could have taken my scalp,
without my moving a muscle.
I lay here for some two or three hours, not daring to stir. While I
was lying here, I heard Merton calling me, and now knew that he still
lived, and wondered how he had escaped the red-skins, but supposed he
had concealed himself in the grass. I dared not answer him, for fear he
would come to me, be discovered by the Indians, and be killed. The rain
had continued falling all of this time; my clothes were wet through,
and I was very cold and chilly. At about four o’clock p. m., on trying
to get up, I found that I was very weak, and that it required a great
deal of painful effort to raise myself to a sitting posture. As I had
been lying, my hand was under my forehead: I now found that the blood
had run down from my head and coagulated among my fingers; hence I knew
that my head had bled quite freely, or the rain would have washed it
away. Upon this, I tried to ascertain how much my head was injured by
the blows. I was insensible to pain in that quarter, but by turning
my head back and forth, I could plainly hear and feel the bones grate
together. I thought my skull must be broken, and this afterwards proved
to be true. My hair was very thick and long, measuring about three
feet, and this, I think, saved my life, by breaking the force of the
blows. Here I sat, wet and cold, not daring to move from the spot. I
had heard the cry of a child at intervals, during the afternoon, and
thought it was Johnny. I thought Merton must have taken him to the
wounded men, to stay with them. So I determined to try and go to them,
thinking we could, perhaps, keep warm better, for the rain still fell
very fast, and the night was setting in, cold and stormy. I rose upon
my feet, and found that I could walk, but with great difficulty. I
heard Willie Duly, whom I supposed dead long before this, cry out,
“Mother! mother!!” but a few steps from me, and then he called, “Mrs.
Smith! Mrs. Smith!!” Having to pass close by him, as I left the slough,
I stopped and thought I would speak to him; but, on reflecting that I
could not possibly help the poor boy, I passed him without speaking.
He never moved again from the spot where I last saw him; for when
the soldiers went there to bury the dead, they found him in the same
position, lying on his face, at the edge of the slough. I was guided
to the place where my children and neighbors were killed, by the cry
of a child, which I supposed to be Johnny’s voice: but, on reaching
the spot where it lay, it proved to be Mrs. Everett’s youngest child.
Her eldest, Lily, aged six years, was leaning over him, to shield him
from the cold storm. I called her by name: she knew my voice instantly,
and said, “Mrs. Eastlick, the Indians haven’t killed us yet?” “No,
Lily,” said I, “not quite, but there are very few of us left!” “Mrs.
Eastlick,” said she, “I wish you would take care of Charley?” I told
her it was impossible, for my Johnny was somewhere on the prairie, and
I feared he would die unless I could find him, and keep him warm. She
begged me to give her a drink of water; but it was out of my power to
give her even that, or to assist her in any way, and I told her so.
She raised her eyes, and, with a sad, thoughtful, hopeless look, asked
the question, “Is there any water in heaven?” “Lily,” I replied, “when
you get to heaven, you will never more suffer from thirst or pain.” On
hearing this, the poor little patient sufferer, only six years old,
laid herself down again, and seemed reconciled to her fate.
I next searched around and found the bodies of Mrs. Smith and Mrs.
Ireland; they both appeared to have been dead for some hours. Their
clothes were in great disorder, and I have no doubt, judging from
appearances, that the foul fiends had ravished their persons, either
before or after death. The only service I could render their lifeless
forms, was to place them in as decent position as I could, which I did.
Mrs. Smith had a thick, heavy apron, which I thought would help to keep
me warm. I kneeled beside her, and tried to pull it off, but could not.
I then found it fastened behind her back with a button, which, from her
position, I could not loosen. I at last succeeded in running my left
arm under her waist, and thus I raised her body, unfastened the apron,
and put it over my head and shoulders, to keep off the constant rain.
About half an hour was consumed in getting it, owing to the fact that
my right arm was almost entirely useless, by reason of the bullet-hole
through it, and the bruises on my shoulder, from the butt of the gun. I
am naturally of a timid disposition, when near the dead, but this time
I felt not the least fear, although it was, by this time, quite dark,
and I was alone in the wilderness with the dead and dying.
When in our great haste to escape into the slough, that morning, I had
torn the binding of my skirt very badly, and, since that, I had been
obliged to hold it together with my hand. I now had a double task to
perform with my left hand: first, to hold my skirt from dropping, not
wishing to lose it, because it was all the clothes I had on, excepting
a short loose sack and a chemise; and, second, I was obliged to hold
up my right hand and arm with my left, for I could not let it hang by
my side without great pain, neither was there strength enough left in
it to hold itself up. Therefore, I felt over the waist of Mrs. Smith’s
dress for some pins to fasten on my skirt with, but without success.
I then moved to the body of Mrs. Ireland, and found two pins, which I
used, so that they were of invaluable service. I also discovered the
youngest child of Mrs. Ireland, lying upon the breast that had ever
nourished it. I bent down my head and listened; the soft, low breathing
showed how sweetly she slept, upon that cold, cold bosom. I left her,
as I did the rest, being unable to carry anything, and she being
unable to walk, and under two years of age. I looked around, and, in
the darkness, found another lifeless form, stretched upon the ground,
a few steps from me. My eyes had become accustomed to the darkness,
so that I could see, indistinctly. I found that it was my poor little
boy, Giles, shot through the breast by the Indians. He appeared to
have died without a struggle; I seemed to see a smile wreath his cold
lips and a dimple on his cheeks, and I fancied the angel spirit was
watching me as I bent over that little house of clay. I could not wish
him back, for he had gone to the land where suffering is unknown. I
now left him as I found him, and proceeded to where my attention was
attracted by the heavy breathing of some one. I found it was a child,
and, stooping down, I examined it by feeling, as well as I could.
Alas! to my unspeakable grief and horror, I found it was my own little
Freddy! What tongue can tell the anguish that I felt, to reflect on
the cruel treatment I had seen him receive, and that he had been left
to suffer for hours. I thought, “O! that I had found him dead!” He lay
upon his face with his clothes torn nearly off; he was quite warm, and
breathed very hard, with a dreadful rattling in his throat. I knew that
he was then dying, and could not live long. I wished to lie down and
die beside my sweet boy, but an after reflection seemed to say, “No,
you must not do it; you still have something for which to live, for
are not Merton and little Johnny somewhere on the vast prairie, and,
at this moment, hungry, wet, cold, and in danger of wolves?” Knowing
this, could I lie down in the rain and die, without, at least, trying,
with all my remaining strength, to find them, and give them what poor
comfort I could? Oh! no; and I accordingly left the little sufferer,
praying that God would soon release him from pain.
I had gone but a short distance when my attention was arrested by a
loud, laborious breathing, in an opposite direction, and I found that
it proceeded from Mrs. Everett, who had been shot through the lungs.
The noise she made in breathing struck a complete horror over me; it
was a rattling, gurgling sound, that made my very flesh crawl. I did
not, dared not touch her. I was, all at once, overcome with such a
dread or terror, or something of the kind, that I feared her. I called
her by name several times, as I stood over her, but she answered not;
she was beyond speaking. I hurried along, for I could not bear to
witness the suffering of my friend and neighbor. I wandered around on
the prairie, calling “Merton,” at intervals, but receiving no answer.
Sometimes I fancied I could hear John crying: I would then hurry in the
direction it seemed to come from, and call him again and again: then I
would seem to hear him another way, and turn my course thither. Often,
when forced by fatigue, I rested my bruised and weary frame on the wet
ground.
As I was going along I saw a light about two feet in length, and one
and a half in breadth; it was a pale red light, and seemed to float
along just above the grass, at the distance of about forty rods from
me. It went entirely around me, some three or four times, or, perhaps
more, for I did not count. It first appeared on the right hand side,
going around before me: it soon moved very swiftly. I thought at first
it might be an Indian, but soon saw that no Indian, or even horse,
could move with such rapidity. What it was, or what was the meaning of
it, I do not know, but it was very mysterious.
Morning dawn found me still wandering over the prairie, in search of
my children, for I was confident that they still lived, unless they
had perished from cold or hunger. I looked around, and strained my
eyes in the vain hope of seeing some known object by which to learn
where I was: but no, I was lost upon the trackless prairie. My fear
of savages was too great to allow me to travel by day-light, so I hid
myself all day in a bunch of tall weeds. The rain continued to fall
till about 9 a. m., when it ceased, and, soon after, the sun cheered
me with his warm rays. About ten o’clock, I heard the report of guns,
not far distant, and heard the cries of children again. This proved to
me that I was not far from the place where my husband and friends and
children were murdered. I heard the agonizing cries of the children,
during most of the day. They cried constantly, and sometimes would
scream and shriek, as if in great pain. This led me to the conviction
that the fiends were torturing them. I believed my own surviving boys
to be among them, with poor Lily and Charles, and I expected they would
all at last be killed, when the Indians were tired with their hellish
sports: for I believe that it was rare sport to them, to torture such
little innocents. But about four o’clock, I heard the report of three
guns in succession: the wail of the infants instantly ceased. “Alas!” I
cried out in despair, “what have I to live for now? My husband and five
darling children are all murdered: my home is plundered and desolate;
and I myself am left upon the prairie, alone among enemies, with many
a wound, and scarcely able to walk!” This was, indeed, a sad picture;
but how true it is that while there is a spark of life, there still is
hope, in the heart. Poor human nature soon found for me another excuse
for not giving up, and for trying to prolong my miserable existence. I
wished to live long enough to tell to some white persons, and, through
them to the world, the story of our sad fate. I then began to look
around, to ascertain in what direction to go, to reach the house of
“Dutch Charley,” a German living sixteen miles from Lake Shetak. I
could just barely see, in the horizon, some timber, which I thought
must be close to Buffalo Lake, and on the road to “Dutch Charley’s,”
and I determined, that, as soon as it was dark, I would try to reach
it. I had now passed two days without anything to eat or drink: I felt
no hunger, but was almost ready to perish with thirst, as it seemed.