THE CAPTIVES
It is well known that previous to the war of the Revolution, the
whole of the western portion of Pennsylvania was inhabited chiefly 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 Susquehannah. The
numerous roving bands of Shawanoes, Nanticokes, &c., although sometimes
professing friendship with the Americans, and acting in concert with
the Delawares or Lenapé 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 Pittsburgh, or Fort Pitt,
as it was then called, gave additional security to those who had
pushed further west, among the fertile valleys of the Alleghany and
Monongahela. Among these were the family of Mr. Lytle, who, about two
years previous to the opening of our story, had removed from Path
Valley, near Carlisle, and 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
was 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 further 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 quite thrown them off their guard, and they
had recently laid aside some of the caution they had formerly found
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 proffering 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, yet, 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 headwaters 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_,[AN] 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_.
[Footnote AN: Although this is the name our mother preserved of
her benefactor, it seems evident that this chief was in fact
_Corn-Planter_, a personage well known in the history of the times.
There could hardly have been two such prominent chiefs in the same
village.]
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 Lenapé 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. Col. Johnson,[74]
an excellent and benevolent gentleman, who resided at Fort 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 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
researches, 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 a while, and then,
finding all quiet, they attempted to force their way to the side of
the field furthest from the house. Unfortunately the little girl in
her play in the garden had pulled off her shoes and stockings, and the
briars 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 further.
"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
unenclosed 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'
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 further, 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 consequently inveterate in their hostility to the
Americans. Thus, some time had 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
at length compelled to take his sorrowful departure with such of his
beloved ones as he 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 sat 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 Pittsburgh, Mr. Lytle, still
assisted by the Commandant and the Indian Agent, undertook an
expedition to the frontier to the residence of the British agent. Col.
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 meantime, 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,
as she imagined, 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 play-fellow, 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 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
enclosure 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 of
affection 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. Col.
Johnson readily undertook a fresh negotiation with the Chief, but in
order to ensure 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.
Col. 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 he would attend, bringing his little
sister with him.
He exacted a promise, however, from Col. 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 afterward 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.