hearts of the citizens during the winter that ensued. They were almost
daily called upon to witness the cruelties practiced upon American
prisoners brought in by their Indian captors. Those who could scarcely
drag their wounded, bleeding feet over the frozen ground were compelled
to dance for the amusement of the savages; and these exhibitions
sometimes took place before the Government House, the residence of
Colonel McKee. Sometimes British officers looked on from their windows
at these heart-rending performances. For the honor of humanity, we will
hope such instances were rare.
Everything available among the effects of the citizens was offered to
ransom their countrymen from the hands of these inhuman beings. The
prisoners brought in from the River Raisin--those unfortunate men who
were permitted, after their surrender to General Proctor, to be tortured
and murdered by inches by his savage allies--excited the sympathy and
called for the action of the whole community. Private houses were
turned into hospitals, and every one was forward to get possession of as
many as possible of the survivors. To accomplish this, even articles of
apparel were bartered by the ladies of Detroit, as from doors or windows
they watched the miserable victims carried about for sale.
In the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie one large room was devoted to the
reception of the sufferers. Few of them survived. Among those spoken of
as arousing the deepest interest were two young gentlemen of Kentucky,
brothers, both severely wounded, and their wounds aggravated to a mortal
degree by subsequent ill usage and hardships. Their solicitude for each
other, and their exhibition in various ways of the most tender fraternal
affection, created an impression never to be forgotten.
The last bargain made by the Kinzies was effected by black Jim and one
of the children, who had permission to redeem a negro servant of the
gallant Colonel Allen with an old white horse, the only available
article that remained among their possessions. A brother of Colonel
Allen's afterwards came to Detroit, and the negro preferred returning
to servitude rather than remaining a stranger in a strange land.
Mr. Kinzie, as has been related, joined his family at Detroit in the
month of January. A short time after his arrival suspicion arose in the
mind of General Proctor that he was in correspondence with General
Harrison, who was now at Fort Meigs, and who was believed to be
meditating an advance upon Detroit. Lieutenant Watson, of the British
army, waited upon Mr. Kinzie one day with an invitation to the quarters
of General Proctor on the opposite side of the river, saying the General
wished to speak with him on business.
Quite unsuspecting, Mr. Kinzie complied with the request, when to his
surprise he was ordered into confinement, and strictly guarded in the
house of his former partner, Mr. Patterson, of Sandwich.
Finding he did not return home, Mrs. Kinzie informed some Indian chiefs,
Mr. Kinzie's particular friends, who immediately repaired to the
headquarters of the commanding officer, demanded "their friend's"
release, and brought him back to his home. After waiting until a
favorable opportunity presented itself, the General sent a detachment of
dragoons to arrest Mr. Kinzie. They succeeded in carrying him away, and
crossing the river with him. Just at this moment a party of friendly
Indians made their appearance.
"Where is Shaw-nee-aw-kee?" was the first question.
"There," replied his wife, pointing across the river, "in the hands of
the redcoats, who are taking him away again."
The Indians ran down to the river, seized some canoes they found there,
and, crossing over to Sandwich, a second time compelled General Proctor
to forego his intentions.
A third time this officer attempted to imprison Mr. Kinzie, and this
time succeeded in conveying him heavily ironed to Fort Malden, in
Canada, at the mouth of the Detroit River. Here he was at first treated
with great severity, but after a time the rigor of his confinement was
somewhat relaxed, and he was permitted to walk on the bank of the river
for air and exercise.
On September 10, as he was taking his promenade under the close
supervision of a guard of soldiers, the whole party were startled by the
sound of guns upon Lake Erie, at no great distance below. What could it
mean? It must be Commodore Barclay firing into some of the Yankees. The
firing continued.
The hour allotted to the prisoner for his daily walk expired, but
neither he nor his guard observed the lapse of time, so anxiously were
they listening to what they now felt sure must be an engagement between
ships of war. At length Mr. Kinzie was reminded that he must return to
confinement. He petitioned for another half hour.
"Let me stay," said he, "till we can learn how the battle has gone."
Very soon a sloop appeared under press of sail, rounding the point, and
presently two gunboats in pursuit of her.
"She is running--she bears the British colors!" cried Kinzie. "Yes,
yes, they are lowering--she is striking her flag! Now," turning to the
soldiers, "I will go back to prison contented--I know how the battle has
gone."
The sloop was the "Little Belt," the last of the squadron captured by
the gallant Perry on that memorable occasion which he announced in the
immortal words:
"We have met the enemy, and they are ours."
Matters were growing critical, and it was necessary to transfer all
prisoners to a place of greater security than the frontier was now
likely to be. It was resolved, therefore, to send Mr. Kinzie to the
mother country.
Nothing has ever appeared which would in any way explain the course of
General Proctor in regard to this gentleman. He had been taken from the
bosom of his family, where he was living quietly under the parole he had
received, protected by the stipulations of the surrender. For months he
had been kept in confinement. Now he was placed on horseback under a
strong guard, who announced that they had orders to shoot him through
the head if he offered to speak to a person upon the road. He was tied
upon the saddle to prevent his escape, and thus set out for Quebec. A
little incident occurred which will illustrate the course invariably
pursued towards our citizens at this period by the British army on the
Northwestern frontier.
The saddle on which Mr. Kinzie rode had not been properly fastened, and,
owing to the rough motion of the animal it turned, bringing the rider
into a most awkward and painful position. His limbs being fastened, he
could not disengage himself, and in this manner he was compelled to ride
until nearly exhausted, before those in charge had the humanity to
release him.
Arrived at Quebec, he was put on board a small vessel to be sent to
England. When a few days out at sea the vessel was chased by an American
frigate and driven into Halifax. A second time she set sail, when she
sprung a leak and was compelled to put back.
The attempt to send Mr. Kinzie across the ocean was now abandoned, and
he was returned to Quebec. Another step, equally inexplicable with his
arrest, was soon after taken.
Although the War of 1812 was not yet ended, Mr. Kinzie, together with a
Mr. Macomb, of Detroit, who was also in confinement in Quebec, was
released and given permission to return to his friends and family. It
may possibly be imagined that in the treatment these gentlemen received,
the British commander-in-chief sheltered himself under the plea of their
being "native born British subjects," and that perhaps when it was
ascertained that Mr. Kinzie was indeed a citizen of the United States it
was thought safest to release him.
In the meantime, General Harrison at the head of his troops had reached
Detroit. He landed September 29. All the citizens went forth to meet
him. Mrs. Kinzie, leading her children, was of the number. The General
accompanied her to her home, and took up his abode there. On his
arrival he was introduced to Kee-po-tah, who happened to be on a visit
to the family at that time. The General had seen the chief the preceding
year, at the Council at Vincennes, and the meeting was one of great
cordiality and interest.
Fort Dearborn was rebuilt in 1816, on a larger scale than before, and,
on the return of the troops, the bones of the unfortunate Americans who
had been massacred four years previously were collected and buried.
In this same year Mr. Kinzie and his family again returned to Chicago,
where he at once undertook to collect the scattered remnants of his
property--a most disheartening task. He found his various trading-posts
abandoned, his clerks scattered, and his valuable furs and goods lost or
destroyed.
In real estate, however, he was rich--for he owned nearly all the land
on the north side of the Chicago River, and many acres on the south and
west sides, as well as all of what was known as "Kinzie's Addition."
At the present day the "Kinzie School," and the street which bears his
name, are all that remain to remind this generation of the pioneer on
whose land now stands the wonderful City of Chicago.
Mr. Kinzie, recognizing the importance of the geographical position of
Chicago, and the vast fertility of the surrounding country, had always
foretold its eventual prosperity. Unfortunately, he was not permitted to
witness the fulfillment of his predictions.
On January 6, 1828, he was stricken with apoplexy, and in a few hours
death closed his useful and energetic career.
He lies buried in Graceland Cemetery, Chicago. Loyal in life, death has
mingled his ashes with the soil of the city whose future greatness he
was perhaps the first to foresee.
John Kinzie was not only the sturdy, helpful pioneer, but also the
genial, courteous gentleman.
To keen business ability he united the strictest honesty, and to the
most dauntless courage, a tender and generous heart.
As the devoted friend of the red man, tradition has handed down the name
of Shaw-nee-aw-kee throughout all the tribes of the Northwest.
[Illustration: _Cornplanter, a Seneca chief_]
THE CAPTURE BY THE INDIANS OF LITTLE ELEANOR LYTLE[13]
It is well known that previous to the War of the Revolution the whole of
western Pennsylvania was inhabited by various Indian tribes. Of these
the Delawares were the friends of the whites, and after the commencement
of the great struggle took part with the United States. The Iroquois, on
the contrary, were the friends and allies of the mother country.
Very few white settlers had ventured beyond the Susquehanna. The
numerous roving bands of Shawano, Nanticoke, and other Indians, although
at times professing friendship for the Americans and acting in concert
with the Delawares or Lenape as allies, at other times suffered
themselves to be seduced by their neighbors, the Iroquois, into showing
a most sanguinary spirit of hostility.
For this reason the life of the settlers on the frontier was one of
constant peril and alarm. Many a dismal scene of 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
farther west among the fertile valleys of the Allegheny and Monongahela.
Among these was the family of Mr. Lytle, who, some years previous to the
opening of our story, had removed from Baltimore to Path Valley, near
Carlisle, and subsequently had settled on the banks of Plum River, a
tributary of the Allegheny. Here, with his wife and five children, he
had lived in comfort and security, undisturbed by any hostile visit, and
annoyed only by occasional false alarms from his more timorous
neighbors, who, having had sad experience in frontier life, were prone
to anticipate evil, and magnify every appearance of danger.
On a bright afternoon in the autumn of 1779, two of Mr. Lytle's
children, a girl of eight and her brother, two years younger, were
playing in a little hollow in the rear of their father's house. Some
large trees which had recently been felled were lying here and there,
still untrimmed, and many logs, prepared for fuel, were scattered
around. Upon one of these logs the children, wearied with their sport,
seated themselves, and 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 the children had become familiar and even affectionate with
many of them, but this Indian had seemed to be a stranger, and after the
first hasty glance they had fled in alarm to the house.
Their mother had chid them for bringing such a report, which she had
endeavored to convince them was without foundation. "You know," said
she, "you are always alarming us unnecessarily: the neighbors' children
have frightened you nearly to death. Go back to your play, and learn to
be more courageous."
So, hardly persuaded by their mother's arguments, the children had
returned to their sports. Now as they sat upon the trunk of the tree,
their discourse was interrupted by what seemed to be the note of a quail
not far off.
"Listen," said the boy, as a second note answered the first; "do you
hear that?"
"Yes," replied his sister, 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 home. After traveling some distance in profound silence, their
captors somewhat relaxed their severity, and as night approached the
party halted, adopting the usual precautions to secure themselves
against a surprise.
Torn from their beloved home and parents, in an agony of uncertainty and
terror, and anticipating all the horrors with which the rumors of the
times had invested captivity among the Indians--perhaps even torture and
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 camping place,
offered them a portion of his own stock of dried meat and parched corn,
and made them understand by signs that no further evil was intended.
These kindly demonstrations were interrupted by the arrival of another
party of Indians, bringing with them the mother of the little prisoners,
with her youngest child, an infant three months old.
It had so happened that early in the day the father of the family, with
his serving men, had gone to a "raising" a few miles distant, and the
house had thus been left without a defender. The long period of
tranquillity they had enjoyed, free from all molestation or even alarm
from the savages, had thrown the settlers quite off their guard, and
they had recently laid aside some of the caution they had formerly
deemed necessary.
By lying in wait, the Indians had found a favorable moment for seizing
the defenseless 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 the savages into whose
hands she and her children had fallen were Senecas. Nor was she
mistaken. They were 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, they 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 the 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 could learn nothing from their mother as to the fate of
their other brother and sister, a boy of six and a little girl of four
years of age, though she was in hopes they had escaped with the servant
girl, who had likewise disappeared.
After delaying a few hours in order to revive the exhausted prisoners,
the savages again started on their march, one of the older Indians
offering to relieve the mother of the burden of her infant, which she
had hitherto carried in her arms. Pleased with the unexpected kindness,
she resigned the child to him.
Thus they pursued their way, the savage who carried the infant lingering
somewhat behind the rest of the party. At last, finding a spot
convenient for his evil 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 then rejoined
the party.
The mother, unaware of what had happened, regarded him suspiciously as
he reappeared without the child--then gazed wildly around the group. Her
beloved little one was not there. Its absence spoke its fate; but,
knowing the lives of her remaining children depended upon her firmness
in that trying hour, she suppressed a shriek of agony and, drawing them
yet closer to her, pursued her melancholy way without word or question.
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 survivors; for she
saw that if blood had been the sole object of their enemies her scalp
and the scalps of 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 dared to hope for.
Particularly had she observed his soothing manner and manifest
partiality towards her eldest child, her little Eleanor, and upon these
slender foundations she built many bright hopes of either escape or
ransom.
After a toilsome and painful march of many days, the party reached the
Seneca village, upon the headwaters of the Allegheny, near what is now
Olean Point. On their arrival their conductor, a chief distinguished by
the name of the Big White Man,[14] led his prisoners to the principal
lodge. This was occupied by his mother, the widow of the head chief of
the band, who was called the Old Queen.
On entering her presence, her son presented the little girl, saying, "My
mother, I bring you a child to take the place of my brother who was
killed by the Lenape six moons ago. She shall dwell in my lodge, and be
to me a sister. Take the white woman and her children and treat them
kindly--our Father will give us many horses and guns to buy them back
again."
He referred to the British Indian Agent of his tribe, Colonel Johnson,
an excellent and benevolent gentleman, who resided at Fort Niagara, on
the British side of the Niagara River.
The Old Queen carried out the injunctions of her son. She received the
prisoners, and every comfort that her simple and primitive mode of life
made possible was provided them.
We must now return to the time and place at which our story commences.
Late in the evening of that day the father returned to his dwelling. All
around and within was silent and desolate. No trace of a living
creature was to be found in the house or throughout the 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 after another joined him in
the search. At length, at one of the houses, the maid servant who had
effected her escape was found. Her first place of refuge, she said, had
been a large brewing tub in an outer kitchen, under which she had
secreted herself until the Indians, who were evidently in haste,
departed and gave her the opportunity of fleeing to a place of greater
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 last, having scoured the neighborhood without success, Mr. Lytle
thought of an old settler who lived alone, far up the valley. Thither he
and his friends immediately repaired, and from him they learned that,
while 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 perceived that they had prisoners
with them--a woman and a child. The woman he knew to be 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. The night had been passed in fruitless
search, and, after consultation with kind friends and neighbors, the
agonized father accepted their offer to accompany him to Fort Pitt that
they might ask advice and assistance of the commandant and Indian Agent
there.
Proceeding down the valley, they approached a hut which the night before
they had found apparently deserted, and were startled by seeing two
children standing in front of it. In them the delighted father
recognized two of his missing flock, but no tidings could they give him
of their mother or of the other members of his family.
Their story was simple and touching. They had been playing in the garden
when they were alarmed by seeing Indians enter the yard near the house.
Unperceived, the brother, who was but six years of age, helped his
little sister over the fence into a field overrun with wild blackberry
and raspberry bushes. Among these they concealed themselves for awhile,
and then, finding all quiet, attempted to force their way to the side of
the field farthest from the house. Unfortunately, in her play in the
garden the little girl had pulled off her shoes and stockings, and now
with the briers pricking and tearing her tender feet, she could with
difficulty refrain from crying out. Her brother took off his stockings
and put them on her feet, and attempted to protect her with his shoes,
also; but they were too large, and kept slipping off, so that she could
not wear them. For a time the children persevered in making their escape
from what they considered certain death, for, as was said, they 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 that she
could not go any farther.
"Then, Maggie," said her brother, "I must kill you, for I cannot let you
be killed by the Indians."
"Oh, no, Thomas!" pleaded she, "do not, 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 child
strength, and she promised her brother she would neither complain nor
falter if he would help her make her way out of the field.
The little boy's idea that he could save his sister from savage
barbarity only by taking her life shows with what tales of horror the
children of the early settlers were familiar.
After a few more efforts, they made their way out of the field into an
open pasture ground where, to their great delight, they saw some cows
feeding. They recognized the animals as belonging to Granny Myers, an
old woman who lived at some little distance from the place where they
then were, but in what direction they were utterly ignorant.