MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY.
I had intended to relate the experiences of my wife in such a manner
that they might serve as a sequel to my narrative; but on reflection,
the better plan seemed to be to portray, as graphically as possible, the
events that influenced her life, in separate chapters, so arranged that
the account should be distinct, yet in point of time, contemporaneous.
The scene of her captivity, and the treatment she received at the hands
of her captors, have made such a vivid and lasting impression on my
mind, that in speaking of them, I seem almost to have undergone the
torture in my own person. In writing her story therefore, I shall speak
in the first person. The reader will, I think, see the superiority of
this plan at a glance.
Who has not felt his pulse quicken, and his heart go out in warmest
sympathy at the recital of some tale of flood or field, as told by an
eye-witness, when the same events related by a third party will only
awaken a mild interest in the minds of his hearers. I crave the
sympathetic attention of my readers, and this is my explanation for the
plan I have adopted.
* * * * *
After the assault on our party had culminated in the death of my poor
father and brother, the Indians surrounded our wagon, and lifting the
canvas flaps, discovered my mother and myself ensconced behind our
bulwark of blankets and boxes. They bade us come out by gestures so
menacing, and scowls so terrifying, that it had a contrary effect on us
than the one they wished to produce; for instead of obeying the command,
we only shrank back into corners more remote, vainly thinking that the
bales and robes, with which loving hands had surrounded us, would form a
sufficient protection against the dreaded savage. At this critical
juncture, my poor mother swooned back into my arms, overcome by fright.
Seeing that their commands were not obeyed, the foremost Indian climbed
into the wagon, and rushing on us with uplifted knife, grasped me by the
hair and dragged me over the obstructions and out onto the ground. I
cried aloud in my anguish, which only seemed to afford them the more
amusement; the savage who had performed the manly deed, displaying for
the edification of his comrades, a quantity of my hair, which he still
held in his clenched hand. The wagon and the plunder it contained seemed
to be the center of attraction. A dozen had entered in as many seconds,
and although the canvas top hid them from view, they could be heard
quarreling over the division of the spoils.
During these fearful scenes, the events of years seemed crowding into
minutes. Never have I suffered such mental or bodily torture before or
since. My faculties succumbed to the severe strain, and I found myself
falling into a kind of stupor, in which, though perfectly conscious of
all that was transpiring, I seemed not to have been one of the principal
actors, but an observer merely. Suddenly I was made aware that something
unusual was taking place; the Indians crowded about the wagon, all the
time gesticulating wildly, and yelling in a blood-curdling manner. I
heard voices raised as if in altercation within the wagon. Rising above
the din I distinguished the loved tones of my mother's voice, as if
crying for help, and entreating for mercy. The noise grows apace; wild
with terror, nerved with the resolution of despair, I rushed towards the
wagon; reaching it a sight meets my eyes that petrifies me with horror;
I try to move, speak, act; my limbs and tongue refuse to obey my will;
this is what I see: A couple of brawny savages, maddened by strong
drink, stand over the kneeling figure of my mother, their eyes inflamed
with satanic passion. Holding together her torn garments with one hand,
she parries with feeble and fast declining strength their revolting
advances. With a mighty effort she reaches up and snatches a knife from
the belt of the savage nearest her, and with the rapidity of thought
plunges it into his body. He reels and falls against his companion. It
is her last act on earth. With a yell of rage the tomahawk is lifted
above her murderer's head, and descending is buried in her brain with a
dull thud. A mist passes over my eyes; my brain reels, and the last
thing of which I am conscious is the white tresses of my saintly mother,
held high in air by this monster in human guise. God grant that it may
never be my fate to pass through such scenes again.
During the next twenty-four hours, my existence is that of an automaton
merely. I know I am being conducted away from the spot where this awful
tragedy was enacted. I am mounted behind my guard, to whose waist I am
firmly bound by raw hide thongs. We encamp in a belt of cotton woods,
near a small stream. Fires are lighted, food prepared; some is offered
me, but I turn away from it in disgust; the hand that proffers the
smoking meat seems covered with blood.
I am taken from my couch of skins at the foot of a tall tree, and led
through the underbrush into an open space, where the main party are
assembled. Emerging into this clearing, my eyes fall upon my husband,
who is approaching me from the other side of the encampment. It was as
if I saw one who had arisen from the dead; with an effort I free myself,
rush past the guard, and am in my husband's arms. Leaning my head on his
shoulder, I give expression to my feelings in tears; they are the first
I have shed, and seem to break the spell which has encircled me like an
iron band. I am not long permitted to remain in my husband's embrace, as
the Indian with an ugh! expressive of displeasure, grasps Edwin by the
arm, and rudely separates us; we are led to opposite corners of the
enclosure, there to await our departure, preparations for which are
being rapidly completed. The lariats are coiled, blankets adjusted, and
at a signal from the chief we mount, and defiling through the wood,
emerge on the open prairie, pursuing our journey in Indian file. Before
starting, one of our mules is brought up, on which I am mounted, a
warrior riding by my side and holding in his hand a hair rope that
passes through the bit ring that is attached to my animal. All day we
keep up the march. Look in any direction and the eye meets one vast
expanse of living verdure, the vision only interrupted by the horizon.
North, south, east, and west stretches the prairie meadow, green as the
sea, and in many respects not unlike the calm surface of the ocean. As
the wind sweeps across its bosom, the silken blades bend in gentle
undulations, and they are dappled into lighter and darker shades, like
the shadows of summer clouds flitting across the sun. It was a scene of
pure enjoyment, and I only realized, on being awakened from my day
dreams how miserable was my lot.
With slight interruptions, notably when my husband was lost in the
buffalo hunt, and his recapture, we progressed steadily towards the
village. On arriving I was taken at once to the temple, where I found
myself among some eight or ten more female captives, who had but
recently arrived. They were Mexican women, and, not understanding their
language, I felt somewhat constrained. I was attracted to one fragile
looking girl, whose age could not have been more than fifteen. She
appeared utterly heartbroken and cast down by her misfortunes. I
suffered enough, God knows; but my heart yearned towards this little
stranger with tender sympathy; and in comforting her I seemed to lessen
my own burdens. Although the others were kind to her to a degree, yet
she seemed to evince a fondness for my society that was very flattering.
The others addressed her as "Zoe," and in this way I learned her name.
Henceforth we became inseparable; and as she accompanied me in my
captivity, the reader will learn more of the sad history of this heroic
girl, whose impulses, both of head and heart, added to her splendid
courage, were the salient points in a character of surpassing sweetness.
We were not allowed to leave the temple, although we were free to wander
from terrace to terrace. Food and water was supplied us by the Indian
women, who seemed to have us under their sole control.
How can I describe the scenes of the next few days; the games,
festivities, and most horrible of all, the torture; when we were
compelled to stand on the lower terrace, and witness the agonies and
death struggles of fathers, husbands and lovers; not even the poor
consolation of indulging our grief undisturbed was permitted us; the
Indian women who surrounded us seemed lost to all feelings of pity and
humanity, and when one of our number was suffering tortures of mind,
little inferior to the physical pain undergone by the object of her
devotion, the fiends would give vent to derisive cries and jeers that
were maddening to the poor creature.
One of the Mexicans, whose father and lover were burned to death before
her eyes, suffered such poignant anguish that her reason gave way, and
she was borne inside the temple a raving maniac.
After the events just related, nothing of moment occurred to break the
monotony of our captivity. We were confined to our quarters under a
surveillance that did not relax for a moment. It was understood that we
were awaiting the announcement that was to decide what our future lot
should be.
The Mexicans learned from our attendants that the chiefs had decided to
share the female captives with their Apache visitors; the selection to
be made by lot.
I had not seen my husband but once since we entered the village, and
that sight was fraught with the most painful emotions. I knew, however,
that for the present he was safe; the future I confided to Him whose
loving care would protect and aid us in our trials. During this time my
mind was in a state of complete despondency; no bright visions of future
liberty and happiness came to relieve the dreary forebodings that
oppressed me. In my wildest imaginings of the suffering that might be my
portion, I did not approach the realities of my future existence. Those
dark days of toil and degradation which succeeded each other in
unvarying monotony, with blows for a welcome, and kicks as an incentive
to labor. Even at this remote period I cannot recall the experiences of
those times without a shudder; when the horizon of hope was environed by
the dull blank of despair; and as each year dragged its weary length
along, it almost seemed as if I was,
"The world forgetting,
And by the world forgot."