CAPTIVITY OF JONATHAN ALDER.

The narrative of the captivity of Jonathan Alder is one of great

interest and value, being a source from whence can be derived much

important information regarding the customs, habits and manners of the

Indians, among whom he spent fifteen years of his early life. We regret

that it is impossible to give more than an outline sketch of the

incidents connected with his capture and adoption by the savages.

He was born in New Jersey, but removed with his father to Wythe County,

Virginia, about 1780. In March, 1782, while he and his brother David

were in search of a mare and her foal, which had strayed off into the

woods, they were surprised by the appearance of a small party of

Indians, who darted upon them from behind the trees, and, before

Jonathan had time to make an effort at escape, he found himself in the

grasp of a stalwart warrior, who threatened him with his tomahawk, and

checked the effort, if the idea had risen in his mind. David, however,

started to run, and was pursued by one of the Indians, who soon

returned, leading him by one hand, and with the other holding the handle

of a spear, which he had thrown at him, and which still remained in his

body. On seeing this, another savage stepped up and took hold of the

boy, holding him firmly in his grasp, while the first pulled the spear

out of the wound by main strength. The poor fellow uttered a shriek of

pain at this barbarous surgery, whereupon Jonathan moved toward him and

inquired if he was hurt. He replied that he was, and in a few moments

sank dying to the ground. Jonathan was hurried forward, while one of the

Indians remained with the other boy; but in a few moments made his

appearance with the scalp of David in his hand, and, as he approached,

with an exhibition of the most fiendish delight, he shook the reeking

trophy, from which the blood was still dripping, in the face of the lad,

who was so horror-stricken at the fate of his brother as to be scarcely

able to proceed. Finding it necessary, however, for the salvation of his

own life, he urged himself to his utmost, and they soon overtook the

balance of the party, with whom he found a Mrs. Martin, a neighbor, and

a child, about five years old, whom the Indians had taken captive after

murdering the husband of Mrs. Martin, and all the rest of her family.

They did not long leave her this solace to her misery, but finding the

boy somewhat troublesome, they killed and scalped it, and, to still the

agonizing cries of the broken-hearted mother, one of the inhuman

wretches drew the edge of his knife across her forehead, at the same

time crying "scalp! scalp!" to intimate the fate in store for her if she

did not stop her screams. Finding threats of no avail, they then cut

switches, with which they beat her until she became quiet. One day, as

the boy Alder was sitting on the ground, after eating his dinner, and

being completely worn out with the fatigue of their long and rapid

march, not having risen when ordered to do so, he observed the shadow of

some one standing behind him with a tomahawk in his hand, in the

attitude of striking. He turned suddenly around and beheld a warrior

just in the act of tomahawking him. Finding himself discovered, perhaps,

or struck with the good-natured look which the boy's face wore, he

withheld the blow, and commenced feeling of his head. He afterward told

the boy that the color of his hair had saved his life; for, upon

noticing that it was black and thick, he had thought that he would make

a good Indian, and therefore had concluded to take him to his tribe.

The party by whom Alder had been taken belonged to the Mingo tribe,

whose village was on the north side of Mad River. After many days of

weary travel, and foot-sore and weary, they arrived in its vicinity. The

usual scalp-yell and whoop, announcing the presence of prisoners in the

party, having been given, the whole village turned out to receive them,

and Alder was obliged to undergo the ordeal of running the gauntlet. Two

rows of Indian boys and girls were stationed in front of the

council-house, armed with switches, and, exhausted as he was, he was

compelled to run between them, and make his way within the door of the

council-house for safety from their blows. Fortunately he accomplished

this with his life, and was soon after adopted into an Indian family,

after being purified of his white blood. This was done by washing him in

a decoction of herbs, with soap; and after being dressed in the Indian

fashion, with shirt, leggins, breech-clouts and moccasins, he was

considered as one of the tribe. It is not to be wondered at that it was

long before he could become in any way reconciled to his new way of

life, and that he should mourn for that home which he never again

expected to see. For all one year, the poor boy longed to return to his

mother, brothers and sisters. Every thing was new and strange to him; he

could not speak a word of their language; their food and manner of life

disagreed with him; and, as if to render his misery more complete, he

suffered dreadfully with the fever and ague. His adopted father was

chief of the tribe, and he, as well as his squaw, endeavored to comfort

him in every way possible, and render his situation comfortable; but

they could not quiet his longings for home, and the poor little fellow

spent many lonely, bitter hours, near the foot of a walnut-tree in the

adjacent forest, weeping over his hard lot. The chief had three

daughters, named Mary, Sally and Hannah. Of these, Sally was harshest,

making Jonathan do all the work, and stigmatizing him as a "mean, lousy

prisoner." Mary, the eldest, married a distinguished Shawnee chief,

called Colonel Lewis, and Jonathan went to live with them for a time. Of

this couple he speaks in the warmest eulogy. He says: "The Indians would

generally collect at our camp evenings, to talk over their hunting

expeditions. I would sit up to listen to their stories, and frequently

fell asleep just where I was sitting. After they left, Mary would fix my

bed, and Colonel Lewis would carefully take me up and carry me to it. On

these occasions they would often say, supposing me to be asleep: 'Poor

fellow, we have set up too long for him, and he has fallen asleep on the

cold ground.' And then how softly would they lay me down and cover me

up. Oh, never have I, nor can I, express the affection I had for these

two persons."

[Illustration:

The Captivity of Jonathan Alder.—_Page_ 15.

]

At the end of a year, or little more, Jonathan acquired their language,

and became in a measure reconciled and contented; but their food, which

was principally hominy and meat, went against him for a long time. As

soon as he grew stout enough to carry a rifle, they gave him an old

musket to begin with, and told him he must learn to hunt. Delighted with

his new trust, and pleased with the idea of becoming a hunter and a

warrior, he devoted himself to learn the use of the piece. His first

essays were made upon mud-turtles, which he would approach as they lay

basking on a rock in the sunshine; and when he had acquired skill enough

to kill them by hitting the rock just beneath them, and thus blowing

them into the air—sometimes to the height of six or seven feet—he tried

his skill upon larger game. Alder remained with the Indians until after

the treaty with Wayne, in 1795. He gives many particulars of great

interest concerning the movements of the Indians during the long and

bloody wars which preceded that propitious event. Peace being

established, and almost all the white prisoners having returned to their

former homes and friends, he began to feel a desire to see his mother

and his relatives again. His long residence among the Indians, however,

had deprived him of all knowledge of the English language, and he had

lost all recollection even of the State in which he had lived. He had

not, therefore, the least clew to aid him in the search.

Watching his opportunity, however, and having long entertained the idea

of escaping, he at last succeeded in eluding the suspicions of his red

friends, and in beginning his enterprise. Choosing a season of the year

when game and berries were plenty, and stocking his bag with dried

venison, he set out, avowedly, on a hunting expedition; and the true

object of his journey was not suspected for some days after the time of

his expected return. He had nothing to guide him toward the white

settlements, except a knowledge that they lay in a northerly direction.

His skill in woodcraft being equal to that of the Indians', he was

enabled to bear the fatigues and discouragements of his wanderings. A

band of red men, whom he encountered, treated him as one of themselves,

they belonging to a friendly tribe; and, after three weeks of solitary

marches, sleeping at night as the circumstances permitted, he emerged

into a country once familiar to him, but now considerably changed during

the fifteen years of his absence.

But his friends, nor their surroundings, were not so much changed as

himself. He was not only an Indian in his appearance, but in many of his

feelings. Glad as he was to _get back_, he soon became very home-sick

for the wild life he had abandoned. The clothes, the warm beds, the

chairs, the food and table, the restraints of civilization, were, for a

time, almost insupportable. It was but very gradually that the white

blood of his ancestors begun to stir anew in his veins, and the powerful

ties and instincts of early associations to break up the strong bonds of

more recent habits. He was almost as many years in becoming a white man

as he had been in growing an Indian.

A writer upon the character of the Indians, in his defense of them, says

that if an Anglo-American were placed in the same circumstances with a

native, he would make a precisely similar person in every trait and

habit. "This averment is sustained by a reference to the white people

who had been taken prisoners in childhood and brought up among the

Indians. In every such case, the child of civilization has become the

ferocious adult of the forest, manifesting all the peculiarities, tastes

and preferences of the native Indian. His manners, habits, propensities

and pursuits have been the same; his fondness for the chase and his

aversion to labor the same; so that the most astute philosophical

observer has been unable to detect any difference, except in the color

of the skin; and, in some instances, even this distinction has been

removed by long exposure to the weather, and the free use of oils and

paints. There have been cases in which the children of white parents,

who have been raised among the Indians from early infancy, have been

taken home, in middle life, to their relatives, but have refused to

remain, and have returned to the tribes in which they were brought up.

One case of this kind occurred within the knowledge of the writer. A

female, captured in infancy, and reared among the Indians, was brought

in by them at the treaty of Greenville, and sent to her parents in

Kentucky. She soon became so discontented and restless that, in spite of

all their efforts, she left them, returned to her former associates, and

was again happy." All of which is doubtless true, but does not disprove

the many barbarous instincts of the red-men.

In the fall of 1788, Matthias Van Bebber, aged eighteen, and Jacob, aged

twelve years, were out a short distance from Point Pleasant, with a

horse, when they were waylaid by four Indians. Jacob was leading the

horse, and Matthias was a short distance ahead, with a rifle across his

shoulder, when the Indians fired two guns at Matthias. One of the balls

struck him over the eyes, momentarily blinding him; he sprang one side,

and fell into a gully. Jacob, on hearing the report of the guns, fled,

pursued by three of the savages. Matthias, in the mean time, sprang up

and took to a tree. The remaining Indian did the same. The lad brought

up his gun to an aim, the Indian dodged, when the former improved the

opportunity to fly, and escaped to the fort. The other three, after a

tight chase of half a mile, caught Jacob, who, being very active, would

have escaped, had not his moccasins been too large. They then retreated

across the Ohio with their prisoner. He was a sprightly little fellow,

small of his age, and his captors, pleased with him, treated him kindly.

On the first night of their encampment, they took him on their knees and

sang to him. He turned away his head to conceal his tears.

On arriving at their town, while running the gauntlet between the

children of the place, an Indian boy, much larger than himself, threw a

bone, which struck him on the head. Enraged by the pain, Jacob drew

back, and running with all his force, butted him over, to the great

amusement of the gazing warriors. He was adopted into an Indian family,

where he was used with kindness. On one occasion his adopted father

whipped him, but not severely, which affected his new mother and sister

to tears. After remaining with the tribe about a year, he escaped,

traveling five days through the wilderness to his home. When he arrived

at maturity he was remarkable for his fleetness. None of the Indians who

visited the Point could distance him in running.

One of the most interesting histories on record of the return of white

prisoners from among the red-men is connected with Boquet's defense of

Fort Pitt, and his expedition from that fort into the wilderness, to

overawe his adversaries by the display of his strength, and to recover

the vast number of men, women and children, held by the savages,

amounting, in all, to over three hundred. Fort Pitt stood on the present

site of Pittsburg, and, at the time of which we write, 1772, was the

only spot, excepting Fort Detroit, from the Falls of Niagara to the

Falls of St. Mary, over which the English flag waved. Our splendid

territories were being ravaged by the Indians; families, who had

effected a home and comforts, being driven back by the tomahawk, with

their scattered remnants, to the East, from which they had emigrated, or

into Fort Pitt, which alone opposed itself to the murderous waves which

dashed against, and threatened to undermine it. It withstood, like Fort

Detroit, a long siege by the savages, was reinforced, the

reinforcements, before reaching the fort, having given battle to, and

defeated the Indians.

The Indians, disheartened by their overwhelming defeat, and despairing

of success against the fort, now that it was so heavily reinforced,

retired sullenly to their homes beyond the Ohio, leaving the country

between it and the settlement free from their ravages. Communication

being rendered safe, the fugitives were able to return to their friends,

or take possession of their abandoned cabins. By comparing notes, they

were soon able to make out an accurate list of those who were

missing—either killed or prisoners among various tribes—when it was

found to contain the names of more than two hundred men, women and

children. Fathers mourned their daughters, slain or subject to a

captivity worse than death; husbands, their wives, left mangled in the

forest, or forced to follow their savage captors—some with babes at

their breasts, and some, whose offspring would first see the light in

the red-man's wigwam—and loud were the cries for vengeance which went up

on every hand.

Boquet wished to follow up his success, and march at once into the

enemy's country, and wring from the hostile tribes, by force of arms, a

treaty of peace, which should forever put an end to those scenes of

rapine and murder. But his force was too small, and the season too far

advanced. He matured his plans during the winter, and in the spring

began his preparations. The Indians, in the meantime, had procured

powder from the French, and, as soon as the snow melted, commenced their

ravages along the frontier. The aroused and desperate people of

Pennsylvania furnished a thousand men, and Virginia a corps of

volunteers, which, added to Boquet's five hundred regulars, made a force

of nearly two thousand men, with which he was instructed to advance into

the enemy's territory, and, by one grand movement, crush the offending

tribes. His route was without any water communication, and lay through

the heart of an unbroken wilderness. The expedition was to be carried

out without boats, wagons, or artillery, and without a post to fall back

upon in case of disaster. It was, indeed, an isolated and a novel

affair. It was autumn before all obstacles were overcome, and the army

under way. It struck directly into the trackless forest, with no

definite point in view, and no fixed limit to its advance. It was

intended to overawe by its magnitude—to move, as an awful exhibition of

power, into the heart of the red-man's dominions. Expecting to be shut

up in the forest at least a month, receiving in that time no supplies

from without, it had to carry along an immense quantity of provisions.

Meat, of course, could not be preserved, and so the frontier settlements

were exhausted of sheep and oxen for its support. These necessarily

caused the march to be slow and methodical. The corps of Virginia

volunteers went in front, preceded by three scouting parties—one of

which kept the path—while the two others moved in a line abreast, on

either side, to explore the woods.

Under cover of these, the ax companies, guarded by two companies of

light infantry, cut two parallel paths, one each side of the main path,

for the troops, pack-horses, and cattle, which followed. First marched

the Highlanders, in column, two deep, in the centre path, and in the

side paths, in single file, abreast—the men six feet apart—and behind

them the corps of reserve, and the second battalion of Pennsylvania

militia. Then came the officers, and pack-horses, followed by the droves

of cattle, filling the forest with their loud complainings. A company of

light-horse walked slowly after these, while the rear-guard closed the

long array. No talking was allowed, and no music cheered the way. In

this order the unwieldy caravan struggled along, neither extremity of

which could be seen from the centre, it being lost amid the

thickly-clustering trunks and foliage in the distance.

Some days they would make but two or three miles, and again, when the

way was less obstructed, would make ten, fifteen or eighteen miles. On

the fourth day of their march, near some deserted Indian huts, they came

upon the skull of a child, stuck upon a pole.

There was a large number of men in the army who had wives, children and

friends prisoners among the Indians, and who had accompanied the

expedition for the purpose of recovering them. To these the skull of

this little child brought sad reflections. Some one among them was,

perhaps, its father, while the thought that it might stand as an index,

to tell the fate of all who were captured, made each one shudder. As

they looked at it, bleached by the sun and rain, the anxious heart asked

questions it dared not answer.

Keeping on their course, they pursued their difficult march, day after

day, much of the time through a tangled wilderness, but occasionally,

from some high point, catching glimpses of marvellous splendor of sky

and scenery, the purpled sunlight of October wrapping all objects in a

kind of enchantment. At times the path was so overgrown with bushes,

that every step had to be cleared with the ax; again, it would be over

marshes, so wet that bridges had to be constructed, to keep the cattle

from sinking; and still again, the men would be cheered by an easy and

rapid day's journey, along the banks of some pleasant stream. Ohio is

even yet renowned for its glorious forests, and these, now dressed in

all the gorgeous coloring of Indian summer, gave frequent pictures of

beauty which impressed the roughest of the sturdy soldiers.

At length they descended to a small river, which they followed until it

joined the main force of the Muskingum, where a scene of a very

different character awaited them. A little above and below the forks,

the shores had been cultivated, and lined with Indian houses. The place

was called Tuscarora, and, for beauty of situation, could not well be

surpassed. The high, luxuriant banks, the placid rivers, meeting and

flowing on together, the green fields, sprinkled with huts, and bordered

with rich, autumnal foliage, all basking in the mellow October light,

and so out of the way there in the wilderness, combined to form a sweet

picture, which was doubly lovely to them after being so long shut up in

the forest. They reached this beautiful spot Saturday afternoon, and,

the next day being Sunday, they remained in camp, men and cattle being

allowed a day of rest. The latter, revived under the swell of green

grass, and, roaming over the fields, gave a still more civilized aspect

to the quiet scene. The next day, the army moved two miles further down

the Muskingum, and encamped on a high bank, where the stream was three

hundred feet wide.

The following day six chiefs came into camp, saying that all the rest

were eight miles off, waiting to make peace. Boquet told them he would

be ready to receive them next day. In the meantime he ordered a large

bower to be built, a short distance from camp, while sentinels were

posted in every direction, to prevent surprise, in case treachery was

meditated.

The next day, the 17th, he paraded the Highlanders and Virginia

volunteers, and, escorted by the light-horse, led them to the bower,

where he disposed them in the most imposing manner, so as to impress the

chiefs, in the approaching interview. The latter, as they emerged from

the forest, were conducted, with great ceremony to the bower, which they

entered with their accustomed gravity, where, without saying a word,

they quietly seated themselves, and commenced smoking. When they had

finished they laid aside their pipes, and drew from their pouches

strings of wampum. The council, being thus opened, they made a long

address, in which they were profuse in their professions of peace,

laying the whole blame of the war on the young men, whom, they said,

they could not control.

Boquet, not wishing to appear eager to come to a settlement, replied

that he would give his answer the next day, and the council broke up. A

passing storm, however, prevented a meeting of the council until the day

following that first set. Boquet's answer was long and conciliatory; but

the gist of it was that he would make peace on one condition, and no

other—that the Indians should give up all the prisoners in their

possession within ten days.

Remaining quietly in camp until Monday, he again ordered the tents to be

struck, and recommenced his march, to show his determination to enforce

his commands. In three days he reached the forks of the Muskingum; and,

judging this to be as central a position as he could find, he resolved

to remain there until his mission was accomplished. He ordered four

redoubts to be built, erected several store-houses, a mess-house, a

large number of ovens, and various other buildings for the reception of

captives, which, with the white tents scattered up and down the forks of

the river, made a large settlement in the wilderness, filling the

Indians with alarm. A town with nearly two thousand inhabitants, well

supplied with horses, cattle and sheep, and with ample means of defense,

was well calculated to awaken the gloomiest anticipations in the breasts

of the ancient inheritors. The steady sound of the ax, day after day,

the lowing of cattle, and all the bustle of civilization, echoing along

the banks of the Muskingum, within the very heart of their territory,

was more alarming than the resistless march of a victorious army; and,

anxious to get rid of such unwelcome company, they made every effort to

collect the prisoners scattered amid the various tribes.

Boquet remained here two weeks, occupied with sending and receiving

messengers who were charged with business relating to the restoration of

the captives. At the end of this time, two hundred and six, the majority

of them women and children, had been received into camp. An hundred more

yet remained in the hands of the Indians. These they solemnly promised

to restore in the spring, and, as the leafless forest, the biting blast,

and occasional flurries of snow, reminded Boquet of the coming on of

winter, he determined to retrace his steps to Fort Pitt.

These two weeks, during which the prisoners were being brought in, were

filled with scenes of the most intense, and often painful excitement.

Some of the captives had been for many years with the Indians,

recipients of their kindness and love; others had passed from childhood

to maturity among them, till they had forgotten their native language,

and the past was to them, if remembered at all, but a half-forgotten

dream. All of them—men, women and children—were dressed in Indian

costume, and their hair arranged in Indian fashion. Their features,

also, were bronzed by long exposure to the weather, so that they

appeared to have passed more than half way to a purely savage state. As

troop after troop came in, the eager looks and inquiries of those who

had accompanied the army to find their long-lost families and kindred,

made each arrival a most thrilling scene. In some instances, where the

separation had only been for a short time, the recognition was

simultaneous and mutual, and the short, quick cry, and sudden rush into

each other's arms, brought tears to the eyes of the hardy soldiers. In

others, doubt, agony, fear and hope, would in turn take possession of

the heart, chasing each other like shadows over the face, as question

after question was put, to recall some event or scene familiar to both,

till at last a common chord would be touched, when the dormant memory

would awake as by an electric shock, a flood of fond recollections sweep

away all uncertainty, and the lost one be hurried away amid sobs and

cries of joy. Sometimes the disappointed father or brother would turn

sorrowfully away, and, with that hope deferred which maketh the heart

sick, sadly await the arrival of another group. But the most painful

sight was when a mother recognized her own child, which, however, in

turn, persisted in looking on her as a stranger, coldly turning from her

embrace, and clinging to its savage protector; or when a mutual

recognition failed to awaken affection on one side, so entirely had the

heart become weaned from its early attachments. In these cases, the joy

of the captors knew no bounds; the most endearing epithets and caresses

would be lavished on the whilome prisoner. But when they saw them taken

away, torrents of tears attested their sincere affection and grief. The

attitude of intense interest, and the exhibition of uncontrollable

sorrow of these wild children of the forest, on one side, and, on the

other, the ecstatic joy of the white mother as she folded her long-lost

child in her arms, and the deep emotion of the husband as he strained

his recovered wife to his bosom, combined to form one of the most

moving, novel spectacles ever witnessed in the American wilderness.

One of the captive women had an infant, three months old, at her breast,

born in the Indian's wigwam. A Virginia volunteer instantly recognized

her as his wife, stolen from his log-cabin six months previous, and

rushing forward he snatched her to his bosom, and flew with her to his

tent, where, tearing off the savage costumes of both, he clothed them in

their proper garments. After the first burst of joy was over, he

inquired after his little boy, two years old, who was carried off at the

same time she was made prisoner; but his wife could give no tidings of

him. A few days after, another party of prisoners arrived, in which was

a child whose appearance answered to the description of this little

fugitive. The woman was sent for and the child placed before her. She

looked at it a moment and shook her head. But the next instant the

powerful maternal instinct triumphed, and, recognizing in the little

savage before her her lost darling, she dropped her babe, and snatching

him to her bosom, burst into a torrent of tears. The husband caught the

babe from the ground, and the couple hurried away to his tent. The poor

Indian mother watched their retreating forms, and then burying her head

in her blanket, sobbed aloud. A scene equally affecting occurred between

an aged mother and her daughter, who had been carried off nine years

before, and adopted in a distant tribe. Though the latter had passed

from childhood to womanhood in the forest, differing from other young

squaws only in the tint of her skin, which her wild life could not

wholly bronze, the eyes of the parent detected the features of her child

in the handsome young savage, and calling her by name, she rushed

forward to embrace her. The latter, having forgotten her name and

language, and all her childhood's life, looked on wondering, and turned,

frightened, to her Indian parent. The true mother tried in every way to

recall the memory of her child, and awaken recognition, but in vain. At

length, despairing of success, she gave way to the most passionate

grief. Boquet had been a silent witness of the painful interview. Moved

at the grief of the mother, he approached her, and asked if she could

not recall some song with which she used to sing her child to sleep.

Brightening at the suggestion, she looked up through her tears, and

struck a familiar strain, with which she used to quiet her babe. The

moment the ears of the maiden caught the sound, her countenance changed,

and as the strain proceeded, a strange light stole over her features.

All stood hushed as death, as that simple melody floated out through the

forest, watching with intense interest the countenances of the two

actors in this touching scene. The eager, anxious look of the mother, as

she sang, and the rapidly changing expression of the captive's face as

she listened, awoke the profoundest sympathy of Boquet's generous heart,

so that he could hardly restrain his feelings. Slowly, almost painfully,

the dormant memory awoke from its long sleep; at length the dark cloud

was rent asunder, and the scenes of childhood came back in all the

freshness of their early springtime, and the half-wild young creature

sank in joy on her mother's bosom.

Some of the children had been so long with their captors that they

regarded them as their true parents, crying bitterly at being separated

from them. Stranger still, the young women had become so attached to

their savage but kind husbands, that, when told they were to be given up

to their white friends, they refused to go; and many of them had to be

bound and brought as prisoners to camp. The promise that they should

take their half-breed children with them, could not change their wishes.

On the other hand, the Indians clung to them with a tenacity and

fondness which made the spectators forget that they were gazing upon

savages. It was pitiful to see their habitual stoicism give way so

completely at the prospect of separation. They made no effort to conceal

their grief; the chieftain's eye, which gleamed like his tomahawk in

battle, now wept like a child's. His strong nature seemed wholly

subdued; his haughty bearing changed to one of humility, as he besought

the white men to treat his pale-face squaw tenderly. His wild life

suddenly lost all its charms, and he hung round the camp to get a sight

of her whom, though she was lost to him, he still loved. He watched near

the log-building in which she was left, leaving it only to bring from

the forests pheasants, wild pigeons, or some delicacy to lay at her

feet. Some of the young captive wives refused to be comforted, and,

using that sagacity they had acquired during their sojourn with the

red-men, managed to escape from their white friends, and, joining their

swarthy lovers, fled with them to the forest.

The American wilderness never before presented such a spectacle as was

exhibited on the banks of the Muskingum. It was no longer a hostile

camp, but a stage on which human nature was displaying its most noble,

attractive traits; or, rather, a sublime poem, enacted in that lovely

natural temple, whose burden was human affection, and whose great

argument, the common brotherhood of mankind.

Boquet and his officers were deeply impressed. They could hardly believe

their own eyes when they saw young warriors whose deeds of daring

ferocity had made their names a terror on the frontier, weeping like

children over their bereavement.

A treaty of peace having been concluded between the various tribes,

Boquet, taking hostages to secure their good behavior, and the return of

the remaining prisoners, broke up his camp on the 18th of November, and

began to retrace his steps towards Fort Pitt. The leafless forest rocked

and roared above the little army, as it once more entered its gloomy

recesses; and that lovely spot on the banks of the Muskingum, which had

witnessed such strange scenes, lapsed again into its primeval quiet.