murderers, and in a very few days a body of Sioux were seen, as we
supposed to deliver up the criminals. Two companies of soldiers were
sent to meet them and receive the murderers at their hands. Strange to
say, although they had the men, they refused to give them up, when
our interpreter (I cannot recall his name) stepped out from among our
soldiers, and said: "If you do not yield up these men peaceably, then,
as many leaves as there are on these trees, as many blades of grass as
you see beneath your feet, so many white men will come upon you, burn
your villages and destroy your nation."
A few moments' consideration, a few hurried words of consultation, and
the guilty men were handed over to our troops. The tribe followed as
they were taken into the fort, and, making a small fire within the
walls, the condemned men marched round and round it, singing their
death songs, and then were given up to be put in irons and held in
custody until time should determine how many lives should pay the
forfeit, for it is well known that Indian revenge is literally a life
for a life, and the Colonel had decided to give them into the hands of
the injured tribe, to be punished according to their own customs.
Some weeks passed, and it was found that five lives were to be paid
for in kind. A council of Chippewas decided that the five selected
from the prisoners should run the gauntlet, and it was approved. And
now, back over the lapse of many years I pass, and seem to be a child
again, standing beside my only brother, at the back door of my
father's house. The day is beautiful; the sun is so bright; the grass
so green, all nature so smiling, it is hard to realize what is going
on over yonder, by the graveyard, in that crowd of men and women; for
there are gathered together the Chippewas, old and young men, women
and children, who have come out to witness or take part in this act of
retributive justice. There are blue coats, too, and various badges of
our U. S. uniform; for it is necessary to hold some restraint over
these red men, or there may be wholesale murder; and borne on the
shoulders of his young men, we see the form of the wounded, dying
chief, regarding all with calm satisfaction, and no doubt happy in the
thought that his death, now so near, will not go unavenged. And there
stand the young braves who have been selected as the executioners;
their rifles are loaded, the locks carefully examined, and all is
ready when the word shall be given. There, too, under guard, are the
five doomed men, who are to pay the forfeit for the five lives so
wantonly and treacherously taken.
Away off, I can not tell how many rods, but it seemed to us children a
long _run_, are stationed the Sioux tribe; and that is the goal for
which the wretched men must run for their lives.
And now, all seems ready; the bolts and chains are knocked off, and
the captives are set free. At a word, one of them starts; the rifles,
with unerring aim, are fired, and under cover of the smoke a man falls
dead. They reload; the word is given, and another starts, with a
bound, for _home_; but, ah! the aim of those clear-sighted,
blood-thirsty men is too deadly; and so, one after another, till four
are down.
And then the last, "Little Six", whom, at a distance, we children
readily recognize from his commanding height and graceful form; he is
our friend, and we hope he will get _home_. He starts; they fire; the
smoke clears away, and still he is running. We clap our hands and say,
"He will get home!" but, another volley, and our favorite, almost at
the goal, springs into the air and comes down--dead! I cover my face,
and shed tears of real sorrow for our friend.
And now follows a scene that beggars description. The bodies, all warm
and limp, are dragged to the brow of the hill. Men, who at the sight
of blood become fiends, tear off the scalps, and hand them to the
chief, who hangs them around his neck. Women and children with
tomahawks and knives, cut deep gashes in the poor dead bodies, and
scooping up the hot blood with their hands, eagerly drink it. Then,
grown frantic, they dance and yell, and sing their horrid scalp-songs,
recounting deeds of valor on the part of their brave men, and telling
of the Sioux scalps taken in former battles, until, at last, tired and
satiated with their ghoul-like feast, they leave the mutilated bodies
festering in the sun. At nightfall they are thrown over the bluff into
the river, and my brother and myself, awe-struck and quiet, trace
their hideous voyage down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. We
lie awake at night talking of the dreadful thing we have seen; and we
try to imagine what the people of New Orleans will think when they
see those ghastly up-turned faces; and we talk with quivering lips and
tearful eyes of "Little Six," and the many kind things he has done for
us--the bows and arrows, the mocauks of sugar, the pretty beaded
moccasins he has given us; and we wish, oh! we wish he could have run
faster, or that the Chippewa rifles had missed fire. And we sleep and
dream of scalps, and rifles, and war-whoops, and frightful yells, and
wake wishing it had all been a dream.
Next day the chief sat up in bed, painted himself for death, sang his
death song, and, with those five fresh, bloody scalps about his neck,
lay down and died calmly and peacefully in the comfortable hope, no
doubt, of a welcome in the "happy hunting grounds," prepared by the
"Good Spirit" for all those Indians who are faithful to their friends,
and avenge themselves upon their foes.
A few years ago, I told this story to another "Little Six." "Old
Shakopee," as he lay with gyves upon his legs, in our guard house at
Fort Snelling, awaiting execution for almost numberless cold-blooded
murders, perpetrated during the dreadful massacre of '62. He
remembered it all, and his wicked old face lighted up with joy as he
told me he was the son of that "Little Six" who made so brave a run
for his life, and he showed as much pride and pleasure in listening to
the story of his father's treacherous conduct, as the children of our
great generals will do some day, when they read or hear of deeds of
bravery or daring that their fathers have done.
_CHAPTER XI._
The incident recorded in the preceding chapter occurred in June, 1827,
and in the autumn of the same year two companies of our command were
ordered to Prairie du Chien to strengthen the garrison there, in
anticipation of trouble with the Indians. One of these was Company
"C", commanded by our father; the other company was in command of
Captain Scott.
We had become so attached to a home so filled with peculiar and very
tender associations that our hearts were sad indeed when we bade "good
bye" to all, and from the deck of the steamer took our last look at
the beloved fort where we had lived so many years. In later years when
passing the spot where we bade farewell to the flag which floated over
headquarters on that bright morning long ago, I involuntarily look up
at the beautiful banner still waving there, and a tender, reverential
awe steals over me, as when standing by the grave of a friend long
buried.
We had hardly been a year at Fort Crawford when my father was detailed
on recruiting service, and ordered to Nashville, Tennessee. This was
in 1828, memorable as the year of the presidential campaign which
resulted in the election to that high office of General Andrew
Jackson. When our friend Mr. Parton was writing his "Life of
Jackson," I gave him, at his request, my impressions as a child, of
the great man, with whom we were daily and intimately associated, and
now transfer those impressions from that great work, "Parton's Life of
Jackson," to the pages of this unpretentious record of past times.
At the time referred to, our family boarded at the "Nashville Inn,"
kept by a Mr. Edmonson, the home of all the military officers whom
duty or pleasure called to Nashville. It had also been for a long time
the stopping place of General Jackson and his wife, whenever they left
their beloved "Hermitage" for a temporary sojourn in the city. Eating
at the same table with persons who attracted so much attention, and
meeting them familiarly in the public and private sitting rooms of the
hotel, I of course felt well acquainted with them, and my
recollections of them are very vivid even now. The General's
appearance has been so often and correctly described that it would
seem almost unnecessary to touch upon it here; but it will do no harm
to give my impressions of him.
Picture to yourself a military-looking man, above the ordinary height,
dressed plainly, but with great neatness; dignified and grave--I had
almost said stern, but always courteous and affable; with keen,
searching eyes, iron-gray hair standing stiffly up from an expansive
forehead; a face somewhat furrowed by care and time, and expressive of
deep thought and active intellect, and you have before you the General
Jackson who has lived in my memory from my childhood. Side by side
with him stands a coarse-looking, stout little old woman, whom you
might easily mistake for his washerwoman, were it not for the marked
attention he pays her, and the love and admiration she manifests for
him. Her eyes are bright, and express great kindness of heart; her
face is rather broad, her features plain, her complexion so dark as
almost to suggest a mingling of races in that climate where such
things sometimes occur. But withal, her face is so good natured and
motherly, that you immediately feel at ease with her, however shy you
may be of the stately person by her side. Her figure is rather full,
but loosely and carelessly dressed, with no regard to the fashions of
the day, so that, when she is seated, she seems to settle into
herself, in a manner that is neither graceful nor elegant. I have seen
such forms since, and have thought I should like to experiment upon
them with French corsets, to see what they would look like if they
were gathered into some permanent shape. This is Mrs. Jackson. I have
heard my mother say, she could imagine that in her early youth, at the
time the General yielded to her fascinations, she may have been a
bright, sparkling brunette, perhaps may have even passed for a beauty;
but being without any culture, and out of the way of refining
influences, she was at the time we knew her, such as I have described.
Their affection for each other was of the tenderest kind. The General
always treated her as if she was his pride and glory, and words can
faintly describe her devotion to him. The "Nashville Inn" was at this
time filled with celebrities, nearly all warm supporters of the
General. The Stokes family, of North Carolina, were there, particular
friends of his; the Blackburns, and many other old families, whose
names have escaped my memory. I well recollect to what disadvantage
Mrs. Jackson appeared, with her dowdyfied figure, her inelegant
conversation, and her total want of refinement, in the midst of this
bevy of highly-cultivated, aristocratic women; and I recall very
distinctly how the ladies of the Jackson party hovered near her at all
times, apparently to save her from saying or doing anything which
might do discredit to their idol. With all her disadvantages in
externals, I know she was really beloved. She was a truly good woman,
the very soul of benevolence and kindness, and one almost overlooked
her deficiencies in the knowledge of her intrinsic worth and her real
goodness of heart. With a different husband, and under different
circumstances, she might have appeared to greater advantage, but there
could not be a more striking contrast than was manifest in this
dignified, grand-looking man and this plain, common-looking little
woman. And the strangest of it all was, the General did not seem at
all aware of it. She was his ideal of every thing that was good, and
loving, and true, and, utterly unconscious of any external
deficiencies, he yielded her the entire homage of his own brave, loyal
heart. My father visited them more than once at the Hermitage. It was
customary for the officers of the army to do this, as a mark of
respect to the General, and they frequently remained at their
hospitable mansion several days at a time. The latch-string was always
out, and all who visited them were made welcome, and felt themselves
at home.
An anecdote which my father told us, characteristic of Mrs. Jackson,
impressed my young mind very forcibly. After the evening meal at the
Hermitage, as he and some other officers were seated with the worthy
couple by their ample fireplace, Mrs. Jackson, as was her favorite
custom, lighted her pipe, and having taken a whiff or two, handed it
to my father, saying, "Honey, won't you take a smoke?"
The enthusiasm of the people of Nashville for their favorite has been
descanted upon, years ago. I remember well the extravagant
demonstrations of it, especially after the result of the election was
known. I walked the streets with my father the night of the
illuminations and saw but two houses not lighted up, and these were
both mobbed. One was the mansion of Judge McNairy, who was once a
friend of Jackson, but for some reason became opposed to him, and at
that time was one of the very few Whigs in Nashville. On that
triumphant night the band played the hymn familiar to all, beginning:
"Blow ye the trumpet blow," and ending: "The year of Jubilee is come,
return ye ransomed people home." This certainly looked like deifying
the man they delighted to honor, and I remember it seemed very wicked
to me. When the old man finally started for Washington, a crowd of
ladies were assembled on the piazza of the hotel, overlooking the
Cumberland river to "see the conquering hero go." I mingled with them
and distinctly remember hearing one lady say she had had a good-bye
kiss from the General, and she should not wash it off for a month. Oh!
what a noise there was! A parrot, which had been brought up a
democrat, was "hurrahing for Jackson," and the clapping of hands, the
shouting, and waving of handkerchiefs have seldom been equalled. When
the steamboat passed out of sight, and all realized that he was really
gone, the city seemed to subside and settle down, as if the object of
its being was accomplished.
But the sad part of my remembrances, is the death of Mrs. Jackson.
Early one bright pleasant morning my father was putting on his uniform
to go with the other officers then in the city, to the Hermitage to
escort the President-elect to Nashville. Before he had completed his
toilet a black man left at the door a hand-bill announcing Mrs.
Jackson's death, and requesting the officers to come to the Hermitage
at a time specified, with the usual badges of mourning, to attend her
funeral. She had died very suddenly at night, without any apparent
disease, it being very generally supposed that her death was
occasioned by excess of joy at her husband's election. When it was
discovered that she was dead, the grief-stricken husband could not be
prevailed upon to part with her body, but held it tightly in his arms
until almost forced from his embrace.
This news caused great commotion. Many ladies went out from the city
to superintend the funeral arrangements, and displayed more zeal than
judgment by arraying the body in white satin, with kid gloves and
slippers. Pearl ear-rings and necklace were likewise placed upon it;
but, at the suggestion of some whose good sense had not entirely
forsaken them, I believe, these ornaments were removed. The day of the
funeral, proving damp and drizzly, the walk from the house to the
grave was thickly laid with cotton for the procession to pass over.
Notwithstanding the grief displayed by the friends of this really good
and noble woman, on account of her sudden death, it was supposed by
many, that after all, they felt it a relief; for it had been a matter
of great anxiety how she would appear as mistress of the White House,
especially as some of her warm, but injudicious friends, had selected
and prepared an outfit for the occasion, more suitable for a young and
blooming bride than for a homely, withered looking old woman.
During the war of the rebellion, as the Fifth Division of the Army of
the Cumberland was marching from Gallatin to camp near Nashville, the
General in command arranged that myself and daughter, who were
visiting the army and keeping with them from day to day, should call
at the Hermitage, as the troops passed near. An escort was furnished
us, and we turned off in our ambulance at the nearest point. We soon
reached the great gate, and, passing up the avenue of dark, sombre
evergreens, to the broad piazza of the historic old mansion, were
received by the hostess, the wife of General Jackson's adopted son.
Our reception, while not uncivil, was certainly frigid, and we had
expected nothing more cordial from those who called us their enemies.
After a short, constrained conversation, we were shown the General's
room, and some portraits of distinguished people on the walls, and
were then conducted to the tomb at the foot of the garden, where
husband and wife lie side by side under a canopy supported by marble
pillars and shaded by magnolia trees, whose rich, glossy leaves and
royal white blossoms made the sacred spot a lovely resting place for
the old man and his beloved Rachel. On the tablet, which covers her
remains, we read the following inscription, prepared by her husband:
"Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President
Jackson, who died the twenty-second of December, 1828, aged sixty-one.
Her face was fair; her person, pleasing; her temper, amiable; her
heart, kind; she delighted in relieving the wants of her fellow
creatures, and cultivated that divine pleasure by the most liberal and
unpretending methods. To the poor, she was a benefactor; to the rich,
an example; to the wretched, a comforter, to the prosperous, an
ornament; her piety went hand in hand with her benevolence; and she
thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good. A being so gentle
and so virtuous, slander might wound but could not dishonor. Even
death, when he tore her from the arms of her husband, could but
transport her to the bosom of her God."
At his own special request, the tablet which marks the spot where he
rests, has only this simple record:
"GENERAL ANDREW JACKSON.
_Born on the 15th of March, 1767;_
_Died on the 8th of June, 1845._"
Among the notable persons whom we frequently met during the year of
our sojourn in Nashville, was Samuel Houston, since so thoroughly
identified with the early history of Texas. He was at that time moving
in gay society, was called an elegant gentleman, was very fine looking
and very vain of his personal appearance; but domestic troubles
completely changed his whole life, and leaving his wife and family, he
abjured the world and went into exile, as he termed it. While we were
in Smithland, Kentucky, to which place our father had been ordered
from Nashville, he stopped with us on his way to the wilderness, and
excited our childish admiration by his fanciful hunter's garb and the
romance which surrounded him. I remember, too, that he begged a fine
greyhound and a pointer from my brother, who gave them up, but not
without a great struggle with himself, for he loved them,--little
thinking then, dear boy, that this man, fantastically clad in
buckskin, would one day, as President of Texas, repay him amply by
delivering him from a great peril.
I record here a reminiscence of Smithland which stamps that little
town, and its surroundings, indelibly upon my memory. One day, as my
brother and I were at play in front of the recruiting office, which
was situated on the one long street, near the river bank, a steamboat,
with its flag flying, came down the Ohio and rounded to at the wharf.
As it made the turn, we noticed that the deck was crowded with
negroes, and we heard them singing some of their camp meeting hymns in
a way to touch all hearts. The strain was in a minor key, and, as the
poor creatures swayed their bodies back and forth and clapped their
hands at intervals, we were strangely moved; and when, the landing
being effected, and the gang-plank arranged, they came off, _chained
in pairs_, and were marched, still singing, to a shed prepared for
them, we could not keep back the tears. The overseer, a great strong
man, cracking his "blacksnake" from time to time, to enforce
authority, excited our strong indignation. All this is an
impossibility now, thank God, but then it was a cruel, dreadful
reality. Like cattle, they were penned for the night, and were to be
kept there for a day or two, till another boat should take them to New
Orleans to be sold for the cane brake and the cotton field. They had
been bought by the dealer in men and women, who had them in charge, at
the slave pen in Washington, the capital of the United States. For
aught I know, Uncle Tom may have been among them, destined for the
genial, easy-going St. Clare and finally to pass into the hands of
Legree, the brute, who was to whip him to death. The next morning a
bright mulatto woman surprised us, as we were at breakfast, by coming
into our room and begging my father to purchase her. I never knew how
she managed to do this, I only know she stood before our free, happy
household pleading most earnestly, said she was not a field hand, was
a good house servant in her master's family where she was born and
raised, and had been sold, "because massa died, and de family was too
poor to keep me; I'se a fustrate cook, and 'd sarve you faithful; and,
oh, mistis," turning to my mother, "I'se lef' little chillun in de ole
Virginny home, and if you buys me, may be I might see 'um again
sometime." But it could not be, and the poor sorrowing mother went
back to the gang, whose breaking hearts were pining for home and dear
ones they could never again behold. And one morning they were driven
onto another boat, and passing slowly out of sight, sang, as they
sailed down the river to their doom, "swing low, sweet chariot," etc.
_CHAPTER XII._
CINCINNATI.
From this Kentucky town, his two years of service as recruiting
officer having ended, our father was ordered to Fort Howard, Green
Bay; but, being desirous that his children should have the advantage
of the schools in Cincinnati, which at that time were considered
exceptionally excellent, he established us in that city in a pretty
home of our own, and for the first time the family was separated, he
going alone to his post, while mother and children remained in Ohio.
In 1829 Cincinnati was very different from the great city which now
spreads out over the beautiful hills, and extends miles on "La Belle
Riviere." It was a pretty, flourishing, clean town, and for us it was
a delightful home, the dense smoke from the innumerable industries,
now hanging like a pall over the valley, was not known then, and the
atmosphere was clear and bright. Nicholas Longworth was the great man
then; his strawberries and his beautiful gardens were famous, and his
sudden rise from comparative poverty to enormous wealth, mostly by
successful ventures in real estate, was marvelous, such instances
being rare in those days. He was an eccentric, but very kind-hearted
man, very good to the poor, and he had many warm friends. A few years
later he turned his attention to the culture of grapes, and made
Cincinnati famous for its catawba and other wines bearing the
Longworth brand.
There were many others whose names could be given and of whom even
then the young city was justly proud. Dr. Drake, the eminent surgeon
and beloved physician; Rev. Dr. Joshua L. Wilson, the Boanerges of
Presbyterianism; Dr. Samuel Johnson and Dr. Aydelotte, the
hard-working and vigilant watchmen on the Episcopal watch towers;
Judge Bellamy Storer, the distinguished jurist; Edward Mansfield, the
great journalist; Salmon P. Chase, then the energetic and promising
young lawyer, years afterward Chief Justice of the United States, and
many others whose lives are written in the "History of Cincinnati."
From the long list I select a few names of those with whom our family
was intimately associated: Major David Gwynne, a former Paymaster in
the army, and my father's life-long friend; Judge Burnett, our near
and highly-esteemed neighbor; Dr. John Locke, my honored teacher for
four years; Alexander Kinmont, the eccentric Scotchman and most
thorough educator of boys; the Groesbecks, the Lytles, the Carneals,
the Kilgours, the Piatts, the Wiggins,--all of whom bore a prominent
part in the early formative days of the beautiful city.