The Chicago Massacre of 1812.
IN TWO PARTS AND AN APPENDIX.
PART I.
Saturday, August Fifteenth, 1812—Narratives of the Massacre.
PART II.
Historical and Biographical—How the Fort and City were Begun, and Who were the Beginners.
APPENDIX.
SATURDAY, AUGUST FIFTEENTH, 1812.
T
THE morning of Fort Dearborn's fatal day dawned bright and clear over Lake Michigan and the sandy flat. The "reveille" doubtless was sounded before sun-rise; and one can imagine the rattle of the drum and scream of the fife as they broke the dewy stillness and floated away, over the sand-spit and out on the lake; across the river to the Kinzie house and its outbuilding, the Ouillemette house; and up stream to the Indian encampments, large, dark and lowering. Quite possibly the tune then prescribed was the same as that now used for the drum-fife reveille, together with the words that have attached themselves to it of late years:
Wake ye lazy soldiers, rouse up and be killed,Hard tack and salt horse, get your gizzard filled.Then go to fighting—fire your forty round—Fall dead and lay there buried under ground.
Wake ye lazy soldiers, rouse up and be killed,Hard tack and salt horse, get your gizzard filled.Then go to fighting—fire your forty round—Fall dead and lay there buried under ground.
If this time-honored (and much hated) tune has come down to us from so long, the words had on that morning a significance even more perfect than that ordinarily belonging to them.
Early the company cooks must have been at work, boiling whole barrels of salt pork which had been insoak for days beforehand, and as much fresh beef as could possibly be used before spoiling. Bread had doubtless been baked and packed earlier in the week, and now all imaginable preparations for a march of nearly a month must be completed and the utensils packed and loaded into the company wagons. At each of the other, smaller households outside the fort similar toils and cares were going on. How were the lately weaned little ones to be cared for? Perhaps some parents hoped that they could drive their milch-cows with the caravan, seeing that grass was plenty and progress would be necessarily slow. What did the prospective mothers hope and fear? The wife of Phelim Corbin; how did she arm her soul for the month of rough travel, with the travail of child birth as one of its terrors?
Certainly the happiest of the crowd were the unconscious little ones, sure of love and care, full of hope and curiosity—a round dozen of them in one wagon, beginning the first journey of their innocent lives—the first and last. Fancy the mothers tucking them in! The eager little faces upturned for good-bye kisses!
All the workers might have spared themselves their trouble. If they were thinking of their cows, the crack of the Indian rifles soon ended that care. The food was enough and to spare; not a morsel of it did they ever eat. The journey of a month dwindled to a tramp of an hour; and as to the precious children—
Captain William Wells had come, with thirty friendly Indians (Miamis) to guard and help them through their long, lonely tramp to Detroit. He was a white man, the uncle of the commandant's young wife (Rebekah Wells Heald), but had been stolen when a boy by the Indians and brought up by them; had married a chief's daughter and had fought on their side until, years ago, this same young niece had gone to him and persuaded him to comeback to his own kith and kin. So any fears the helpless settlers might have felt at first could now surely be put aside—Wells was so strong, so brave, so well acquainted with the Indians! He could doubtless keep them in order, either by policy or by force.
But if all was well, why had Captain Wells blackened his face—that is, put on the Indian sign of war and death—before starting that morning? All accounts agree that he did so, and usually it is taken as having been a sign of consciousness of impending death. Mrs. Helm[A]seems to have regarded it in this light. The question can never be settled, but to me it seems to have been an act of policy; an effort to identify himself with his Miamis and other friendly Indians. Wau-Bun adds the gruesome and almost incredible story that the start out was made to the music of the dead march! As Mrs. Helm was on horseback with the column she must have known, and we can but take her word for it.
[A]Margaret Helm, wife of Lieutenant Helm, and step-daughter of old John Kinzie, has hitherto been the main—almost the only—source of knowledge about the massacre. She told the story twenty years after its occurrence, to Mrs. John H. Kinzie, who embodied it in her romantic narrative "Wau-Bun," published about twenty-two years later still.
[A]Margaret Helm, wife of Lieutenant Helm, and step-daughter of old John Kinzie, has hitherto been the main—almost the only—source of knowledge about the massacre. She told the story twenty years after its occurrence, to Mrs. John H. Kinzie, who embodied it in her romantic narrative "Wau-Bun," published about twenty-two years later still.
The large herd of beef-cattle was left to the savages. This was probably the most precious gift of all put in their hands by the abandonment of the post. The liquor, if it had been left, would have been their bane, and the fire-arms the mere instruments of mutual destruction. The clothes must wear out, the flour be eaten up, the tools and furniture useless, the paints and gew-gaws a fleeting joy; but the herd! This would be self-sustaining, self-perpetuating, a perennial fount of blessing and mine of wealth. Here were food, clothing, shoes for this year and all years to come. No tribe or nation of their race had ever possessed such a treasure. How did they avail themselves of it? Wau-Bun answers:
The fort had become a scene of plunder to such as remained after the troops moved out. The cattle had been shot down as they ran at large and lay dead or dying around. This work of butchery had commenced just as we were leaving the fort.
The fort had become a scene of plunder to such as remained after the troops moved out. The cattle had been shot down as they ran at large and lay dead or dying around. This work of butchery had commenced just as we were leaving the fort.
No more characteristic bit of Indian painting has ever been made than that given in these few words. Here was the native savage (not ignorant of wiser ways, for he had had the thrifty white man under his eyes for four generations) still showing himself in sense a child, in strength a man, and in cruelty a fiend incarnate.
Mrs. Helm continues:
I well remember a remark of Ensign Ronan, as the firing went on. "Such," turning to me, "is to be our fate—to be shot down like beasts.""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 to be no idle boast.
I well remember a remark of Ensign Ronan, as the firing went on. "Such," turning to me, "is to be our fate—to be shot down like beasts."
"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 to be no idle boast.
Unconsciously Mrs. Helm, in this artless tale told to glorify the younger officer, awakens in our minds a feeling of dislike for him. That a youth, scarce two years out of West Point, should add an ill-timed insult to the heavy cares of his senior officer, a soldier of thirteen years service, must be shocking to every one. Seeing that within two hours he was to die in action, bravely doing his duty (in company with his senior similarly engaged and sorely wounded) we can readily forgive his error, but not without a protest against a foolish woman's foolish effort to make it out a noble and praiseworthy outburst.
Mrs. Heald's narrative[B](though fortified by Captain Heald's letter, quoted later) seems less probable than theforegoing circumstantial account in Wau-Bun. She says:
The fort was vacated quietly, not a cross word being passed between soldiers and Indians, and good-byes were exchanged. Not an officer objected to leaving. Nobody objected but Kinzie, who did so for personal reasons. Everything left was divided among the Indians who were there, and a party of them escorted the whites out of the fort, these Indians being the ones who took no interest in the fight, although they may have known something about it. The general impression among the officers (and this was Captain Heald's idea also) was that the Indians who took their share when the things were distributed at the fort, had no part in the massacre.
The fort was vacated quietly, not a cross word being passed between soldiers and Indians, and good-byes were exchanged. Not an officer objected to leaving. Nobody objected but Kinzie, who did so for personal reasons. Everything left was divided among the Indians who were there, and a party of them escorted the whites out of the fort, these Indians being the ones who took no interest in the fight, although they may have known something about it. The general impression among the officers (and this was Captain Heald's idea also) was that the Indians who took their share when the things were distributed at the fort, had no part in the massacre.
[B]It is a curious fact that all our direct information concerning the events of that day comes from two women. Mrs. Lieutenant Helm, who has been already mentioned, and Mrs. Captain Heald. Both these young wives will receive more detailed mention a little further on. Mrs. Heald's account has never been published before. I give it as taken down in short-hand from the lips of her son, the Hon. Darius Heald of O'Fallon, Missouri, in the summer of 1892.
[B]It is a curious fact that all our direct information concerning the events of that day comes from two women. Mrs. Lieutenant Helm, who has been already mentioned, and Mrs. Captain Heald. Both these young wives will receive more detailed mention a little further on. Mrs. Heald's account has never been published before. I give it as taken down in short-hand from the lips of her son, the Hon. Darius Heald of O'Fallon, Missouri, in the summer of 1892.
Captain Heald's force consisted of fifty-four regular soldiers and twelve militia-men, and with them departed every white inhabitant of the little settlement, men, women and children—probably about thirty in all—ranging in social condition from the prosperous Kinzies to the humble discharged soldiers who had married and started to make a living by tilling the soil, etc.
The Kinzie family was to go by boat, skirting along the lake and keeping in touch with the land column as long as it should hug the shore; later ascending the St. Joseph's River to "Bertrand," or "Parc-aux-vaches," as it was called, in memory of its having been the cow-pasture of the old French-Canadian settlement and fort which had stood on the bank of that river a century or so ago. The boat-party consisted of Mrs. John Kinzie, her son, John H., born at Sandwich, Canada, July 7, 1803, and her other children—Ellen Marion (later Mrs. Alexander Wolcott), born in Chicago, December, 1805; Maria Indiana (later Mrs. General Hunter), born in Chicago, in 1807, and Robert A., born in Chicago in 1810. Her daughter by a previous marriage, Margaret McKillip, was, it will be remembered, now the wife of Lieutenant Helm, and she bravely elected to share the perils of the land-march with her husband. There was also in the boatthe nurse, Josette (misprinted in Wau-Bun, "Grutte"[C]) Laframboise (afterward Mrs. Jean Baptiste Beaubien), a clerk of Mr. Kinzie's, two servants, the boatman, and two Indians as guard. This shows that the boat must have been neither a bark canoe nor a common "dug-out" or "pirogue," but a large bateau, capable of carrying these numerous passengers, with corresponding baggage and supplies.
[C]In the Story of Chicago is given the following fac simile to show how readily the name "Josette" might have been read "Grutte."
[C]In the Story of Chicago is given the following fac simile to show how readily the name "Josette" might have been read "Grutte."
Josette
To-pee-nee-be, a friendly Indian, chief of the St. Joseph's band, early in the morning of the fatal day, had warned John Kinzie that trouble was to come from the "escort" which Captain Heald had bargained for with the Pottowatomies in council, and had urged him to go in the boat with his family. But the old frontiers-man was built of too sturdy stuff to take such advice. If there was to be danger he must share it, and if help would avail he must give it; so he rode with the column.
First rode out Captain William Wells, hero-martyr, marching, probably consciously, to a doom self-inflicted under the impulse of human sympathy and soldierly honor. Following him were half of his mounted escort of Miami Indians, followed in their turn by the volunteers and such of the regulars as were able to bear arms. Next came the short train of wagons, with stores, supplies, camp-equippage, women, children, sick, wounded and disabled. This little caravan contained all there was to show for eight years of industry and privation. But what mattered it? Greater savings would only have meant greater loss, and more men, women and children would only have meant more suffering and death.
The rear-guard was composed of the remainder of Captain Wells's wretched Miamis, such reliance as is a broken reed. The Miamis were mounted, as were Captain Wells, Mr. Kinzie, Mrs. Heald and Mrs. Helm, but probably no others of the party.
The day continued bright and sunny, and the line must have stretched from the fort (about the south end of Rush Street bridge) perhaps to the present Madison Street, half way to the point where began the sand-dunes or low hills which, even within the memory of the present generation, skirted the shores down as far as the beginning of the oak woods of Hyde Park. The bateau followed in the rear of the column and had just reached the mouth of the river (where the foot of Madison street now is[D]) when a messenger from To-pe-nee-be brought the Kinzie party to a halt.
[D]The river then made a turn southward just east of the fort, and only found an entrance to the lake across the south end of a long sand-bar, the continuation of the shore of the North Side.
[D]The river then made a turn southward just east of the fort, and only found an entrance to the lake across the south end of a long sand-bar, the continuation of the shore of the North Side.
The column had marched parallel with the Pottowatomie "escort" until both bodies reached the sand-hills. Then the whites kept by the shore-road, while the Indians, veering slightly to their right, put the sand-hills between their crowd and the slim, weak line of troops and wagons.
The reports of the fight itself, given by the two witnesses on whom we must rely, do not differ materially from each other. Mrs. Helm's narrative naturally treats more fully of the Kinzie family's experiences; Mrs. Heald's more fully of her own adventures and the death of her uncle. Neither woman mentions the other; they were probably separated early. I will give the stories in turn, beginning with Mrs. Helm's.
CHICAGO, IN 1812.
MARGARET HELM'S STORY.
The boat started, but had scarcely reached the mouth of the river, which, it will be recollected, was here half a mile below the fort, when another messenger from To-pe-nee-be arrived to detain them where they were. In breathless expectation sat the wife and mother. She was a woman of uncommon energy and strength of character, yet her heart died within her as she folded her arms around her helpless infants and gazed on the march of her husband and her eldest child [Mrs. Helm] to certain destruction.They had marched perhaps a mile and a half [Fourteenth Street], when Captain Wells, who had kept somewhat in advance of his Miamis, came riding furiously back. "They are about to attack us!" he shouted. "Form instantly and charge upon them." Scarcely were the words uttered when a volley was showered from among the sand-hills. The troops were hastily brought into line and charged up the bank. One man, a veteran of seventy winters, fell as they ascended.After we had left the bank the firing became general. The Miamis fled at the outset. Their chief rode up to the Pottowatomies and said: "You have deceived the Americans and us. 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 scouring across the prairies.
The boat started, but had scarcely reached the mouth of the river, which, it will be recollected, was here half a mile below the fort, when another messenger from To-pe-nee-be arrived to detain them where they were. In breathless expectation sat the wife and mother. She was a woman of uncommon energy and strength of character, yet her heart died within her as she folded her arms around her helpless infants and gazed on the march of her husband and her eldest child [Mrs. Helm] to certain destruction.
They had marched perhaps a mile and a half [Fourteenth Street], when Captain Wells, who had kept somewhat in advance of his Miamis, came riding furiously back. "They are about to attack us!" he shouted. "Form instantly and charge upon them." Scarcely were the words uttered when a volley was showered from among the sand-hills. The troops were hastily brought into line and charged up the bank. One man, a veteran of seventy winters, fell as they ascended.
After we had left the bank the firing became general. The Miamis fled at the outset. Their chief rode up to the Pottowatomies and said: "You have deceived the Americans and us. 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 scouring across the prairies.
Mrs. Helm does not say that she heard these words when uttered, nor is it probable that she could have been within hearing distance of the very head of the column, or even could have understood the words unless (what most unlikely) they were uttered in English. The whole circumstance looks apocryphal—probably a later Indian fabrication.
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.
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.
This seems to be the moment where her narrative diverges from that of Mrs. Heald, who evidently followed the troops, as she was caught between a cross-fire of the Indians, whom the advance had left on its flanks andrear, and there received her wounds. Mrs. Helm's subsequent narrative shows that she was, when rescued, unwounded and near the Like.
While I was thus engaged, the surgeon, Dr. Van Voorhees, came up. He was badly wounded. His horse was 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 a large reward. Do you think there is any chance?""Dr. VanVoorhees," said I, "do not let us waste the few moments that yet remain to us in such vain hopes. Our fate is inevitable. In a few minutes we must appear before the bar of God. Let us make what preparation is yet in our power.""O, 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. "Look at that man," said I; "at least he dies like a soldier.""Yes," replied the unfortunate man, with a gasp, "but he has no terrors of the future. He is an unbeliever."
While I was thus engaged, the surgeon, Dr. Van Voorhees, came up. He was badly wounded. His horse was 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 a large reward. Do you think there is any chance?"
"Dr. VanVoorhees," said I, "do not let us waste the few moments that yet remain to us in such vain hopes. Our fate is inevitable. In a few minutes we must appear before the bar of God. Let us make what preparation is yet in our power."
"O, 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. "Look at that man," said I; "at least he dies like a soldier."
"Yes," replied the unfortunate man, with a gasp, "but he has no terrors of the future. He is an unbeliever."
When we read this remarkable dialogue—remarkable as occurring amid the rattle of musketry on a battle-field where the narrators' friends were perishing in a hopeless struggle with an overpowering force of savage foes—we remember that Mrs. Kinzie's book did not assume to be history; was not written as a grave and literal record of things as they were; a statement carefully scrutinized to see that no unjust slur is cast upon any character, even so unimportant a one as the poor wounded, dying surgeon. Mrs. Helm, on the dreadful day, was a mere girl-wife of seventeen years, and was a woman of thirty-seven when Mrs. Kinzie transcribed the artless tale into Wau-Bun, a book which reads like a romance, and was meant so to be read.
The utterance of these admirable sentiments while still in sight of Ensign Ronan, mortally wounded, yet fighting with desperation on one knee, again puts us in doubt asto Mrs. Helm's location on the field; but the next part of her story shows that she was not far from the water.
At this moment a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me. By springing aside I avoided the blow, which was intended for my skull, but which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him around the neck, and while exerting my utmost efforts to get possession of his scalping-knife, which hung in a scabbard over his breast, I was dragged from his grasp by another and an older Indian. The latter bore me struggling and resisting toward the lake. Notwithstanding the rapidity with which I was hurried along, I recognized, as I passed them, the 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 place 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.
At this moment a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me. By springing aside I avoided the blow, which was intended for my skull, but which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him around the neck, and while exerting my utmost efforts to get possession of his scalping-knife, which hung in a scabbard over his breast, I was dragged from his grasp by another and an older Indian. The latter bore me struggling and resisting toward the lake. Notwithstanding the rapidity with which I was hurried along, I recognized, as I passed them, the 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 place 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.
This picturesque narrative of the rescue of a young bride by a friendly Indian, has been justly regarded as the one romantic story connected with that dark and bloody day. It has been the chosen theme of the story-teller, the painter and the sculptor, and its portrayal in perennial bronze forms the theme of the magnificent group which has been designed and modeled by the sculptor, Carl Rohl-Smith, cast in bronze, and presented (June, 1893), with appropriate ceremonies, to the Chicago Historical Society, "in trust for the city and for posterity" as set forth by an inscription on its granite base.[E]
[E]SeeAppendix K.
[E]SeeAppendix K.
Mrs. Helm goes on:
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 andtook off my shoes to free them from the sand with which they were nearly filled, when a squaw seized and bore them off, and I was obliged to proceed without them.When we had gained the prairie [probably at about Twelfth Street] I was met by my father [her step-father, John Kinzie], who told me that my husband was safe, but slightly wounded. They led me gently back toward the Chicago River, along the southern bank of which was the Pottowatomie encampment. At one time I was placed on a horse without a saddle, but finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Supported 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 Wah-bee-nee-mah, a chief from the Illinois River, was standing near, and seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle, dipped up some water from the stream that flowed near [the slough that emptied into the main river at about the south end of State Street bridge], threw into it some maple sugar, and stirring it up with her hand, gave it to me to drink. This act of kindness in the midst of so many horrors touched me most sensibly, but my attention was soon diverted to other objects.The whites had surrendered after the loss of about two-thirds their number. They had stipulated, through the interpreter, Peresh Leclerc, for the preservation of their lives and those of the remaining women and children, and for their delivery at some 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 a horrible scene ensued on their being brought into camp. An old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends, or excited by the sanguinary scenes around her, seemed possessed by a demoniac ferocity. She seized a stable-fork and assaulted one miserable victim who lay groaning and writhing in the agony of his wounds, aggravated by the scorching beams of the sun. With a delicacy of feeling scarcely to have been expected under such circumstances, Wah-bee-nee-mah stretched a mat across two poles, between me and the deadful scene. I was thus spared, in some degree, a view of its horrors, although I could not entirely close my ears to the cries of the sufferer.
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 andtook off my shoes to free them from the sand with which they were nearly filled, when a squaw seized and bore them off, and I was obliged to proceed without them.
When we had gained the prairie [probably at about Twelfth Street] I was met by my father [her step-father, John Kinzie], who told me that my husband was safe, but slightly wounded. They led me gently back toward the Chicago River, along the southern bank of which was the Pottowatomie encampment. At one time I was placed on a horse without a saddle, but finding the motion insupportable, I sprang off. Supported 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 Wah-bee-nee-mah, a chief from the Illinois River, was standing near, and seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle, dipped up some water from the stream that flowed near [the slough that emptied into the main river at about the south end of State Street bridge], threw into it some maple sugar, and stirring it up with her hand, gave it to me to drink. This act of kindness in the midst of so many horrors touched me most sensibly, but my attention was soon diverted to other objects.
The whites had surrendered after the loss of about two-thirds their number. They had stipulated, through the interpreter, Peresh Leclerc, for the preservation of their lives and those of the remaining women and children, and for their delivery at some 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 a horrible scene ensued on their being brought into camp. An old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends, or excited by the sanguinary scenes around her, seemed possessed by a demoniac ferocity. She seized a stable-fork and assaulted one miserable victim who lay groaning and writhing in the agony of his wounds, aggravated by the scorching beams of the sun. With a delicacy of feeling scarcely to have been expected under such circumstances, Wah-bee-nee-mah stretched a mat across two poles, between me and the deadful scene. I was thus spared, in some degree, a view of its horrors, although I could not entirely close my ears to the cries of the sufferer.
The disgrace attaching to the British government in seeking alliance with such savages in a war against civilizedbeings of its own race, is elsewhere fully treated. One can only wish that those cries might have reached the women of all England, instead of falling fruitlessly on those of one poor, exhausted, helpless American girl, and of the red hell-spawn grinning and dancing with delight at the sound.
Such is the tale as first given to the world by Mrs. Kinzie in "Wau-Bun." I will now present the narrative of the same struggle, defeat, surrender and massacre as often told by Mrs. Captain Heald to her son, the Hon. Darius Heald, and by him to me. The two are not, in essentials, contradictory; each completes and rounds out the other.
After giving the account of the peaceable start from the fort (inconsistent with Mrs. Helm's story, already quoted, and less truth-seeming than the latter), she goes on to say:
REBEKAH HEALD'S STORY.
Captain Wells' escort was mounted on Indian ponies. Captain Wells himself was mounted on a thoroughbred. Mrs. Heald and Mrs. Helm were also on horseback, the former on her own beloved Kentucky horse.They advanced, Wells and his escort getting about a quarter of a mile ahead, and were jogging along quietly when all at once they halted, and he turned back and got down pretty close to Captain Heald—perhaps half the distance. He pulled off his hat and swung it around his head once or twice, making a circle. As soon as he saw Wells coming back, Captain Heald said to his wife: "Uncle sees something ahead of him there. There is something wrong." And when he made the circle around his head, Mrs. Heald understood the sign, "We are surrounded by Indians." Captain Wells soon got close enough to shout "We are surrounded by Indians. March up on the sand-ridges. There are sand-ridges we ought to get in behind where we can stand half up and not be seen." Then she saw the Indians' heads "sticking up and down again, here and there, like turtles out of the water." They marched up on the sand-ridges, the wagons being put back next to the lake and the men taking position in front of them.Captain Wells shouted to Captain Heald, "Charge them!" and then led on and broke the ranks of the Indians, who scattered right and left. He then whirled round and charged to the left. This move brought them well out into the country, and they marched onward and took position about two or three hundred yards in front of the wagons and a like distance from the Indians. Captain Heald rather gave way to Captain Wells, knowing his superior excellence in Indian warfare, Wells having been trained from childhood by such warriors as Little Turtle, Tecumseh and Black Hawk; especially by the first two.
Captain Wells' escort was mounted on Indian ponies. Captain Wells himself was mounted on a thoroughbred. Mrs. Heald and Mrs. Helm were also on horseback, the former on her own beloved Kentucky horse.
They advanced, Wells and his escort getting about a quarter of a mile ahead, and were jogging along quietly when all at once they halted, and he turned back and got down pretty close to Captain Heald—perhaps half the distance. He pulled off his hat and swung it around his head once or twice, making a circle. As soon as he saw Wells coming back, Captain Heald said to his wife: "Uncle sees something ahead of him there. There is something wrong." And when he made the circle around his head, Mrs. Heald understood the sign, "We are surrounded by Indians." Captain Wells soon got close enough to shout "We are surrounded by Indians. March up on the sand-ridges. There are sand-ridges we ought to get in behind where we can stand half up and not be seen." Then she saw the Indians' heads "sticking up and down again, here and there, like turtles out of the water." They marched up on the sand-ridges, the wagons being put back next to the lake and the men taking position in front of them.Captain Wells shouted to Captain Heald, "Charge them!" and then led on and broke the ranks of the Indians, who scattered right and left. He then whirled round and charged to the left. This move brought them well out into the country, and they marched onward and took position about two or three hundred yards in front of the wagons and a like distance from the Indians. Captain Heald rather gave way to Captain Wells, knowing his superior excellence in Indian warfare, Wells having been trained from childhood by such warriors as Little Turtle, Tecumseh and Black Hawk; especially by the first two.
Here to the eye of common-sense, whether soldierly or civilian, the battle is already gone—lost beyond salvation. The onus of blame appears to rest on poor Wells, the brave, devoted volunteer. He had learned war in a school that took no account of the supply-train; in the school of individual fighters, living on nothing, saving no wounded or non-combatants; dash, scurry, kill, scalp and run away, every man for himself—and the devil take the hindmost—in other words the Indian system. As to this band of whites, what had it to fight for but its train of wagons with all the helpless ones, all the stores, all the ammunition, all the means of progress and of caring for the wounded? To charge the centre of a brave, unformed rabble which outflanks you is only heroic suicide at best, and when the doing so leaves the train at the mercy of the spreading flanks of the foe, it is fatal madness.
To return to the Heald narrative:
Another charge was made which enabled Captain Wells to get a little closer to the Indians. He had two pistols and a small gun. His bullets and powder were kept in shoulder belts, hung at convenient places, and he generally had an extra bullet in his mouth, which helped him to load fast when necessary. He could pour in a little powder, wad it down, "blow in" the bullet, prime and fire more quickly than one can tell the facts. The Indians broke from him right and left. The hottest part of the battle lasted but a few minutes, but Captain Heald's little band was cut down. He gave the signal for surrender; the chiefs came together and they made a compromise.
Another charge was made which enabled Captain Wells to get a little closer to the Indians. He had two pistols and a small gun. His bullets and powder were kept in shoulder belts, hung at convenient places, and he generally had an extra bullet in his mouth, which helped him to load fast when necessary. He could pour in a little powder, wad it down, "blow in" the bullet, prime and fire more quickly than one can tell the facts. The Indians broke from him right and left. The hottest part of the battle lasted but a few minutes, but Captain Heald's little band was cut down. He gave the signal for surrender; the chiefs came together and they made a compromise.
By this time Wells, Ronan and Van Vorhees were killed, Heald had a bullet in his hip, Mrs. Heald had a half dozen wounds, half the regulars were killed or wounded, and so far as we now know for certain, all twelve militia-men. (A doubt about this last named unexplained mortality, and suggestion as to the probable manner of their death, will be noted later.) Darius Heald could only say:
Afterwards, in talking the matter over, Captain Nathan Heald said that he had no confidence in the Indians, but that he had done the best he could do; that in fifteen minutes more the last man would have been killed, as they had no chance at all; his men were falling rapidly, and he himself was wounded in the hip by a one-ounce ball. That ball was never extracted, and caused his death twenty years afterward.
Afterwards, in talking the matter over, Captain Nathan Heald said that he had no confidence in the Indians, but that he had done the best he could do; that in fifteen minutes more the last man would have been killed, as they had no chance at all; his men were falling rapidly, and he himself was wounded in the hip by a one-ounce ball. That ball was never extracted, and caused his death twenty years afterward.
In any circumstances, one cannot cast blame on a beaten commander, negotiating with his victorious foes, while bleeding from a bullet deep-bedded in his hip-joint. In this case, it is not likely that blame would be due, even if Captain Heald had been unhurt. But for his surrender, the Chicago Massacre would have been, on a small scale, the fore-runner of the great Custer slaughter, where not a white man lived to tell the tale. Every man, woman and child of white blood (except perhaps the Kinzies and Lieutenant Helm), would now be in oblivion almost as if they had never been born. Even the "massacre tree" that stands to-day (1893) in Eighteenth street near the lake, in gaunt, leafless old age, could only have been identified by the bleaching skulls, great and small, which surrounded it when General Cass passed the spot a few years afterward.
Here we take up again Mrs. Heald's personal story:
After the fighting commenced, Mrs. Heald turned back and ascended a little elevation between the army and the wagons. She saw a young, fine-looking officer fall [probably Lieutenant Ronan] and thought it was her husband, and was under this impression until after the fight was over. Just before the surrender, she gotup in range of the bullets coming from Indians on both sides of her. She did not know whether the Indians aimed at her or not, but she was wounded in six places, one hand being rendered helpless, the ball passing between the two bones of her arm. Her son has seen the scar a thousand times.
After the fighting commenced, Mrs. Heald turned back and ascended a little elevation between the army and the wagons. She saw a young, fine-looking officer fall [probably Lieutenant Ronan] and thought it was her husband, and was under this impression until after the fight was over. Just before the surrender, she gotup in range of the bullets coming from Indians on both sides of her. She did not know whether the Indians aimed at her or not, but she was wounded in six places, one hand being rendered helpless, the ball passing between the two bones of her arm. Her son has seen the scar a thousand times.
I have remarked that Mrs. Heald does not mention the presence of Mrs. Helm, nor does the latter that of the former. We judge from this, and from Mrs. Helm's account of her being saved by being plunged in the lake, that the latter remained nearer the shore than did the other.
DEATH OF CAPTAIN WELLS.
Captain Wells, who was shot through the lungs, rode up and took her hand, saying: "Farewell my child." Mrs. Heald said to him: "Why uncle, I hope you will get over this." "No my child," he said, "lean not." He told her he was shot through the lungs, and she saw the blood oozing through his nose and mouth. He still held her hand and talked to her, saying that he could not last five minutes longer. He said: "Tell my wife—if you live to get there, but I think it doubtful if a single one gets there—tell her I died at my post doing the best I could. There are seven red devils over there that I have killed."His horse, which had been shot just behind the girth, then fell and caught Captain Wells' leg under him. As he did so, Captain Wells turned and saw six or seven Indians approaching them. He took aim and fired, killing one of them. They approached still closer, and Mrs. Heald said to him: "Uncle, there is an Indian pointing right at the back of your head." Captain Wells put his hand back and held up his head that better aim might be taken, and then cried "Shoot away!" The Indian fired, the shot being fatal. They then pulled him out from under his horse (Mrs. Heald still seated on her horse near by) and cut his body open, the gashes being in the shape of a cross. They took out his heart, placed it on a gun-stick and whirled it round and round, yelling like fiends. The noise drew other Indians to the spot and they then commenced cutting up the heart and eating it. They crowded around and the bleeding heart was thrust forward at one after another.Finally an Indian cut off a piece, held it up to Mrs. Heald and insisted on her eating it. She shook her head. He then daubed her face with it. She shook her fist at him. Then they calledher "Epeconier! Epeconier!" this being their name for Captain Wells—thus signifying that she was a Wells—a person full of pluck and fortitude.
Captain Wells, who was shot through the lungs, rode up and took her hand, saying: "Farewell my child." Mrs. Heald said to him: "Why uncle, I hope you will get over this." "No my child," he said, "lean not." He told her he was shot through the lungs, and she saw the blood oozing through his nose and mouth. He still held her hand and talked to her, saying that he could not last five minutes longer. He said: "Tell my wife—if you live to get there, but I think it doubtful if a single one gets there—tell her I died at my post doing the best I could. There are seven red devils over there that I have killed."
His horse, which had been shot just behind the girth, then fell and caught Captain Wells' leg under him. As he did so, Captain Wells turned and saw six or seven Indians approaching them. He took aim and fired, killing one of them. They approached still closer, and Mrs. Heald said to him: "Uncle, there is an Indian pointing right at the back of your head." Captain Wells put his hand back and held up his head that better aim might be taken, and then cried "Shoot away!" The Indian fired, the shot being fatal. They then pulled him out from under his horse (Mrs. Heald still seated on her horse near by) and cut his body open, the gashes being in the shape of a cross. They took out his heart, placed it on a gun-stick and whirled it round and round, yelling like fiends. The noise drew other Indians to the spot and they then commenced cutting up the heart and eating it. They crowded around and the bleeding heart was thrust forward at one after another.
Finally an Indian cut off a piece, held it up to Mrs. Heald and insisted on her eating it. She shook her head. He then daubed her face with it. She shook her fist at him. Then they calledher "Epeconier! Epeconier!" this being their name for Captain Wells—thus signifying that she was a Wells—a person full of pluck and fortitude.
So nobly perished one of the best and bravest frontiers-men, fighting where he had been summoned by sympathy and affection, not by the orders of any superior officer. No knight ever set lance in rest under a more purely chivalric impulse than did this plain, pretending, half-educated pioneer. Two hundred and fifty miles away he had heard the warning note of peril, seen the fair young face of his brother's daughter (she who long before had sought him out among his savage captors and restored him to his kins-folk), and felt the impulse of manly self-devotion to save her and her friends from impending doom. He obeyed the noble impulse and—he died like a man, and somewhere beneath our thoughtless footsteps his bones lie buried.[F]
[F]Chicago should not be without a statue of this early hero, martyred in her service. A miniature exists purporting to give his features, and as to his form, that could be easily reproduced from description, while his Indian dress would serve to give grace and dignity to the work. Among the first streets named, when the village of Chicago was laid out (1831), was one called after him—for he was not yet forgotten. Part of the street-the stretch north of the river—still retains the great name, but the most important portion, that traversing the business heart of the city, has been arbitrarily changed to "Fifth Avenue," there being no Fourth or Sixth Avenue adjoining it on either side to excuse the ungrateful, barbarous innovation.
[F]Chicago should not be without a statue of this early hero, martyred in her service. A miniature exists purporting to give his features, and as to his form, that could be easily reproduced from description, while his Indian dress would serve to give grace and dignity to the work. Among the first streets named, when the village of Chicago was laid out (1831), was one called after him—for he was not yet forgotten. Part of the street-the stretch north of the river—still retains the great name, but the most important portion, that traversing the business heart of the city, has been arbitrarily changed to "Fifth Avenue," there being no Fourth or Sixth Avenue adjoining it on either side to excuse the ungrateful, barbarous innovation.
In the Calumet Club is preserved the identical hatchet worn by Captain Wells during the last fight, with authenticating documents furnished by James Madison Wolcott, of South Toledo, Ohio, his grandson by his wife Wa-nan-ga-peth (daughter of Me-che-kan-nah-quah or Little Turtle) through his daughter Ah-mah-qua-zah-quah ("A sweet breeze"), who married Judge James Wolcott. It is related that Wa-nan-ga-peth received the news of her husband's death from a stranger Indian who entered, told the message, laid down the hatchet in token of its truth, and departed, unknown as he came.
This narrative of the fight itself, as seen by Mrs. Heald and related to me by her son, is marked by a style of severe simplicity and good faith that seems to command confidence in the mind of the reader. There is no point in the artless story where one is compelled to pause and make a mental allowance for the bias of the narrator, for her excitement and the uncertainty such a state of mind might throw over her accuracy, or even for the errors (save those of omission) which the lapse of years might have caused. All seems natural, unforced and trustworthy. The story goes on:
In the meantime her horse, which had become excited during the tumult by the smell of blood, commenced prancing around, and an Indian took him by the bit and led him down to the corral, or Indian camp near the fort. [This was on the banks of a slough which entered the river at about where State Street bridge now stands.] Approaching them, an Indian squaw caught sight of the bright-red blanket which was girted on over Mrs. Heald's saddle, for camping purposes, and immediately attempted to take it for her own. Mrs. Heald resisted vigorously, and although one hand was entirely useless and the other badly injured, she took her switch and with it struck the squaw such hard blows that "white welts were raised on her red hide." After this exhibition of spirit, the Indian who had hold of the horse's bit again shouted, "Epeconier! Epeconier!" and it is probably this display of daring which saved Mrs. Heald's life, and perhaps her husband's also.
In the meantime her horse, which had become excited during the tumult by the smell of blood, commenced prancing around, and an Indian took him by the bit and led him down to the corral, or Indian camp near the fort. [This was on the banks of a slough which entered the river at about where State Street bridge now stands.] Approaching them, an Indian squaw caught sight of the bright-red blanket which was girted on over Mrs. Heald's saddle, for camping purposes, and immediately attempted to take it for her own. Mrs. Heald resisted vigorously, and although one hand was entirely useless and the other badly injured, she took her switch and with it struck the squaw such hard blows that "white welts were raised on her red hide." After this exhibition of spirit, the Indian who had hold of the horse's bit again shouted, "Epeconier! Epeconier!" and it is probably this display of daring which saved Mrs. Heald's life, and perhaps her husband's also.
Rebekah Wells Heald was evidently worthy of her name. Daughter of Captain Samuel Wells, niece of Captain William Wells, wife of Captain Nathan Heald, she was a woman whom the sight of blood could not daunt, the smart of wounds weaken, or the fear of bereavement subdue. (For many hours after the battle she supposed herself a widow.) Her son Darius (her mouthpiece in this narrative) was not born until nine years after that dreadful day; and now (1893), in his seventy-third year, he shows the family form and spirit. Tall, stalwart, erect and dignified, he is a typical southern-westerner, amighty hunter in the past and a tower of patriarchal strength in his old age.
When she was brought in, after being captured and led down among the Indians, she was stripped of her jewelry—rings, breast-pin, ear-rings and comb. She was badly wounded, and was cared for that night (the fifteenth of August) as tenderly as a sister, by two or three squaws and one French woman, who did everything in their power to relieve her. She saw nothing of her jewelry till the next morning, when a brave made his appearance and pranced around, taking great pains to shew that he was wearing her comb in his scalp-lock—a performance fraught with difficulties, as he had hardly enough hair to keep it in, and found it necessary to push it back from time to time to prevent it from falling to the ground. Poor black Cicely she never saw again[G]. She had perished with the rest. Her horse, too, was gone forever.
When she was brought in, after being captured and led down among the Indians, she was stripped of her jewelry—rings, breast-pin, ear-rings and comb. She was badly wounded, and was cared for that night (the fifteenth of August) as tenderly as a sister, by two or three squaws and one French woman, who did everything in their power to relieve her. She saw nothing of her jewelry till the next morning, when a brave made his appearance and pranced around, taking great pains to shew that he was wearing her comb in his scalp-lock—a performance fraught with difficulties, as he had hardly enough hair to keep it in, and found it necessary to push it back from time to time to prevent it from falling to the ground. Poor black Cicely she never saw again[G]. She had perished with the rest. Her horse, too, was gone forever.
[G]Seepage 70.
[G]Seepage 70.
This horse was a thoroughbred, the same one that Mrs. Heald, as a bride, had ridden from Kentucky a year before. The Indians had always looked on it with envious eyes, and had employed all means, lawful and otherwise, to get it from the fort. Now it was theirs by conquest, and no later efforts availed to recover it. Doubtless among its new owners its fate was hard and its life short. One winter of starvation, exposure and abuse would "hang its hide on the fence," even while its wretched Indian-pony companions were living on in stubborn endurance.
It turned out afterwards that the Indians took their booty down to Peoria, to sell and "trade" for whisky, and it found its way quickly to St. Louis, where Colonel O'Fallon recognized a great deal as belonging to the Healds, and redeemed it and sent it to Colonel Samuel Wells at the Falls of the Ohio [Louisville] as a memento of his daughter and her husband, both supposed to be dead. It reached there before the Healds did, and the articles are now in possession of the family; most of them were shown by Hon. Darius Heald in Chicago, in 1892, when the before-mentioned short-hand transcript of his mother's story was made, and he and his precious relics were photographed, making a picture hereinafter presented. (SeeAppendix E.)The Indian who led Captain Heald down to the camp and claimed him as his prisoner, was a half-breed named Chandonnais.He afterward found that Mrs. Heald was still alive, and, it is supposed, ransomed her from her captor; for, on the morning of the sixteenth, he brought the husband and wife together. He seems to have connived at the escape of both, for they found the matter wonderfully easy—boat and escort at hand and all oversight withdrawn. Years afterward, in 1831, Chandonnais visited the Healds at their home, near O'Fallon, Missouri, and Darius Heald remembers his father's meeting and greeting the brave who had so nobly rescued them. It is thought that the Indians went off down the lake to have "a general frolic"—in other words, torture to death the wounded prisoners.
It turned out afterwards that the Indians took their booty down to Peoria, to sell and "trade" for whisky, and it found its way quickly to St. Louis, where Colonel O'Fallon recognized a great deal as belonging to the Healds, and redeemed it and sent it to Colonel Samuel Wells at the Falls of the Ohio [Louisville] as a memento of his daughter and her husband, both supposed to be dead. It reached there before the Healds did, and the articles are now in possession of the family; most of them were shown by Hon. Darius Heald in Chicago, in 1892, when the before-mentioned short-hand transcript of his mother's story was made, and he and his precious relics were photographed, making a picture hereinafter presented. (SeeAppendix E.)
The Indian who led Captain Heald down to the camp and claimed him as his prisoner, was a half-breed named Chandonnais.He afterward found that Mrs. Heald was still alive, and, it is supposed, ransomed her from her captor; for, on the morning of the sixteenth, he brought the husband and wife together. He seems to have connived at the escape of both, for they found the matter wonderfully easy—boat and escort at hand and all oversight withdrawn. Years afterward, in 1831, Chandonnais visited the Healds at their home, near O'Fallon, Missouri, and Darius Heald remembers his father's meeting and greeting the brave who had so nobly rescued them. It is thought that the Indians went off down the lake to have "a general frolic"—in other words, torture to death the wounded prisoners.
Here arises before the mind's eye the dim and cloudy vision of horror, the acme of the tragedy, all the more appalling for its shrouding mystery. It makes the flesh creep and the hair stand on end. It sears the heart against the race whereof it was the inborn nature to feel in the eyes a love for the sight of mortal agony, in the ears an eagerness for the shriek of despairing anguish.
The wounded not included! The helpless picked out for torture! The inflamed hurts to be deepened with a pitchfork and perhaps further and mortally inflamed with a burning brand! Kindly Nature's passing lethargy to be quickened into conscious death in frantic anguish!
The twelve militia-men are never again mentioned. They are as if they had never been born, lived and toiled, never volunteered, never served, fought and fell. How is this to be accounted for? Why should their mortality be twice as great as that of the regulars? Darkness hides the answer; but it seems not unlikely that the same hellish ingenuity which held that "the wounded were not included," may also have held that men not wearing the uniform were not protected by the capitulation, and so they perished at the stake, surrounded by the "general frolic" which occupied the savages, good and bad, friendly and inimical, during the flight of the Healds and Kinzies.
There was no place on earth for a race which, through all its history, had found delight in the spectacle of pain, which inflicted torture, not as a means leading to some ulterior object, but as itself a source of joy and gladness. The race is still in existence, but the inhuman part of its characteristics are being refined away, leaving some of its best traits in the more advanced of its present representatives. Later on in this volume mention is made of its standing and its prospects at this time.
Now to take up again the Wau-Bun narrative. The torturing incident, already given, evidently ends the story of Mrs. Helm's personal experiences; all that follows being what others professed to have seen. Yet (possibly by typographical error) the quotation marks, which began with the narration, are continued much further on, including paragraphs wherein she is spoken of in the third person. (See later.) Mrs Helm says: