THE CAPTIVES.
It is well known that previous to the war of the Revolution the whole of
the western portion of Pennsylvania was inhabited by different Indian
tribes. Of these, the Delawares were the friends of the whites, and,
after the commencement of the great struggle, took part with the United
States. The Iroquois, on the contrary, were the friends and allies of
the mother-country.
Very few white settlers had ventured beyond the Susquehanna. The
numerous roving bands of Shawanoes, Nanticokes, etc., although at times
professing friendship with the Americans and acting in concert with the
Delawares or Lenape as allies, at others suffered themselves to be
seduced by their neighbors, the Iroquois, to show a most sanguinary
spirit of hostility.
For this reason, the life of the inhabitants of the frontier was one of
constant peril and alarm. Many a scene of dismal barbarity was enacted,
as the history of the times testifies, and even those who felt
themselves in some measure protected by their immediate neighbors, the
Delawares, never lost sight of the caution required by their exposed
situation.
The vicinity of the military garrison at Pittsburg--or Fort Pitt, as it
was then called--gave additional security to those who had pushed
farther west, among the fertile valleys of the Alleghany and
Monongahela. Among these were the family of Mr. Lytle, who, some years
previous to the opening of our story, had removed from Baltimore to
Path Valley, near Carlisle, and subsequently settled himself on the
banks of Plum River, a tributary of the Alleghany. Here, with his wife
and five children, he had continued to live in comfort and security,
undisturbed by any hostile visit, and only annoyed by occasional false
alarms from his more timorous neighbors, who, having had more experience
in frontier life, were prone to anticipate evil, as well as to magnify
every appearance of danger.
* * * * *
On a bright afternoon in the autumn of 1779, two children of Mr. Lytle,
a girl of nine, and her brother, two years younger, were playing in a
little dingle or hollow in the rear of their father's house. Some large
trees, which had been recently felled, were lying here and there, still
untrimmed of their branches, and many logs, prepared for fuel, were
scattered around. Upon one of these the children, wearied with their
sports, seated themselves, and to beguile the time they fell into
conversation upon a subject that greatly perplexed them.
While playing in the same place a few hours previous, they had imagined
they saw an Indian lurking behind one of the fallen trees. The Indians
of the neighborhood were in the habit of making occasional visits to the
family, and they had become familiar and even affectionate with many of
them, but this seemed a stranger, and after the first hasty glance they
fled in alarm to the house.
Their mother chid them for the report they brought, which she endeavored
to convince them was without foundation. "You know," said she, "you are
always alarming us unnecessarily: the neighbors' children have
frightened you to death. Go back to your play, and learn to be more
courageous."
So the children returned to their sports, hardly persuaded by their
mother's arguments. While they were thus seated upon the trunk of the
tree, their discourse was interrupted by the note, apparently, of a
quail not far off.
"Listen," said the boy, as a second note answered the first; "do you
hear that?"
"Yes," was the reply, and, after a few moments' silence, "do you not
hear a rustling among the branches of the tree yonder?"
"Perhaps it is a squirrel--but look! what is that? Surely I saw
something red among the branches. It looked like a fawn popping up its
head."
At this moment, the children, who had been gazing so intently in the
direction of the fallen tree that all other objects were forgotten, felt
themselves seized from behind and pinioned in an iron grasp. What were
their horror and dismay to find themselves in the arms of savages, whose
terrific countenances and gestures plainly showed them to be enemies!
They made signs to the children to be silent, on pain of death, and
hurried them off, half dead with terror, in a direction leading from
their father's habitation. After travelling some distance in profound
silence, the severity of their captors somewhat relaxed, and as night
approached the party halted, after adopting the usual precautions to
secure themselves against a surprise.
In an agony of uncertainty and terror, torn from their beloved home and
parents, and anticipating all the horrors with which the rumors of the
times had invested a captivity among the Indians--perhaps even a
torturing death--the poor children could no longer restrain their grief,
but gave vent to sobs and lamentations.
Their distress appeared to excite the compassion of one of the party, a
man of mild aspect, who approached and endeavored to soothe them. He
spread them a couch of the long grass which grew near the
encamping-place, offered them a portion of his own stock of dried meat
and parched corn, and gave them to understand by signs that no farther
evil was intended them.
These kindly demonstrations were interrupted by the arrival of another
party of the enemy, bringing with them the mother of the little
prisoners, with her youngest child, an infant of three months old.
It had so happened that the father of the family, with his serving-men,
had gone early in the day to a _raising_ at a few miles' distance, and
the house had thus been left without a defender. The long period of
tranquillity which they had enjoyed, free from all molestation or alarm
from the savages, had thrown the settlers quite off their guard, and
they had recently laid aside some of the caution they had formerly
deemed necessary.
These Indians, by lying in wait, had found the favorable moment for
seizing the defenceless family and making them prisoners. Judging from
their paint, and other marks by which the early settlers learned to
distinguish the various tribes, Mrs. Lytle conjectured that those into
whose hands she and her children had fallen were Senecas. Nor was she
mistaken. It was a party of that tribe who had descended from their
village with the intention of falling upon some isolated band of their
enemies, the Delawares, but failing in this, had made themselves amends
by capturing a few white settlers.
It is to be attributed to the generally mild disposition of this tribe,
together with the magnanimous character of the chief who accompanied the
party, that their prisoners in the present instance escaped the fate of
most of the Americans who were so unhappy as to fall into the hands of
the Iroquois.
The children learned from their mother that she was profoundly ignorant
of the fate of their remaining brother and sister, a boy of six and a
little girl of four years of age, but she was in hopes they had made
good their escape with the servant-girl, who had likewise disappeared
from the commencement.
After remaining a few hours to recruit the exhausted frames of the
prisoners, the savages again started on their march, one of the older
Indians offering to relieve the mother from the burden of her infant,
which she had hitherto carried in her arms. Pleased with the unexpected
kindness, she resigned to him her tender charge.
Thus they pursued their way, the savage who carried the infant lingering
somewhat behind the rest of the party, until, finding a spot convenient
for his purpose, he grasped his innocent victim by the feet, and, with
one whirl, to add strength to the blow, dashed out its brains against a
tree. Leaving the body upon the spot, he rejoined the party.
The mother, unsuspicious of what had passed, regarded him earnestly as
he reappeared without the child--then gazed wildly around on the rest of
the group. Her beloved little one was not there. Its absence spoke its
fate; but, suppressing the shriek of agony, for she knew that the lives
of the remaining ones depended upon her firmness in that trying hour,
she drew them yet closer to her and pursued her melancholy way without a
word spoken or a question asked.
From the depths of her heart she cried unto Him who is able to save, and
He comforted her with hopes of deliverance for the surviving ones, for
she saw that if blood had been their sole object the scalps of herself
and her children would have been taken upon the spot where they were
made prisoners.
She read too in the eyes of one who was evidently the commander of the
party an expression more merciful than she had even dared to hope.
Particularly had she observed his soothing manner and manifest
partiality towards her eldest child, the little girl of whom we have
spoken, and she built many a bright hope of escape or ransom upon these
slender foundations.
After a toilsome and painful march of many days, the party reached the
Seneca village, upon the head-waters of the Alleghany, near what is now
called Olean Point. On their arrival the chief, their conductor, who was
distinguished by the name of the _Big White Man_[42] led his prisoners
to the principal lodge. This was occupied by his mother, the widow of
the head-chief of that band, and who was called by them the _Old Queen_.
On entering her presence, her son presented her the little girl,
saying,--
"My mother, I bring you a child to supply the place of my brother, who
was killed by the Lenape six moons ago. She shall dwell in my lodge, and
be to me a sister. Take the white woman and her children and treat them
kindly--our father will give us many horses and guns to buy them back
again."
He referred to the British Indian Agent of his tribe, Colonel Johnson,
an excellent and benevolent gentleman, who resided at Port Niagara, on
the British side of the river of that name.
The old queen fulfilled the injunctions of her son. She received the
prisoners, and every comfort was provided them that her simple and
primitive mode of life rendered possible.
* * * * *
We must now return to the place and period at which our story commences.
Late in the evening of that day the father returned to his dwelling. All
within and around was silent and desolate. No trace of a living creature
was to be found throughout the house or grounds. His nearest neighbors
lived at a considerable distance, but to them he hastened, frantically
demanding tidings of his family.
As he aroused them from their slumbers, one and another joined him in
the search, and at length, at the house of one of them, was found the
servant-maid who had effected her escape. Her first place of refuge, she
said, had been a large brewing-tub in an outer kitchen, under which she
had, at the first alarm, secreted herself until the departure of the
Indians, who were evidently in haste, gave her an opportunity of fleeing
to a place of safety. She could give no tidings of her mistress and the
children, except that they had not been murdered in her sight or
hearing.
At length, having scoured the neighborhood without success, Mr. Lytle
remembered an old settler who lived alone, far up the valley. Thither he
and his friends immediately repaired, and from him they learned that,
being at work in his field just before sunset, he had seen a party of
strange Indians passing at a short distance from his cabin. As they
wound along the brow of the hill, he could perceive that they had
prisoners with them--a woman and a child. The woman he knew to be a
white, as she carried her infant in her arms, instead of upon her back,
after the manner of the savages.
Day had now begun to break, for the night had been passed in fruitless
searches, and the agonized father, after a consultation with his kind
friends and neighbors, accepted their offer to accompany him to Fort
Pitt to ask advice and assistance of the commandant and Indian Agent at
that place.
Proceeding down the valley, as they approached a hut which the night
before they had found apparently deserted, they were startled by
observing two children standing upon the high bank in front of it. The
delighted father recognized two of his missing flock, but no tidings
could they give him of their mother and the other lost ones. Their story
was simple and touching.
They were playing in the garden, when they were alarmed by seeing the
Indians enter the yard near the house. Unperceived by them, the brother,
who was but six years of age, helped his little sister over the fence
into a field overrun with bushes of the blackberry and wild raspberry.
They concealed themselves among these for awhile, and then, finding all
quiet, they attempted to force their way to the side of the field
farthest from the house. Unfortunately, the little girl in her play in
the garden had pulled off her shoes and stockings, and the briers
tearing and wounding her tender feet, she with difficulty could refrain
from crying out. Her brother took off his stockings and put them on her
feet. He attempted, too, to protect them with his shoes, but they were
too large, and kept slipping off, so that she could not wear them. For a
time, they persevered in making what they considered their escape from
certain death, for, as I have said, the children had been taught, by the
tales they had heard, to regard all strange Indians as ministers of
torture, and of horrors worse than death. Exhausted with pain and
fatigue, the poor little girl at length declared she could go no
farther.
"Then, Maggie," said her brother, "I must kill you, for I cannot let
you be killed by the Indians."
"Oh, no, Thomas!" pleaded she, "do not, pray do not kill me! I do not
think the Indians will find us."
"Oh, yes, they will, Maggie, and I could kill you so much easier than
they would.'"
For a long time he endeavored to persuade her, and even looked about for
a stick sufficiently large for his purpose; but despair gave the little
creature strength, and she promised her brother that she would neither
complain nor falter, if he would assist her in making her way out of the
field.
The idea of the little boy that he could save his sister from savage
barbarity by taking her life himself, shows what tales of horror the
children of the early settlers were familiar with.
After a few more efforts, they made their way out of the field, into an
uninclosed pasture-ground, where, to their great delight, they saw some
cows feeding. They recognized them as belonging to Granny Myers, an old
woman who lived at some little distance, but in what direction from the
place they then were, they were utterly ignorant.
With a sagacity beyond his years, the boy said,--
"Let us hide ourselves till sunset, when the cows will go home, and we
will follow them."
They did so, but, to their dismay, when they reached Granny Myers's they
found the house deserted. The old woman had been called by some business
down the valley, and did not return that night.
Tired and hungry, they could go no farther, but, after an almost
fruitless endeavor to get some milk from the cows, they laid themselves
down to sleep under an old bedstead that stood behind the house. Their
father and his party had caused them additional terror in the night. The
shouts and calls which had been designed to arouse the inmates of the
house, they had mistaken for the whoop of the Indians, and, not being
able to distinguish friends from foes, they had crept close to one
another, as far out of sight as possible. When found the following
morning, they were debating what course to take next, for safety.
The commandant at Fort Pitt entered warmly into the affairs of Mr.
Lytle, and readily furnished him with a detachment of soldiers, to aid
him and his friends in the pursuit of the marauders. Some circumstances
having occurred to throw suspicion upon the Senecas, the party soon
directed their search among the villages of that tribe.
Their inquiries were prosecuted in various directions, and always with
great caution, for all the tribes of the Iroquois, or, as they pompously
called themselves, the Five Nations, being allies of Great Britain, were
inveterate in their hostility to the Americans. Thus, some time elapsed
before the father with his attendants reached the village of the _Big
White Man_.
A treaty was immediately entered into for the ransom of the captives,
which was easily accomplished in regard to Mrs. Lytle and the younger
child. But no offers, no entreaties, no promises, could procure the
release of the little Eleanor, the adopted child of the tribe. "No," the
chief said, "she was his sister; he had taken her to supply the place of
his brother who was killed by the enemy--she was dear to him, and he
would not part with her."
Finding every effort unavailing to shake this resolution, the father was
compelled to take his sorrowful departure with such of his beloved ones
as he had had the good fortune to recover.
We will not attempt to depict the grief of parents compelled thus to
give up a darling child, and to leave her in the hands of savages, whom
until now they had too much reason to regard as merciless. But there was
no alternative. Commending her to the care of their heavenly Father, and
cheered by the manifest tenderness with which she had thus far been
treated, they set out on their melancholy journey homeward, trusting
that some future effort would be more effectual for the recovery of
their little girl.
Having placed his family in safety at Pittsburg, Mr. Lytle, still
assisted by the commandant and the Indian Agent, undertook an expedition
to the frontier to the residence of the British Agent, Colonel Johnson.
His representation of the case warmly interested the feelings of that
benevolent officer, who promised him to spare no exertions in his
behalf. This promise he religiously performed. He went in person to the
village of the Big White Man, as soon as the opening of the spring
permitted, and offered him many splendid presents of guns and horses,
but the chief was inexorable.
Time rolled on, and every year the hope of recovering the little captive
became more faint. She, in the mean time, continued to wind herself more
and more closely around the heart of her Indian brother. Nothing could
exceed the consideration and affection with which she was treated, not
only by himself, but by his mother, the _Old Queen_. All their stock of
brooches and wampum was employed in the decoration of her person. The
principal seat and the most delicate viands were invariably reserved for
her, and no efforts were spared to promote her happiness, and to render
her forgetful of her former home and kindred.
Thus, though she had beheld, with a feeling almost amounting to despair,
the departure of her parents and dear little brother, and had for a long
time resisted every attempt at consolation, preferring even death to a
life of separation from all she loved, yet time, as it ever does,
brought its soothing balm, and she at length grew contented and happy.
From her activity and the energy of her character, qualities for which
she was remarkable to the latest period of her life, the name was given
her of _The Ship under full sail_.
* * * * *
The only drawback to the happiness of the little prisoner, aside from
her longings after her own dear home, was the enmity she encountered
from the wife of the Big White Man. This woman, from the day of her
arrival at the village, and adoption into the family as a sister, had
conceived for her the greatest animosity, which, at first, she had the
prudence to conceal from the observation of her husband.
It was perhaps natural that a wife should give way to some feelings of
jealousy at seeing her own place in the heart of her husband usurped by
the child of their enemy, the American. But these feelings were
aggravated by a bad and vindictive temper, and by the indifference with
which her husband listened to her complaints and murmurings.
As she had no children of her own to engage her attention, her mind was
the more engrossed and inflamed with her fancied wrongs, and with
devising means for their redress. An opportunity of attempting the
latter was not long wanting.
During the absence of the Big White Man upon some war-party or
hunting-excursion, his little sister was taken ill with fever and ague.
She was nursed with the utmost tenderness by the Old Queen; and the wife
of the chief, to lull suspicion, and thereby accomplish her purpose,
was likewise unwearied in her assiduities to the little favorite.
One afternoon, during the temporary absence of the Old Queen, her
daughter-in-law entered the lodge with a bowl of something she had
prepared, and, stooping down to the mat on which the child lay, said, in
an affectionate accent,--
"Drink, my sister, I have brought you that which will drive this fever
far from you."
On raising her head to reply, the little girl perceived a pair of eyes
peeping through a crevice in the lodge, and fixed upon her with a very
peculiar and significant expression. With the quick perception acquired
partly from nature and partly from her intercourse with this people, she
replied, faintly,--
"Set it down, my sister. When this fit of the fever has passed, I will
drink your medicine."
The squaw, too cautious to use importunity, busied herself about in the
lodge for a short time, then withdrew to another, near at hand.
Meantime, the bright eyes continued peering through the opening, until
they had watched their object fairly out of sight; then a low voice, the
voice of a young friend and playfellow, spoke:
"Do not drink that which your brother's wife has brought you. She hates
you, and is only waiting an opportunity to rid herself of you. I have
watched her all the morning, and have seen her gathering the most deadly
roots and herbs. I knew for whom they were intended, and came hither to
warn you."
"Take the bowl," said the little invalid, "and carry it to my mother's
lodge."
This was accordingly done. The contents of the bowl were found to
consist principally of a decoction of the root of the May-apple, the
most deadly poison known among the Indians.
It is not in the power of language to describe the indignation that
pervaded the little community when this discovery was made known. The
squaws ran to and fro, as is their custom when excited, each vying with
the other in heaping invectives upon the culprit. No further punishment
was, however, for the present inflicted upon her, but, the first burst
of rage over, she was treated with silent abhorrence.
The little patient was removed to the lodge of the Old Queen, and
strictly guarded, while her enemy was left to wander in silence and
solitude about the fields and woods, until the return of her husband
should determine her punishment.
In a few days, the excursion being over, the Big White Man and his party
returned to the village. Contrary to the usual custom of savages, he did
not, in his first transport at learning the attempt on the life of his
little sister, take summary vengeance on the offender. He contented
himself with banishing her from his lodge, never to return, and
condemning her to hoe corn in a distant part of the large field or
inclosure which served the whole community for a garden.
Although she would still show her vindictive disposition whenever, by
chance, the little girl with her companions wandered into that vicinity,
by striking at her with her hoe, or by some other spiteful
manifestation, yet she was either too well watched, or stood too much in
awe of her former husband, to repeat the attempt upon his sister's life.
* * * * *
Four years had now elapsed since the capture of little Nelly. Her heart
was by nature warm and affectionate, so that the unbounded tenderness of
those she dwelt among had called forth a corresponding feeling in her
heart. She regarded the chief and his mother with love and reverence,
and had so completely learned their language and customs as almost to
have forgotten her own.
So identified had she become with the tribe, that the remembrance of her
home and family had nearly faded from her memory; all but her
mother--her mother, whom she had loved with a strength of affection
natural to her warm and ardent character, and to whom her heart still
clung with a fondness that no time or change could destroy.
The peace of 1783 between Great Britain and the United States now took
place. A general pacification of the Indian tribes was the consequence,
and fresh hopes were renewed in the bosoms of Mr. and Mrs. Lytle.
They removed with their family to Fort Niagara, near which, on the
American side, was the Great _Council-Fire_ of the Senecas. Colonel
Johnson readily undertook a fresh negotiation with the chief, but, in
order to make sure every chance of success, he again proceeded in person
to the village of the Big White Man.
His visit was most opportune. It was the "Feast of the Green Corn," when
he arrived among them. This observance, which corresponds so strikingly
with the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles that, together with other customs,
it has led many to believe the Indian nations the descendants of the
lost ten tribes of Israel, made it a season of general joy and
festivity. All other occupations were suspended to give place to social
enjoyment in the open air or in arbors formed of the green branches of
the trees. Every one appeared in his gala-dress. That of the little
adopted child consisted of a petticoat of blue broadcloth, bordered with
gay-colored ribbons; a sack or upper garment of black silk, ornamented
with three rows of silver brooches, the centre ones from the throat to
the hem being of large size, and those from the shoulders down being no
larger than a shilling-piece, and set as closely as possible. Around
her neck were innumerable strings of white and purple wampum--an Indian
ornament manufactured from the inner surface of the muscle-shell. Her
hair was clubbed behind and loaded with beads of various colors.
Leggings of scarlet cloth, and moccasins of deer-skin embroidered with
porcupine-quills, completed her costume.
Colonel Johnson was received with all the consideration due to his
position, and to the long friendship that had subsisted between him and
the tribe.
Observing that the hilarity of the festival had warmed and opened all
hearts, he took occasion in an interview with the chief to expatiate
upon the parental affection which had led the father and mother of his
little sister to give up their friends and home, and come hundreds of
miles away, in the single hope of sometimes looking upon and embracing
her. The heart of the chief softened as he listened to this
representation, and he was induced to promise that at the Grand Council
soon to be held at Fort Niagara, on the British side of the river, he
would attend, bringing his little sister with him.
He exacted a promise, however, from Colonel Johnson, that not only no
effort should be made to reclaim the child, but that even no proposition
to part with her should be offered him.
The time at length arrived when, her heart bounding with joy, little
Nelly was placed on horseback to accompany her Indian brother to the
Great Council of the Senecas. She had promised him that she would never
leave him without his permission, and he relied confidently on her word
thus given.
As the chiefs and warriors arrived in successive bands to meet their
Father, the agent, at the council-fire, how did the anxious hearts of
the parents beat with alternate hope and fear! The officers of the fort
had kindly given them quarters for the time being, and the ladies, whose
sympathies were strongly excited, had accompanied the mother to the
place of council, and joined in her longing watch for the first
appearance of the band from the Alleghany River.
At length they were discerned, emerging from the forest on the opposite
or American side. Boats were sent across by the commanding officer, to
bring the chief and his party. The father and mother, attended by all
the officers and ladies, stood upon the grassy bank awaiting their
approach. They had seen at a glance that the _little captive_ was with
them.
When about to enter the boat, the chief said to some of his young men,
"Stand here with the horses, and wait until I return."
He was told that the horses should be ferried across and taken care of.
"No," said he; "let them wait."
He held his darling by the hand until the river was passed--until the
boat touched the bank--until the child sprang forward into the arms of
the mother from whom she had been so long separated.
When the chief witnessed that outburst of affection, he could withstand
no longer.
"She shall go," said he. "The mother must have her child again. I will
go back alone."
With one silent gesture of farewell he turned and stepped on board the
boat. No arguments or entreaties could induce him to remain at the
council, but, having gained the other side of the Niagara, he mounted
his horse, and with his young men was soon lost in the depths of the
forest.
After a sojourn of a few weeks at Niagara, Mr. Lytle, dreading lest the
resolution of the Big White Man should give way, and measures be taken
to deprive him once more of his child, came to the determination of
again changing his place of abode. He therefore took the first
opportunity of crossing Lake Erie with his family, and settled himself
in the neighborhood of Detroit, where he continued afterwards to reside.
_Little Nelly_ saw her friend the chief no more, but she never forgot
him. To the day of her death she remembered with tenderness and
gratitude her brother the Big White Man, and her friends and playfellows
among the Senecas.