Indian character, but the present tone of feeling among them, waited
upon Capt. Heald, in the hope of opening his eyes to the present
posture of affairs. He reminded him that since the trouble with the
Indians upon the Wabash and its vicinity, there had appeared a settled
plan of hostilities towards the whites; in consequence of which, it had
been the policy of the Americans to withhold from them whatever would
enable them to carry on their warfare upon the defenceless settlers
on the frontier. Mr. Kinzie recalled to Capt. Heald the fact that he
had himself left home for Detroit the preceding autumn, and receiving,
when he had proceeded as far as De Charme’s,[35] the intelligence of
the battle of Tippecanoe, he had immediately returned to Chicago, that
he might despatch orders to his traders to furnish no ammunition to the
Indians; all that they had on hand was therefore secreted, and such of
the traders as had not already started for their wintering-grounds,
took neither powder nor shot with their outfit.
“Capt. Heald was struck with the impolicy of furnishing the enemy, (for
such they must now consider their old neighbors,) with arms against
himself, and determined to destroy all the ammunition, excepting what
should be necessary for the use of his own troops. On the 13th, the
goods, consisting of blankets, broadcloths, calicos, paints, etc., were
distributed, as stipulated. The same evening, part of the ammunition
and liquor was carried into the sally-port, and thrown into a well,
which had been dug there to supply the garrison with water in case
of emergency; the remainder was transported as secretly as possible
through the northern gate, and the heads of the barrels were knocked
in, and the contents poured into the river. The same fate was shared
by a large quantity of alcohol which had been deposited in a warehouse
opposite the fort. The Indians suspected what was going on, and crept
as near the scene of action as possible, but a vigilant watch was
kept up, and no one was suffered to approach but those engaged in the
affair. All the muskets not necessary for the march were broken up and
thrown into the well, together with bags of shot, flints, gun-screws,
etc.
“Some relief to the general despondency was afforded by the arrival,
on the 14th of August, of Capt. Wells, with fifteen friendly Miamies.
He had heard at Fort Wayne of the order for evacuating Fort Dearborn,
and knowing the hostile determination of the Pottowattamies, had made a
rapid march across the country to prevent the exposure of his relative,
Capt. Heald, and his troops to certain destruction. But he came too
late. When he reached the post, he found that the ammunition had been
destroyed, and the provisions given to the Indians. There was therefore
no alternative, and every preparation was made for the march of the
troops on the following morning.
“On the afternoon of the same day, a second council was held with the
Indians. They expressed great indignation at the destruction of the
ammunition and liquor. Notwithstanding the precautions that had been
taken to preserve secrecy, the noise of knocking in the heads of the
barrels had too plainly betrayed the operations of the preceding night;
and so great was the quantity of liquor thrown into the river, that the
taste of the water, the next morning, was, as one expressed it, ‘strong
grog.’ Murmurs and threats were everywhere heard among the savages,
and it was evident that the first moment of exposure would subject the
troops to some manifestation of their disappointment and resentment.
“Among the chiefs were several who, although they shared the general
hostile feeling of their tribe towards the Americans, yet retained a
personal regard for the troops at this post, and for the few white
citizens of the place. These exerted their utmost influence to allay
the revengeful feelings of the young men, and to avert their sanguinary
designs, but without effect. On the evening succeeding the last
council, _Black Partridge_, a conspicuous chief, entered the quarters
of the commanding officer. ‘Father,’ said he, ‘I come to deliver up
to you the medal I wear. It was given me by the Americans, and I
have long worn it, in token of our mutual friendship. But our young
men are resolved to imbrue their hands in the blood of the whites. I
cannot restrain them, and I will not wear a token of peace while I
am compelled to act as an enemy.’ Had further evidence been wanting,
this circumstance would have sufficiently proved to the devoted band
the justice of their melancholy anticipations. Nevertheless, they
went steadily on with the necessary preparations. Of the ammunition
there had been reserved but twenty-five rounds, besides one box of
cartridges, contained in the baggage-wagons. This must, under any
circumstances of danger, have proved an inadequate supply, but the
prospect of a fatiguing march forbade their embarrassing themselves
with a larger quantity.
“The morning of the 15th arrived. All things were in readiness,
and nine o’clock was the hour named for starting. Mr. Kinzie had
volunteered to accompany the troops in their march, and had entrusted
his family to the care of some friendly Indians, who had promised to
convey them in a boat around the head of Lake Michigan, to a point[36]
on the St. Joseph’s river; there to be joined by the troops, should
the prosecution of their march be permitted them. Early in the morning
he received a message from a chief of the St. Joseph’s band, informing
him that mischief was intended by the Pottowattamies who had promised
to escort the detachment; and urging him to relinquish his design of
accompanying the troops by land, promising that the boat which should
contain himself and family, should be permitted to pass in safety
to St. Joseph’s. Mr. Kinzie declined accepting this proposal, as he
believed that his presence might operate as a restraint on the fury of
the savages, so warmly were the greater part attached to himself and
family. The party in the boat consisted of Mrs. Kinzie and her four
younger children, a clerk, two servants, and the boatmen, besides the
two Indians who acted as their protectors. The boat started, but had
scarcely reached the mouth of the river, when another messenger from
the chief arrived to detain them.
“In breathless expectation sat the wife and mother. She was a woman of
uncommon energy and strength of character, yet her heart died within
her as she folded her arms around her helpless infants, and gazed upon
the march of her husband and eldest son to almost certain destruction.
“As the troops left the fort the band struck up the dead march. On
they came in military array, Capt. Wells taking the lead, at the
head of his little band of Miamies--his face blackened, in token
of his impending fate,[37] and took their route along the lake
shore. When they reached the point where commences the range of sand
hill intervening between the prairie and the beach, the escort of
Pottowattamies, in number about five hundred, kept the level of the
prairie instead of continuing along the beach with the Americans and
Miamies. They had marched perhaps a mile and a half, when Capt. Wells,
who was somewhat in advance with his Miamies, came riding furiously
back.
“‘They are about to attack us,’ shouted he, ‘form instantly, and charge
upon them.’
“Scarcely were the words uttered when a volley was showered from
among the sand-hills. The troops were hastily brought into line, and
charged up the bank. One man, a veteran of seventy years, fell as they
ascended. The remainder of the scene is best described in the words of
an eye-witness and participator in the tragedy--Mrs. Helm, the wife of
Lieut. Helm, and step-daughter of Mr. Kinzie.
“‘After we had left the bank and gained the prairie, the action became
general. The Miamies fled at the outset. Their chief rode up to the
Pottowattamies, and said, ‘You have deceived the Americans and us;
you have done a bad action, and (brandishing his tomahawk) I will be
the first to head a party of Americans, and return to punish your
treachery;’ so saying, he galloped after his companions, who were now
scouring across the prairies.
“‘The troops behaved most gallantly. They were but a handful, but they
resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Our horses pranced
and bounded, and could hardly be restrained, as the balls whistled
among them. I drew off a little, and gazed upon my husband and father,
who were yet unharmed. I felt that my hour was come, and endeavored to
forget those I loved, and prepare myself for my approaching fate. While
I was thus engaged, the surgeon came up. He was badly wounded. His
horse had been shot under him, and he had received a ball in his leg.
Every muscle of his countenance was quivering with the agony of terror.
He said to me, ‘Do you think they will take our lives? I am badly
wounded, but I think not mortally. Perhaps we might purchase our lives
by promising them a large reward. Do you think there is any chance?’
“‘Doctor,’ said I, ‘do not let us waste the few moments that yet remain
to us, in such vain hopes. Our fate is inevitable. In a few moments
we must appear before the bar of God. Let us endeavor to make what
preparation is yet in our power.’ ‘Oh! I cannot die!’ exclaimed he,
‘I am not fit to die--if I had but a short time to prepare--death is
awful!’ I pointed to Ensign Ronan, who, though mortally wounded, and
nearly down, was still fighting with desperation upon one knee.
“‘Look at that man,’ said I; ‘he at least dies like a soldier!’
“‘Yes,’ replied the unfortunate man, with a convulsive gasp, ‘but he
has no terrors for the future--he is an unbeliever!’
“‘At this moment, a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me. By
springing aside, I avoided the blow which was intended for my
skull, but which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him round the
neck, and while exerting my utmost efforts to get possession of his
scalping-knife, which hung in a scabbard over his breast, I was
dragged from his grasp by an older Indian, who bore me, struggling and
resisting, towards the lake. Notwithstanding the rapidity with which I
was hurried along, I recognised, as I passed them, the lifeless remains
of the unfortunate surgeon. Some murderous tomahawk had stretched him
upon the very spot where I had last seen him.
“‘I was immediately plunged into the water, and held there with a
forcible hand, notwithstanding my resistance. I soon perceived,
however, that the object of my captor was not to drown me, as he held
me firmly in such a position as to place my head above the water. This
reassured me, and regarding him attentively, I soon recognised, in
spite of the paint with which he was disguised, The Black Partridge.
“‘When the firing had somewhat subsided, my preserver bore me from the
water, and conducted me up the sand-banks. It was a burning August
morning, and walking through the sand in my drenched condition, was
inexpressibly painful and fatiguing. I stooped and took off my shoes,
to free them from the sand with which they were nearly filled, when a
squaw seized and carried them off, and I was obliged to proceed without
them. When we had gained the prairie, I was met by my father, who
told me that my husband was safe, and but slightly wounded. They led
me gently back toward the Chicago river, along the southern bank of
which was the Pottowattamie encampment. At one time, I was placed upon
a horse without a saddle, but soon finding the motion insupportable,
I sprang off. Supported partly by my kind conductor, and partly by
another Indian, who held dangling in his hand the scalp of Capt. Wells,
I dragged my fainting steps to one of the wigwams.’”
At the commencement of the action Capt. Wells was riding by the side
of his niece. He said to her that he was satisfied there was not the
least chance for his life, and that they must part to meet no more
in this world, then started away to charge with the rest. It is said
that Mrs. Heald saw him fall from his horse, struck by several rifle
balls. Another account states that after the surrender, while an Indian
was cruelly butchering some white children, Capt. Wells exclaimed,
“then I will kill too,” and set off towards the Indian camp near the
fort, where their squaws and children had been left. Several pursued
him, firing as he galloped along. He laid himself flat on the neck
of his horse, loading and firing in that position, but was at length
severely wounded, and his horse killed. Two friendly Indians who met
him endeavored to save him from his enemies, and supported him after
disengaging him from his horse, but he received his death-blow from
one of his pursuers, who stabbed him in the back.
The charging of the troops drove back the Indians a considerable
distance into the prairie, where the Captain ordered his men,
diminished by more than two thirds of their number, to halt, and after
a parley with the savages, agreed to surrender, stipulating that their
lives should be spared, and that they should be delivered at one of
the British posts, unless ransomed by traders in the Indian country.
It appeared afterwards that the savages did not consider the wounded
prisoners as included in the stipulation.
The lady whose narrative has been quoted, says, after she was taken to
the wigwam, “the wife of a chief from the Illinois river was standing
near, and seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle, dipped
up some water from a little stream that flowed near, threw into it
some maple sugar, and stirring it up with her hand, gave it to me
to drink. This act of kindness, in the midst of so many atrocities,
touched me most sensibly, but my attention was soon diverted to other
objects. An old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends, or excited
by the sanguinary scenes around her, seemed possessed by a demoniac
ferocity. She seized a stable-fork, and assaulted one miserable victim,
who lay groaning and writhing in the agony of his wounds, aggravated
by the scorching beams of the sun. With a delicacy of feeling scarcely
to have been expected under such circumstances, the chief stretched a
mat across two poles, between me and this dreadful scene. I was thus
spared, in some degree, a view of its horrors, although I could not
entirely close my ears to the cries of the sufferer. The following
night five more of the wounded prisoners were tomahawked.
“The heroic resolution of one of the soldiers’ wives deserves to be
recorded. She had from the first expressed a determination never to
fall into the hands of the savages, believing that their prisoners
were always subjected to tortures worse than death. When, therefore, a
party came upon her, to make her prisoner, she fought with desperation,
refusing to surrender, although assured of safe treatment; and
literally suffered herself to be cut to pieces, rather than become
their captive.
“The horse Mrs. Heald rode was a fine, spirited animal, and the Indians
were desirous to possess themselves of it unwounded. They therefore
aimed their shots so as to disable the rider, without injuring her
steed. This was at length accomplished, and her captor was in the act
of disengaging her hat from her head, in order to scalp her, when young
Chandonnai, a half-breed from St. Joseph’s, ran up and offered for her
ransom a mule he had just taken, adding the promise of ten bottles
of whiskey, so soon as he should reach his village. The latter was a
strong temptation. ‘But,’ said the Indian, ‘she is badly wounded--she
will die--will you give me the whiskey at all events?’ Chandonnai
promised that he would, and the bargain was concluded. Mrs. Heald was
placed in the boat with Mrs. Kinzie and her children, covered with a
buffalo robe, and enjoined silence as she valued her life. In this
situation the heroic woman remained, without uttering a sound that
could betray her to the savages, who were continually coming to the
boat in search of prisoners, but who always retired peaceably when told
that it contained only the family of _Shaw-ne-au-kee_. When the boat
was at length permitted to return to the mansion of Mr. Kinzie, and
Mrs. Heald was removed to the house for the purpose of dressing her
wounds, Mr. Kinzie applied to an old chief who stood by, and who, like
most of his tribe, possessed some skill in surgery, to extract a ball
from the arm of the sufferer. ‘No, father,’ replied he, ‘I cannot do
it--it makes me sick here!’ placing his hand upon his heart.
“From the Pottowattamie encampment, the family of Mr. Kinzie were
conveyed across the river to their own mansion. There they were closely
guarded by their Indian friends, whose intention it was to carry them
to Detroit for security. The rest of the prisoners remained at the
wigwams of their captors. The following morning, the work of plunder
being completed, the Indians set fire to the fort. A very equitable
distribution of the finery appeared to have been made, and shawls,
ribbons, and feathers, were seen fluttering about in all directions.
The ludicrous appearance of one young fellow, who had arrayed himself
in a muslin gown, and the bonnet of the commanding officer’s lady,
would under other circumstances have afforded matter of amusement.
“Black Partridge and Wau-ban-see, with three others of the tribe,
having established themselves in the porch of the building as
sentinels, to protect the family of Mr. Kinzie from any evil, all
remained tranquil for a short space after the conflagration. Very soon,
however, a party of Indians from the Wabash made their appearance.
These were the most hostile and implacable of all the bands of the
Pottowattamies. Being more remote, they had shared less than some
of their brethren in the kindness of Mr. Kinzie and his family, and
consequently their sentiments of regard for them were less powerful.
Runners had been sent to the villages, to apprise them of the intended
evacuation of the post, as well as the plan of the Indians assembled,
to attack the troops. Thirsting to participate in such a scene, they
hurried on, and great was their mortification, on arriving at the
river Aux Plaines, to meet with a party of their friends, having their
chief badly wounded, and to learn that the battle was over, the spoils
divided, and the scalps all taken.
“On arriving at Chicago, they blackened their faces, and proceeded
towards the residence of Mr. Kinzie. From his station on the piazza,
Black Partridge had watched their approach, and his fears were
particularly awakened for the safety of Mrs. Helm, who had recently
come to the post, and was personally unknown to the more remote
Indians. By his advice, she assumed the ordinary dress of a Frenchwoman
of the country, a short gown and petticoat, with a blue cotton
handkerchief wrapped around her head; and in this disguise she was
conducted by Black Partridge to the house of Ouilmette, a Frenchman
with a half-breed wife, who formed a part of the establishment of Mr.
Kinzie, and whose dwelling was close at hand. It so happened that the
Indians came first to this house in their search for prisoners. As
they approached, the inmates, fearful that the fair complexion and
general appearance of Mrs. Helm might betray her for an American,
raised the large feather bed and placed her under the edge of it, upon
the bedstead, with her face to the wall. Mrs. Bisson, the sister of
Ouilmette’s wife, then seated herself with her sewing upon the front
of the bed. It was a hot day in August, and the feverish excitement
of fear and agitation, together with her position, which was nearly
suffocating, were so painful, that Mrs. Helm at length entreated to
be released and given up to the Indians. ‘I can but die,’ said she,
‘let them put an end to my miseries at once.’ Mrs. Bisson replied,
‘Your death would be the signal for the destruction of us all, for
Black Partridge is resolved, if one drop of the blood of your family
is spilled, to take the lives of all concerned in it, even his nearest
friends, and if once the work of murder commences, there will be no
end of it, so long as there remains one white person or half-breed
in the country.’ This expostulation nerved Mrs. Helm with fresh
resolution. The Indians entered, and she could occasionally see them
from her hiding-place, gliding about and inspecting every part of the
room, though without making any ostensible search, until, apparently
satisfied that there was no one concealed, they left the house. All
this time, Mrs. Bisson kept her seat upon the side of the bed, calmly
assorting and arranging the patchwork of the quilt on which she was
engaged, although she knew not but that the next moment she might
receive a tomahawk in her brain. Her self-command unquestionably saved
the lives of all present.
“From Ouilmette’s the savages proceeded to the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie.
They entered the parlor, in which were assembled the family, with their
faithful protectors, and seated themselves upon the floor in profound
silence. Black Partridge perceived, from their moody and revengeful
looks, what was passing in their minds, but dared not remonstrate
with them. He only observed in a low tone to Wau-ban-see, ‘We have
endeavored to save our friends, but it is in vain--nothing will save
them now.’ At this moment a friendly whoop was heard from a party of
new comers, on the opposite bank of the river. Black Partridge sprang
to meet their leader, as the canoes in which they had hastily embarked
touched the bank, and bade him make all speed to the house. Billy
Caldwell, for it was he, entered the parlor with a calm step, and
without a trace of agitation in his manner. He deliberately took off
his accoutrements, and placed them with his rifle behind the door; then
saluted the hostile savages.
“‘How now, my friends! A good day to you. I was told there were enemies
here, but I am glad to find only friends. Why have you blackened your
faces? Is it that you are mourning for the friends you have lost in the
battle? (purposely misunderstanding this token of evil designs) or is
it that you are fasting? If so, ask our friend here, and he will give
you to eat. He is the Indians’ friend, and never yet refused them what
they had need of.’
“Thus taken by surprise, the savages were ashamed to acknowledge their
bloody purpose; they therefore said modestly, that they came to beg
of their friend some white cotton, in which to wrap their dead before
interring them. This was given them, together with some other presents,
and they took their departure from the premises.
“Little remains to be told. On the third day after the battle, the
family of Mr. Kinzie, with the clerks of the establishment, were put
in a boat, under the care of François, a half-breed interpreter, and
conveyed to St. Joseph’s, where they remained until the following
November. They were then carried to Detroit, under the escort of
Chandonnai and a trusty Indian friend, and together with their negro
servants, delivered up as prisoners of war to the British commanding
officer. It had been a stipulation at the surrender of Detroit by
Gen. Hull, that the American inhabitants should retain the liberty of
remaining undisturbed in their own dwellings, and accordingly this
family was permitted a quiet residence among their friends at that
place. Mr. Kinzie was not allowed to leave St. Joseph’s with his
family, his Indian friends insisting upon his remaining to endeavor
to secure some remnant of his scattered property, but anxiety for his
family induced him to follow them in January to Detroit, where he was
received as a prisoner, and paroled by Gen. Proctor.
“Of the other prisoners, Capt. and Mrs. Heald had been sent across the
Lake to St. Joseph’s the day after the battle. Capt. Heald had received
two wounds, and Mrs. Heald seven, the ball of one of which was cut out
of her arm with a pen-knife by Mr. Kinzie, after the engagement.