sufficiently justified the devoted band in their melancholy
anticipations. Nevertheless, they went steadily on with the necessary
preparations; and, amid the horrors of the situation there were not
wanting gallant hearts who strove to encourage in their desponding
companions the hopes of escape they themselves were far from indulging.
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, in their present
ineffective state, forbade the troops embarrassing themselves with a
larger quantity.
The morning of August 15 arrived. Nine o'clock was the hour named for
starting and all things were in readiness.
Mr. Kinzie, having volunteered to accompany the troops in their march,
had intrusted his family to the care of some friendly Indians, who
promised to convey them in a boat around the head of Lake Michigan to a
point[5] on the St. Joseph River, there to be joined by the troops,
should their march be permitted.
Early in the morning Mr. Kinzie received a message from To-pee-nee-bee,
a chief of the St. Joseph band, informing him that mischief was intended
by the Potowatomi who had engaged to escort the detachment, and urging
him to relinquish his plan of accompanying the troops by land, promising
him that the boat containing his family should be permitted to pass in
safety to St. Joseph.
Mr. Kinzie declined this proposal, as he believed his presence might
restrain the fury of the savages, so warmly were the greater number of
them attached to him and his family.
Seldom does one find a man who, like John Kinzie, refuses safety for
himself in order to stand or fall with his countrymen, and who, as stern
as any Spartan, bids farewell to his dear ones to go forward to almost
certain destruction.
The party in the boat consisted of Mrs. Kinzie and her four younger
children, their nurse Josette, a clerk of Mr. Kinzie's, two servants,
and the boatmen, besides the two Indians who were to act as their
protectors. The boat started, but had scarcely reached the mouth of the
river, which, it will be recalled, was here half a mile below the fort,
when another messenger from To-pee-nee-bee arrived to detain it. There
was no mistaking the meaning of this detention.
In breathless anxiety sat the wife and mother. She was a woman of
unusual energy and strength of character, yet her heart died within her
as she folded her arms about her helpless infants and gazed upon the
march of her husband and eldest child to what seemed certain death.
As the troops left the fort, the band struck up the Dead March. On they
came, in military array, but with solemn mien, Captain Wells in the lead
at the head of his little band of Miami. He had blackened his face
before leaving the garrison, in token of his impending fate. The troops
took their route along the lake shore; but when they reached the point
where the range of sand hills intervening between the prairie and the
beach commenced, the escort of Potowatomi, in number about five hundred,
took the level of the prairie, instead of continuing along the shore
with the Americans and Miami.
They had marched perhaps a mile and a half when Captain Wells, who had
kept somewhat in advance with his Miami, 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, brought hastily into line, charged up the
bank. One man, a veteran of seventy winters, fell as they ascended. The
remainder of the scene is best described in the words of an eyewitness
and participator in the tragedy, Mrs. Helm,[6] the wife of Captain (then
Lieutenant) Helm, and stepdaughter of Mr. Kinzie.
"After we had left the bank the firing became general. The Miami fled at
the outset. Their chief rode up to the Potowatomi, and said: 'You have
deceived us and the Americans. You have done a bad action, and
(brandishing his tomahawk) I will be the first to head a party of
Americans to return and punish your treachery.' So saying, he galloped
after his companions, who were now scurrying across the prairies.
"The troops behaved most gallantly. They were but a handful, but they
seemed 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, Dr. Van Voorhees, 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 face 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?'
"'Dr. Van Voorhees,' said I, 'do not let us waste the 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 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 on one knee.[7]
"'Look at that man!' said I. 'At least he dies like a soldier.'
"'Yes,' replied the unfortunate surgeon, with a convulsive gasp, 'but he
has no terrors of the future--he is an atheist.'
"At this moment a young Indian raised his tomahawk over me. Springing
aside, I partially avoided the blow, which, intended for my skull, fell
on my shoulder. I seized the Indian around the neck, and while exerting
my utmost strength to get possession of his scalping-knife, hanging in a
scabbard over his breast, I was dragged from his grasp by another and
older Indian.
"The latter bore me struggling and resisting towards the lake. Despite
the rapidity with which I was hurried along, I recognized, as I passed,
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, for he held me firmly in such a
position as to keep my head above water. This reassured me, and,
regarding him attentively, I soon recognized, in spite of the paint with
which he was disguised, the Black Partridge.
"When the firing had nearly 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. I was led gently back
towards the Chicago River, along the southern bank of which was the
Potowatomi encampment. Once I was placed upon a horse without a saddle,
but, finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Assisted partly by
my kind conductor, Black Partridge, and partly by another Indian,
Pee-so-tum, who held dangling in his hand a scalp which by the black
ribbon around the queue I recognized as that of Captain Wells, I dragged
my fainting steps to one of the wigwams.
"The wife of Wau-bee-nee-mah, a chief from the Illinois River, was
standing near. Seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle,
dipped up some water from a stream that flowed near,[8] threw into it
some maple sugar, and, stirring it with her hand, gave it to me to
drink. This act of kindness, in the midst of so many horrors, touched me
deeply. But my attention was soon diverted to other things.
"The fort, since the troops marched out, had become a scene of plunder.
The cattle had been shot as they ran at large, and lay about, dead or
dying. This work of butchery had commenced just as we were leaving the
fort. I vividly recalled a remark of Ensign Ronan, as the firing went
on. 'Such,' turning to me, 'is to be our fate--to be shot down like
brutes!'
"'Well, sir,' said the commanding officer, who overheard him, 'are you
afraid?'
"'No,' replied the high-spirited young man, 'I can march up to the enemy
where you dare not show your face.' And his subsequent gallant behavior
showed this was no idle boast.
"As the noise of the firing grew gradually fainter and the stragglers
from the victorious party came dropping in, I received confirmation of
what my father had hurriedly communicated in our meeting on the lake
shore: the whites had surrendered, after the loss of about two thirds of
their number. They had stipulated, through the interpreter, Peresh
Leclerc, that their lives and those of the remaining women and children
be spared, and that they be delivered in safety at certain of the
British posts, unless ransomed by traders in the Indian country. It
appears that the wounded prisoners were not considered as included in
the stipulation, and upon their being brought into camp an awful scene
ensued.
"An old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends, or perhaps excited by
the sanguinary scenes around her, seemed possessed by a demoniac
ferocity. Seizing a stable fork she assaulted one miserable victim,
already groaning and writhing in the agony of wounds aggravated by the
scorching beams of the sun. With a delicacy of feeling scarcely to have
been expected under such circumstances, Wau-bee-nee-mah stretched a mat
across two poles, between me and this dreadful scene. I was thus in
some degree shielded from its horrors, though I could not close my ears
to the cries of the sufferer. The following night five more of the
wounded prisoners were tomahawked."
After the first attack, it appears the Americans charged upon a band of
Indians concealed in a sort of ravine between the sand banks and the
prairie. The Indians gathered together, and after hard fighting, in
which the number of whites was reduced to twenty-eight, their band
succeeded in breaking through the enemy and gaining a rise of ground not
far from Oak Woods. Further contest now seeming hopeless, Lieutenant
Helm sent Peresh Leclerc, the half-breed boy in the service of Mr.
Kinzie, who had accompanied the troops and fought manfully on their
side, to propose terms of capitulation. It was stipulated, as told in
Mrs. Helm's narrative, that the lives of all the survivors should be
spared, and a ransom permitted as soon as practicable.
But in the meantime horrible scenes had indeed been enacted. During the
engagement near the sand hills one young savage climbed into the baggage
wagon which sheltered the twelve children of the white families, and
tomahawked the entire group. Captain Wells, who was fighting near,
beheld the deed, and exclaimed:
"Is that their game, butchering the women and children? Then I will
kill, too!"
So saying, he turned his horse's head and started for the Indian camp,
near the fort, where the braves had left their squaws and children.
Several Indians followed him as he galloped along. Lying flat on the
neck of his horse, and loading and firing in that position, he turned
occasionally on his pursuers. But at length their balls took effect,
killing his horse, and severely wounding the Captain. At this moment he
was met by Winnemeg and Wau-ban-see, who endeavored to save him from the
savages who had now overtaken him. As they helped him along, after
having disengaged him from his horse, he received his deathblow from
Pee-so-tum, who stabbed him in the back.
The heroic resolution shown during the fight by the wife of one of the
soldiers, a Mrs. Corbin, deserves to be recorded. She had from the first
expressed the determination never to fall into the hands of the savages,
believing that their prisoners were invariably 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, by signs, of
safety and kind treatment. Literally, she suffered herself to be cut to
pieces, rather than become their captive.
There was a Sergeant Holt, who early in the engagement received a ball
in the neck. Finding himself badly wounded, he gave his sword to his
wife, who was on horseback near him, telling her to defend herself. He
then made for the lake, to keep out of the way of the balls.
Mrs. Holt rode a very fine horse, which the Indians were desirous of
possessing, and they therefore attacked her in the hope of dismounting
her. They fought only with the butt ends of their guns, for their
object was not to kill her. She hacked and hewed at their pieces as they
were thrust against her, now on this side, now that. Finally, she broke
loose and dashed out into the prairie, where the Indians pursued her,
shouting and laughing, and now and then calling out, "The brave woman!
do not hurt her!"
At length they overtook her, and while she was engaged with two or three
in front, one succeeded in seizing her by the neck from behind, and in
dragging her from her horse, large and powerful woman though she was.
Notwithstanding their guns had been so hacked and injured, and they
themselves severely cut, her captors seemed to regard her only with
admiration. They took her to a trader on the Illinois River, who showed
her every kindness during her captivity, and later restored her to her
friends.
Meanwhile those of Mr. Kinzie's family who had remained in the boat,
near the mouth of the river, were carefully guarded by Kee-po-tah and
another Indian. They had seen the smoke, then the blaze, and immediately
after, the report of the first tremendous discharge had sounded in
their ears. Then all was confusion. They knew nothing of the events of
the battle until they saw an Indian coming towards them from the battle
ground, leading a horse on which sat a lady, apparently wounded.
"That is Mrs. Heald," cried Mrs. Kinzie. "That Indian will kill her.
Run, Chandonnai," to one of Mr. Kinzie's clerks, "take the mule that is
tied there, and offer it to him to release her."
Mrs. Heald's captor, by this time, was in the act of disengaging her
bonnet from her head, in order to scalp her. Chandonnai ran up and
offered the mule as a ransom, with the promise of ten bottles of whisky
as soon as they should reach his village. The whisky was a strong
temptation.
"But," said the Indian, "she is badly wounded--she will die. Will you
give me the whisky at all events?"
Chandonnai promised that he would, and the bargain was concluded. The
savage placed the lady's bonnet on his own head, and, after an
ineffectual effort on the part of some squaws to rob her of her shoes
and stockings, she was brought on board the boat, where she lay moaning
with pain from the many bullet wounds in her arms.
Having wished to possess themselves of her horse uninjured, the Indians
had aimed their shots so as to disable the rider, without in any way
harming her steed.
Mrs. Heald had not lain long in the boat when a young Indian of savage
aspect was seen approaching. A buffalo robe was hastily drawn over her,
and she was admonished to suppress all sound of complaint, as she valued
her life.
The heroic woman remained perfectly silent while the savage drew near.
He had a pistol in his hand, which he rested on the side of the boat,
while, with a fearful scowl, he looked pryingly around. Black Jim, one
of the servants, who stood in the bow of the boat, seized an ax that lay
near and signed to him that if he shot he would cleave his skull,
telling him that the boat contained only the family of Shaw-nee-aw-kee.
Upon this, the Indian retired. It afterwards appeared that the object
of his search was Mr. Burnett, a trader from St. Joseph with whom he had
some account to settle.
When the boat was at length permitted to return to the house of Mr.
Kinzie, and Mrs. Heald was removed there, it became necessary to dress
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 the Indian. "I cannot do it--it makes me sick
here," placing his hand on his heart.
Mr. Kinzie himself then performed the operation with his penknife.
At their own house, the family of Mr. Kinzie 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.
On 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
fluttered about in all directions. The ludicrous appearance of one young
fellow arrayed in a muslin gown and a lady's bonnet would, under other
circumstances, have been a matter of great amusement.
Black Partridge, Wau-ban-see, and Kee-po-tah, with two other Indians,
established themselves in the porch of the Kinzie house as sentinels, to
protect the family from any evil that the young men might be incited to
commit, and 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, decidedly, the most hostile and implacable of
all the tribes of the Potowatomi.
Being more remote, they had shared less than some of their brethren in
the kindness of Mr. Kinzie and his family, and consequently their
friendly regard was not so strong.
Runners had been sent to the villages to apprise these Indians of the
intended evacuation of the post, as well as of the plan to attack the
troops.
Thirsting to participate in such an event, they had hurried to the
scene, and great was their mortification, on arriving at the river Aux
Plaines, to meet a party of their friends with their chief,
Nee-scot-nee-meg, badly wounded, and learn that the battle was over, the
spoils divided, and the scalps all taken. Arriving at Chicago they
blackened their faces, and proceeded toward the dwelling 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, Mr. Kinzie's stepdaughter, who had recently come to the post,
and was personally unknown to the more remote Indians. By his advice she
was made to assume the ordinary dress of a Frenchwoman of the country--a
short gown and petticoat with a blue cotton handkerchief wrapped around
her head. In this disguise she was conducted by Black Partridge himself
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 as an
American, raised a large feather bed and placed her under the edge of it
upon the bedstead, with her face to the wall. Mrs. Bisson, a half-breed
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,
became so intolerable 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 misery at once."
Mrs. Bisson replied, "Your death would be the destruction of us all, for
Black Partridge has resolved that if one drop of the blood of your
family is spilled, he will 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 courage.
The Indians entered, and from her hiding place she could occasionally
see them gliding about and stealthily 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 had kept her seat upon the side of the bed,
calmly sorting and arranging the patchwork of the quilt on which she was
engaged, and preserving an appearance of the utmost tranquillity,
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 who were present.
From Ouilmette's house the party of Indians proceeded to the dwelling of
Mr. Kinzie. They entered the parlor in which the family were assembled
with their faithful protectors, and seated themselves upon the floor, in
silence.
Black Partridge perceived from their moody and revengeful looks what was
passing in their minds, but he 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 newcomers on
the opposite bank of the river. As the canoes in which they had hastily
embarked touched the bank near the house, Black Partridge sprang to meet
their leader.
"Who are you?" demanded he.
"A man. Who are you?"
"A man like yourself. But tell me who you are,"--meaning, Tell me your
disposition, and which side you are for.
"I am a Sau-ga-nash!"
"Then make all speed to the house--your friend is in danger, and you
alone can save him."
Billy Caldwell,[9] 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 accouterments 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
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 Indian's 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 had come to beg
of their friends some white cotton in which to wrap their dead before
interring them. This was given to them, with some other presents, and
they peaceably took their departure from the premises.
With Mr. Kinzie's party was a non-commissioned officer who had made his
escape in a singular manner. As the troops had been about to leave the
fort, it was found that the baggage horses of the surgeon had strayed
off. The quartermaster sergeant, Griffith, was sent to find and bring
them on, it being absolutely necessary to recover them, since their
packs contained part of the surgeon's apparatus and the medicines for
the march.
For a long time Griffith had been on the sick report and for this reason
was given charge of the baggage, instead of being placed with the
troops. His efforts to recover the horses proved unsuccessful, and,
alarmed at certain appearances of disorder and hostile intention among
the Indians, he was hastening to rejoin his party when he was met and
made prisoner by To-pee-nee-bee.
Having taken his arms and accouterments from him, the chief put him
into a canoe and paddled him across the river, bidding him make for the
woods and secrete himself. This Griffith did; and in the afternoon of
the following day, seeing from his lurking place that all appeared
quiet, he ventured to steal cautiously into Ouilmette's garden, where he
concealed himself for a time behind some currant bushes.