The Mohegans then numbered a little more than one hundred, only one of whom was a professor of religion. She was ninety-seven years of age. In her hut the first prayer-meeting and the first Sunday-school gathered by these young ladies, was held.
Miss Breed soon removed from that part of the country, and Miss Huntington continued her labors for awhile alone. She was at that time very active in securing the formation of a society and the circulation of a subscription, having for their object the erection of a chapel. She found, ere long, a faithful co-worker in Miss Elizabeth Raymond. They taught a school in conjunction, and, aside from their duties as teachers, were, at times, "advisers, counsellors, law-givers, milliners, mantua-makers, tailoresses, and almoners."
The school was kept in a house on Fort Hill, leased to a respectable farmer, in whose family the young teachers boarded by alternate weeks, each going to the scene of labor every other Sunday morning, and remaining till the evening of the succeeding Sunday, so that both were present in the Sunday-school, which was twice as large as the other.
A single incident will serve to show the dauntless resolution which Miss Huntington carried into her pursuits. Just at the expiration of one of her terms of service, during the winter, a heavy and tempestuous snow blocked up the roads with such high drifts that a friend, who had been accustomed to go for her and convey her home in bad weather, had started for this purpose in his sleigh, but turned back, discouraged. No path had been broken, and the undertaking was so hazardous that he conceived no woman would venture forth at such a time. He therefore called at her father's house to say that he should delay going for her till the next day. What was his surprise to be met at the door by the young lady herself, who had reached home just before, having walked the whole distance on the hard crust of snow,alone, and some of the way over banks of snow that entirely obliterated the walls and fences by the roadside.
While at Mohegan, Miss Huntington corresponded with the Hon. Lewis Cass, then Secretary of War, and secured his influence and the aid of that department. In 1832, a grant of nine hundred dollars was made from the fund devoted to the Indian Department, five hundred being appropriated towards the erection of missionary buildings, and four for the support of a teacher.
Before leaving the Mohegan for a wider field, this devoted and courageous missionary had the happiness of seeing a chapel, parsonage, and school-house standing on "the sequestered land" of her forest friends, and had thus partially repaid the debt of social and moral obligation to a tribe who fed the first and famishing settlers in Connecticut, who strove to protect them against the tomahawk of inimical tribes, and whose whoop was friendly to freedom when British aggressors were overriding American rights.
In most of the missionary movements among the Indian tribes on our frontier, from the time of the Apostle, John Eliot, to the present, woman has taken, directly or indirectly, an active part. In the mission schools at Stockbridge and Hanover; among the Narragansetts, the Senecas, the Iroquois, the Cherokees, the Choctaws, the Creeks, and many other tribes, we see her, as a missionary's wife, with one hand sustaining her husband in his trying labors, while with the other she bears the blessed gospel—a light to the tawny Gentiles of our American wilderness. This passing tribute is due to these devout and zealous sisters. Their lives were passed far from their homes and kindred, amid an unceasing round of labors and trials, and not seldom they met a martyr's death at the hands of those whom they were seeking to benefit.
The following record of a passage in the life of a faithful minister and his wife, when about to leave a beloved people and enter on the missionary work, will show how hard it is for woman to sunder the ties that bind her to her home, and go she knows not where, and yet with what childlike trust she enters that perilous and difficult field of effort to which she is called.
"My dear good wife seems more than usually depressed at the thought of leaving the many friends who have endeared themselves to her by their kind offices. It is hard enough for me to break the bands of love that a year's tender intercourse with the people has thrown around my heart. But this I could bear, if other and gentler hearts than mine were not made to suffer; if other and dearer ties than those I have formed had not to be broken. My wife is warm in her attachments. She loves companionship. On every new field where our changing lot is cast, she forms intimate friendships with those who are of a like spirit with herself, if such are to be found. Sometimes she meets none to whom she can open her heart of hearts—none who can sympathize with her. But here it has been different. She has found companions and friends—lovers of the good, true, and beautiful, with whom she has often taken sweet counsel. To part with these and go, where and among whom she cannot tell, is indeed a hard trial. I passed through her room a little while ago, and saw her sitting by the bed, leaning her arm upon it, with her head upon her hand, and looking pensively out upon the beautiful landscape that stretches far away in varied woodland, meadow, glittering stream, and distant mountain. There was a tear upon her cheek. This little messenger from within, telling of a sad heart, touched my feelings.
"Mary," said I; sitting down by her side, and taking her hand in one of mine, while with the other I pointed upward, "He will go with us, and He is our best and kindest friend. If we would wear the crown, we must endure the cross. 'For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding weight of glory.' We are only pilgrims and sojourners here; but our mission is a high and holy one—ever to save the souls of our fellow-men. Think of that, Mary. Would you linger here when our Master calls us away, to labor somewhere else in His vineyard? Think of the Lord, when upon earth. Remember how He suffered for us. Hear Him say, 'The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head.' And shall the servant be greater than his Master?"
"I know I am but a poor, weak, murmuring creature," she said, looking up into my face, with overflowing eyes. "But I ask daily for grace to make me resigned to His holy will. I do not wish to remain here when I know it is the Lord who calls me away. Still my weak heart cannot help feeling pain at the thought of parting from our dear little home and our good friends who have been so kind to us, and going, I know not whither. My woman's heart is weak, while my faith is strong. Thus far the Lord has been better to me than all my fears. Why, then, should I hold back, and feel so reluctant to enter the path His wisdom points out? I know if He were to lead me to prison, or to death, that it would be good for me. If He were to slay me, yet would I trust in him."
When we compare the greatness of the ends secured, with the smartness of the means employed, a review of the results of the Moravian Missions, throughout the heathen world, will strike us with astonishment.
The character of the Moravian women peculiarly fitted them for the work. They were a mixed race. The fiery enthusiasm of the Sclaves was in them blended with the steadfast energy and patient docility of the Germans. The fire of their natures was a holy fire—a lambent flame which lighted but did not destroy. Their creed was one of love; it was ajoyful persuasionof their interest in Christ and their title to His purchased salvation. Here, then, we have the key to the success which attended the Moravian Missions in all parts of the world. They brought the heathen to the feet of Christ by the spirit of love; they faced every danger and endured every hardship in the cause of their Master, for theirs' was ajoyful persuasion. They were the "Herrenhutters," the soldiers of the Lord, and yet in their lives they were representatives of the Prince of Peace, and sought to gather about them in this life the emblems of heaven.
It was before the middle of the last century that those gentle and pious brothers and sisters commenced their especial labors among the North American Indians, and to-day those labors have not ceased.
The story of these Moravian Missions for nearly a century is one long religious epic poem, full of action, suffering, battle, bereavement,—all illumined with the dauntless, fervent, Christ-like spirit which bore these gentle ministers along their high career. Their principal field of labor for the first forty years was Pennsylvania, where they established missionary stations at Bethlehem, Gnadenhutten, (tents of grace,) Nazareth, Friedenshutten, (tents of peace,) Wechquetank, and many other places.
The settlement at Gnadenhutten was the most important and the most interesting, historically considered, of all the stations. Here the Moravian brothers and sisters showed themselves at their best, and that is saying much. Assuming every burden, making every sacrifice, and performing the hardest service, they at the same time displayed consummate tact and address in conciliating their red brethren, taking their meals in common with them, and even adopting the Indian, costume.
In a short time Gnadenhutten became a regular and pleasant town. The church, stood in a valley. On one side were the Indian houses, in the form of a crescent, upon a rising ground; on the other, the houses of the missionaries and a burying-ground. The Indians labored diligently in the fields, one of which was allotted to each family; and as these became too small, the brethren purchased a neighboring plantation and erected a saw-mill. Hunting, however, continued to be their usual occupation. As this is a precarious mode of subsistence, a supply of provisions was constantly forwarded from Bethlehem. The congregation increased by degrees to about five hundred persons. A new place of worship was opened and a school established. The place was visited by many heathen Indians, who were struck with the order, and happiness of the converts, and were prepared to think favorably of the Christian religion.
Besides laboring with unwearied diligence at Gnadenhutten, the brethren made frequent journeys among the Indians in other parts. Several establishments were attempted, among which one was at Shomoken, on the Susquehanna river. This was attended with great expense, as every necessary of life was carried from Bethlehem. The missionaries were likewise in constant danger of their lives from the drunken frolics of the natives. They visited Onondaga, the chief town of the Iroquois, and the seat of their great council, and obtained permission for two of them to settle there and learn the language. They went, but suffered much from want, being obliged to hunt, or seek roots in the forest, for subsistence.
The missionaries' wives united with their husbands in these arduous labors in the wilderness, and their kind offices and gentle ways did much to render the missionary work entirely effectual.
Under such auspices for eight years, Gnadenhutten was the smiling abode of peace, happiness, and prosperity. The good work was bringing forth its legitimate fruits. A large Indian congregation was being instructed in the Word and prepared to disseminate the doctrines of Christ among their heathen brethren, when the din of the French and Indian war was heard on the border. The Moravians in their various settlements were soon surrounded literally with circles of blood and flame. Some of them fled eastward to the larger towns; others sought concealment in the depths of the forest or on the mountains.
The Brethren at Bethlehem and Gnadenhutten resolved to stand at their post.Slowly the fiery circles encompassed them closely and more closely tillNovember, 1755, when the long expected bolt fell.
The missionaries with their wives and families were assembled in one house partaking of their evening meal, when a party of French Indians approached. Hearing the barking of the dogs, Senseman, one of the Brethren, went to the back door and others at the same time hearing the report of a gun rushed to the front door, where they were met by a band of hideously painted savages with guns pointed ready to fire the moment the door was opened.
The Rev. Martin Nitschman fell dead in the doorway. His wife and others were wounded, but fled with the rest up to the garret and barricaded the door with bedsteads. One of the Brethren escaped by jumping out of a back window, and another who was ill in bed did the same though a guard stood before his door. The savages now pursued those who had taken, refuge in the garret, and strove hard to break in the door, but finding it too well secured, they set fire to the house. It was instantly in flames.
At this time a boy called Sturgeous, standing upon the flaming roof, ventured to leap off, and thus escaped. A ball had previously grazed his cheek, and one side of his head was much burnt. Mr. Partsch likewise leaped from the roof while on fire, unhurt and unobserved. Fabricius made the same attempt, but was brought down by two balls, seized alive and scalped. All the rest, eleven in number, were burned to death. Senseman, who first went out, had the inexpressible grief of seeing his wife perish in the flames.
Mrs. Partsch, who had escaped, could not, through fear and trembling, go far, but hid herself behind a tree upon a hill near the house. From this place the gentle sister of that forlorn band gazed trembling and with ghastly features upon that scene of fire and butchery. She saw her beloved brethren and sisters dragged forth and shot or tomahawked. Before the breath had left their bodies she saw the scalps torn from their heads, some of the wounded women kneeling and imploring for mercy in vain. The burning house was the funeral pyre from which the loving spirit of Mrs. Senseman took its flight to eternal rest. Gazing through the windows which the fire now illumined with a lurid glare, she saw Mrs. Senseman surrounded by flames standing with arms folded and exclaiming—"'Tis all well, dear Saviour!"
One of the closing scenes in the history of the protracted toils and sufferings of the missionaries of Gnadenhutten, is of thrilling and tragical interest. Ninety-six of the Indian converts having been treacherously lured from the settlement, and taken prisoners, by hostile Indians and white renegades, were told that they must prepare for death. Then was displayed a calmness and courage worthy of the early Christian martyrs. Kneeling down in that dreadful hour; those unfortunate Indian believers prayed fervently to the God of all; then rising they suffered themselves to be led unresistingly to the place appointed for them to die. The last sounds that could be heard before the awful butchery was finished were the prayers and praises of the Indian women, of whom there were forty, thus testifying their unfaltering trust in the promise taught them by their white sisters—the devoted Moravians of Gnadenhutten.
Of all that devout and heroic bands of men and women who have undertaken to bear the hardships and face the dangers of our American wilderness, for the special purpose of carrying the Gospel of peace, love, and brotherhood to the benighted denizen of our American forests, none have exhibited more signal courage, patience, and devotion than the companies which first selected Oregon as their special field of labor.
In order to properly estimate the appliances and dangers of this enterprise, the Oregon field must be surveyed, not from our present point of view, when steam locomotive power on land and water has brought that distant region within comparatively easy reach; when the hands of the State and National Government have grown strong to defend, and can be stretched a thousand leagues in an hour to punish, if the lightning brings tidings of wrong; when a multitude of well-ordered communities have power and lawful authority to protect their citizens; and when peace and comfort are the accompaniments, and a competency is the reward of industry.
How different was the view of Oregon presented to the eye in 1834! A vast tract of wilderness, covering an area of more than three hundred thousand square miles, composed of sterile wastes, unbroken forests, and almost impassable ranges of mountains, presenting a constant succession of awful precipices, rugged crags, and yawning chasms, and traversed by rapid torrents, emptying into rivers full of perils to the navigator. This mighty expanse was roamed by more than thirty different Indian tribes; the only white inhabitants being at the few posts and settlements of the Hudson Bay Company. The different routes by which this region could be reached presented to the traveler a dilemma, either side of which was full of difficulty.
The water route was nearly twenty thousand miles in length, and involved a long and perilous voyage round Cape Horn. The land route was across the continent, through the gorges and over the precipices of the Rocky Mountains, up and down the dangerous rivers, and among numerous bloodthirsty tribes. Such was the opening prospect offered to the eye of religious enterprise, when the question of the mission to Oregon was first agitated.
It is something more than forty years since the "Macedonian Cry" was heard from the dark mountains and savage plains of that far country, startling the Christian church in America. The thrill of the appeal made by the delegation of Flathead Indians, was electric, and fired the churches of all the principal denominations with a spirit of noble emulation.
Dr. Marcus Whitman, and Mrs. Whitman, his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Spaulding, were among the earliest to respond to the appeal. In 1836 they crossed the continent, scaled the Rocky Mountains, and penetrated to the heart of the wild region which was to be the scene of their heroic labors, crowned at length by a martyr's death.
Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Spaulding, it should be remembered, were the first white women that ever crossed that mighty range which nature seems to have intended as a barrier against the aggressive westward march of the Anglo-Saxon race.
Strong indeed must have been the impelling motive which carried these two weak women over that rugged barrier!
Mr. and Mrs. Gray, Mr. and Mrs. Clark, Mr. and Mrs. Littlejohn, Mr. andMrs. Smith, and the Lees came next, pursuing their toilsome march over thesame mountain ranges, and closely behind them came Mr. and Mrs. Griffin andMr. and Mrs. Munger.
The story of the adventures and difficulties passed through by these missionary bands in forcing their way over the mountains, would fill volumes. Their way lay sometimes over almost inaccessible crags, and at others, through gloomy and tangled forests, and as they descended, the snow increased in depth, and they felt the effects of the increasing cold very keenly. The only living things which they saw were a few mountain goats. Sometimes chasms yawned at their feet, and they were forced to go out of their course twenty miles before they could cross. Once one of the ladies wandered from the party in search of mountain ferns. She was soon missed, and one of the guides was sent back to search for her. After a short quest they found her tracks in the snow, which they followed till they came to acrevasse, through which she had slipped and fallen sixty feet into a monstrous drift, where she was floundering and shouting feebly for help.
With some difficulty she was extricated unhurt from this perilous situation.
When their day's journey was ended, they had also to encamp on the snow, beating down the selected spot previously, till it would bear a man on the surface without sinking. The fire was kindled on logs of green timber, and the beds were made of pine-branches. All alike laid on the snow.
One of the peculiar dangers to which they were exposed, were the mountain torrents, which in that region were impassable often for the stoutest swimmer; and this danger became magnified when they reached the upper Columbia River, which they were obliged to navigate in boats. At one particular spot in the course of their voyage they narrowly escaped a serious disaster.
The Columbia is, at the spot alluded to, contracted into a passage of one hundred and fifty yards, by lofty rocks on either side, through which it rushes with tremendous violence, forming whirlpools in its passage capable of engulphing the largest forest trees, which are afterwards disgorged with great force. This is one of the most dangerous places that boats have to pass. In going up the river the boats are all emptied, and the freight has to be carried about half a mile over the tops of the high and rugged rocks. In coming down, all remain in the boats; and the guides, in this perilous pass, display the greatest courage and presence of mind, at moments when the slightest error in managing their frail bark would hurl its occupants to certain destruction. On arriving at the head of the rapids, the guide gets out on the rocks and surveys the whirlpools. If they are filtering in—or "making," as they term it—the men rest on their paddles until they commence throwing off, when the guides instantly reembark, and shove off the boat and shoot through this dread portal with the speed of lightning.
Sometimes the boats are whirled round in the vortex with such awful rapidity that renders all management of the vessel impossible, and the boat and its hapless crew are swallowed up in the abyss. One of the party had got out of the boat, preparing to walk, when looking back he saw one of the other boats containing two of the ladies, in a dangerous situation, having struck, in the midst of the rapids, upon the rocks, which had stove in her side.
The conduct of the men in this instance, evinced great presence of mind. The instant the boat struck they had sprung on the gunwale next the rock, and by their united weight kept her lying upon it. The water foamed and raged round them with fearful violence. Had she slipped off, they must all have been dashed to pieces amongst the rocks and rapids below; as it was, they managed to maintain their position until the crew of the other boat, which had run the rapids safely, had unloaded and dragged the empty boat up the rapids again. They then succeeded in throwing a line to their hapless companions. But there was still great danger to be encountered, lest in hauling the empty boat towards them they might pull themselves off the rock. They, at length, however, succeeded by cautious management in getting the boat alongside, and in embarking in safety. A moment afterwards their own boat slipped from the rock, and was dashed to pieces. Everything that floated they picked up afterwards.
The same noble spirit which carried Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Spaulding, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Littlejohn, Mrs. Clark, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Munger, Mrs. Griffin, and their coadjutors across our continent on their lofty errand, also inspired another band of gospel messengers to move in the same great enterprise.
Dr. White of New York, and his wife, were prominent in this latter movement. Their immediate company consisted of thirteen individuals, five of whom were women, viz.: Mrs. White, Mrs. Beers, Miss Downing, Miss Johnson, and Miss Pitman. These ladies were all admirably fitted both physically and mentally for the enterprise in which they were embarked.
Mrs. White was a lady in whom were blended quiet resolution, a high sense of duty, and great sensibility. When her husband informed her one cold night, in the winter of 1836, that there was a call for them from Oregon; that the Board of Missions advertised for a clergyman, physician, etc., etc., and as he could act in the capacity of doctor, he thought it might be well to respond thereto. She did not immediately answer; and looking up, he was surprised to find her weeping. This seemed to him singular, as her disposition was so unusually cheerful, and it was seldom there was a trace of tears to be found upon her cheek, especially, as he thought, for so trivial a cause. In some confusion and mortification, he begged her not to allow his words to cause her uneasiness. Still she wept in silence, till, after a pause of several moments, she struggled for composure seated herself by his side, extended her hand for the paper, and twice looking over the notice, remarked, that if he could so arrange his affairs as to render it consistent for him to go to Oregon, she would place no obstacle in his way, and with her mother's consent would willingly accompany him.
Dr. White offered his services to the Board of Missions, they were accepted, and he was requested to be in readiness to sail in a few weeks, from Boston via the Sandwich Islands, to Oregon. Mrs. White still retained her determination to accompany her husband, though till she saw the appointment and its publication, she scarcely realized the possibility of a necessity for her doing so. The thought that they were now to leave, probably for ever, their dear home, and dearer friends, was a sad one, and she shed tears of regret though not of reluctance to go. She pictured to herself her mother's anguish, at what must be very like consigning her only daughter to the grave.
The anticipated separation from that mother, who had nursed her so tenderly and loved her with that tireless, changeless affection which the maternal heart only knows, filled her with sorrow. However, by a fortunate coincidence they were spared the painful scene they had feared, and obtained her consent with little difficulty. When they visited her, for that purpose, she had just been reading for the first time the life of Mrs. Judson; and the example of this excellent lady had so interested her that when the project was laid before her she listened with comparative calmness, and, though somewhat astonished, was willing they should go where duty led them. This in some measure relieved Mrs. White, and with a lightened heart and more composure she set about the necessary preparations.
In a short time all was in readiness, the last farewell wept, rather than spoken, the last yearning look lingered on cherished objects, and they were on their way to Oregon.
On the day that their eldest son was one year old, they embarked fromBoston.
That their adieus were sorrowful may not be doubted, indeed this or any other word in our language is inadequate to describe the emotions of the party. As the pilot-boat dropped at the stern of the vessel, its occupants waved their handkerchiefs and simultaneously began singing a farewell "Missionary Hymn." The effect was electric; some rushed to the side in agony as though they would recall the departed ones and return with them to their native land. Others covered their faces, and tears streamed through their trembling fingers, and sobs shook the frames of even strong men. They thought not of formalities in that hour; it was not a shame for the sterner sex to weep. The forms of their friends fast lessened in the distance, and at last their boat looked like a speck on the wave, and the sweet cadences of that beautiful song faintly rolling along to their hearing, like the sigh of an angel, were the last sounds that reached them, from the home of civilization.
With hushed respiration, bowed heads, and straining ears, they listened to its low breathings now wafted gently and soothingly to them on the breeze, then dying away, and finally lost in the whisperings of wind and waves.
For weeks did it haunt their slumbers while tossing upon the treacherous deep. And it came not alone; for with it were fair visions of parents, home, brothers, and sisters, joyous childhood and youth, and everything they had known at home floated in vivid pictures before them touching them as by the fairy pencil of the dream-angel.
The voyage was a protracted one. But the close relationship into which they were brought served to knit together the bonds of Christian fellowship, and inspire them with a oneness of purpose in carrying out their noble enterprise. Immediately on arriving at their field of labor they entered on their first work, viz.: that of establishing communities. In that almost unbroken wilderness, cabins were erected, the ground prepared for tillage, and steps were taken towards the building of a saw and grist-mill. The Indians were conciliated, and a mission-school for their instruction was established. The party received constant accessions to their numbers as the months rolled away, and opened communication with the other mission-colonies in the territory.
During the summer the ladies divided their labors; the school of Indians was taught by Miss Johnson; Miss Downing (now Mrs. Shepherd) attended to the cutting, making, and repairing of the clothing for the young Indians, as well as these for the children of the missionaries; Mrs. White and Miss Pitman (now Mrs. Jason Lee) superintended the domestic matters of the little colony.
In September, Mr. and Mrs. Leslie, three daughters, and Mr. Perkins thefiancéof Miss Johnson, joined them. The family was now enlarged to sixty members. Dr. and Mrs. White removed into their new cabin—a mile distant. Here ensued a repetition of trials, privations, and hardships, such as they had already endured in their former habitation.
Their cabin was a rude affair, scarcely more than a shanty, without a chimney, and with only roof enough to cover a bed; a few loose boards served for a floor; one side of the house was entirely unenclosed, and all their cooking had to be done in the open air, in the few utensils which they had at hand.
One by one these deficiencies, with much toil and difficulty, were supplied; a tolerably close roof and walls shielded them measurably from the autumn tempests; a new chimney carried up about half the smoke generated from the green fuel with which the fireplace was filled; the hearth, made of clay and wood-ashes, was, however, a standing eyesore to Mrs. White, who appears to have been a notable housewife, as it did not admit of washing, and had to be renewed every two or three months.
These were discomforts indeed, but nothing compared with another annoyance to which they were nightly subject—that part of the territory where they lived being infested by black wolves of the fiercest species. Their situation was so lonely, and Doctor White's absences were so frequent, that Mrs. White was greatly terrified every night by the frightful howlings of these ferocious marauders.
One night Doctor White left home to visit Mr. Shepherd, who was ill, and some of the sick mission children. Mrs. White, while awaiting his return, suddenly heard a burst of prolonged howling from the depths of the forest through which the Doctor would have to pass on his return homeward. The howls were continued with all the eagerness which showed that the brutes were close upon their prey. She flew to the yard, and in the greatest terror, besought the two hired men to fly to her husband's rescue.
They laughed at her fears, and endeavored to reason her into composure. But the horrid din continued. Through the wild chorus she fancied she heard a human voice faintly calling for help. Unable longer to restrain her excited feelings, she snatched up a long pair of cooper's compasses—the first weapon that offered itself—and sallied out into the woods, accompanied by the men, armed with rifles.
They ran swiftly, the diapason of the howls guiding them in the proper course, and in a few moments they came to a large tree, round which a pack of hungry monsters had collected, and were baying in full chorus, jumping up and snapping their jaws at a man who was seated among the branches.
The cowardly brutes, catching sight of the party, sneaked off with howls of baffled rage, and were soon beyond hearing. The doctor descended from his retreat, quite panic-stricken at his narrow escape. He informed them that on first starting from the mission, he had picked up a club, to defend himself from the wolves, should they make their appearance; but when one of the animals came within six feet of him, and by its call, gathered others to the pursuit, his valiant resolutions vanished—he dropped his stick and plied his heels, with admirable dexterity, till the tree offered its friendly aid, when he hallooed for help with all the power of his lungs; but for Mrs. White's appreciation of the danger, and her speedy appearance upon the scene, Dr. White's term of usefulness in the Oregon mission would have been greatly abridged.
The necessities of their missionary life compelled different members of their little band to make frequent journeys both by land and water. It was on one of these journeys, and while passing down the Columbia River in a canoe, that Mrs. White met with an accident that plunged the whole mission into mourning.
Mrs. White, with her babe, and Mr. Leslie, had embarked in a canoe on the river where the current was extremely rapid, and as they reached the middle of the stream, the canoe began to quiver and sway from side to side. The sense of her danger came upon Mrs. W., as with a presentiment of coming disaster. She trembled like a leaf as she remarked, "How very helpless is a female with an infant." At the instant that her voice ceased to echo from the rocky shores, and as if a spirit of evil stood ready to prove the truth of her exclamation, the canoe, which was heavily laden, gave a slight swing, and striking a rock began to fill with water, and, in a few seconds, went down. As the water came up round them, the child started convulsively in its mother's arms and gave a piercing shriek, Mr. Leslie at the same time exclaiming, "Oh, God! we're lost!"
When the canoe rose, it was free from its burthen, and bottom upwards; and Mrs. White found herself directly beneath it, painfully endeavoring to extricate herself, enduring dreadful agony in her struggle for breath.
Despairingly she felt herself again sinking, and, coming in contact with the limbs of a person in the water, the reflection flitted across her brain, "I have done with my labors for these poor Indians. Well, all will be over in a moment; but how will my poor mother feel when she learns my awful fate?" Mr. Leslie afterwards stated that he had no recollection till he rose, and strove to keep above water, but again sank, utterly hopeless of succor.
He rose again just as the canoe passed around a large rock, and its prow was thrown within his reach. He clutched it with eager joy, and supported himself a moment, gasping for breath, when he suddenly thought of his fellow-passenger, and the exclamation ran through his mind,—"What will the doctor do?" He instantly lowered himself in the water as far as possible, and, still clinging with one hand, groped about as well as he was able, when, providentially, he grasped her dress, and succeeded in raising her to the surface. By this time the Indians—expert swimmers—had reached the canoe; and, with their assistance, he supported his insensible burden, and placed her head upon the bottom with her face just out of water. After a few moments, she gasped feebly, and, opening her eyes, her first words were, "Oh, Mr. Leslie, I've lost my child!"
"Pray, do dismiss the thought," said he, "and let us try to save ourselves."
They were wafted a long way down the river, no prospect offering for their relief. At length they espied, far ahead, the two canoes which had entered the river before them, occupied, as it proved, by an Indian chief and his attendants. Mr. Leslie hallooed to them with all his remaining strength, and they hastened towards them, first stopping to pick up the trunks and a few other things which had floated down stream.
When, at last, they reached the sufferers, finding them so much exhausted, the chief cautioned them to retain their hold, without in the least changing their position, while he towed them gently and carefully to the shore. Here they rested, draining the water from their clothes, and Mr. Leslie from his head and stomach,—for he had swallowed a vast quantity. In half an hour the Indians righted the canoe, which had been drawn on shore, and, to their amazement, and almost terror, they found beneath it the dead babe, wrapped in its cloak, having been kept in its place by the atmospheric pressure.
Mr. Leslie was now uncertain what course to pursue, and asked his companion's advice. She told them she was desirous of proceeding immediately to Fort Vancouver, as they had nothing to eat, no fire, and, in short, had lost so many of their effects, that they had nothing wherewith to make themselves comfortable, if they remained there till even the next day.
Their canoe was a large one, being about twenty feet in length and four in breadth, and was laden with a bed, bedding, mats, two large trunks of clothing, kettles, and dishes, and provisions to last the crew throughout the journey, and also articles of traffic with the natives, and they lost all but their trunks, the contents of which were now thoroughly soaked.
They seated themselves in the canoe, and the chief threw his only blanket over Mrs. W———'s shoulders, both himself and men exerting themselves to render their charges comfortable during the thirty-six miles they were obliged to travel before reaching the fort, which was late in the evening.
They were met by Mr. Douglas, who was greatly shocked at the narrative, and whose first words were, "My God! what a miracle! Why, it is only a short time since, in the same place, we lost a canoe, with seven men, all good swimmers."
The following morning, the bereaved mother was quite composed. They started at eight o'clock, and with the little coffin, provided by Mr. Douglas, at their feet, traveled rapidly all day, and camped at night just above the falls of the Willamette. They took supper, the men pitched their borrowed tents, and, after a day of great fatigue, they lay quietly down to rest.
In a short time, however, they were disturbed by a loud paddling, and voices; and looking out, beheld about thirty Indians, men, women, and children, in canoes, who landed and camped very near them.
Their arrival filled Mrs. White with new apprehension. She feared now that she might be robbed of her dead treasure, and perhaps lose her own life, before she could consign it to its last resting-place. All through that restless, dreary night, she kept her vigils, with bursting heart, beside the corpse of her babe. The noises of the Indian camp, the guttural voices of the men, the chattering of the squaws, rang in her ears, while the cries and prattling of the children, by reminding her of the lost one, served to enhance the poignancy of her grief. What a situation for the desolate mother! All alone with death, far from her mother, husband, home, and friends, surrounded by a troop of barbarous, noisy savages weighed down with grief, tearless from its very weight, not knowing what next would befall her. What agony did she endure through that night's dreary vigils! She felt as though she were draining the cup of sorrow to its dregs, without the strength to pray that it might pass from her.
They set off as soon as it was light, that they might, if possible, reach the Mission before putrescency had discolored the body of the infant. They arrived at McKoy's about one o'clock, where, while they were dining, horses were prepared, and they went on without delay. It is impossible to describe the emotions of the doctor when he met them about twelve miles from the Mission, as, excepting a floating rumor among the natives, which he hardly credited, he had had no intimation of the accident. The sad presentiment was realized. Death had entered their circle and robbed them of their fair child! As he looked into the face of his wife, he comprehended in part her sufferings.
Amid these and similar sad experiences, this heroic band of Christian women abated not their zeal or efforts in the work to which they had put their hand.
In other parts of the territory, separate missionary establishments were superintended by the Whitmans, the Spauldings, and others. The blessings of civilization and religion were thus extended by these devoted men and women to the benighted red man.
For a period of eight years Dr. and Mrs. Whitman resided on the banks of the Walla-Walla River, doing all in their power to benefit the Indians. Such labors as theirs deserved a peaceful old age, and the enduring gratitude of their tawny protégés. Alas! that we have to record that such was not their lot! Melancholy indeed was the fate of that devoted band upon the Walla-Walla!
The measels had broken out among the Indians and spread with frightful rapidity through the neighboring tribes. Dr. Whitman did all he could to stay its progress, but great numbers of them died.
The Indians supposed that the doctor could have stayed the course of the malady if he had wished it, and accordingly concocted a plan to destroy him and his whole family. With this object in view about sixty of them armed themselves and came to his house.
The inmates, having no suspicion of any hostile intentions, were totally unprepared for resistance or flight. Dr. and Mrs. Whitman and their nephew—a youth of about seventeen or eighteen years of age—were sitting in the parlor in the afternoon, when Sil-aw-kite, the chief, and To-ma-kus, entered the room and addressing the doctor told him very coolly they had come to kill him. The doctor, not believing it possible that they could entertain any hostile intentions towards him, told him as much; but whilst in the act of speaking, To-ma-kus drew a tomahawk from under his robe and buried it deep in his brain. The unfortunate man fell dead in his chair. Mrs. Whitman and the nephew fled up stairs and locked themselves into an upper room.
In the meantime Sil-aw-kite gave the war-whoop, as a signal to his party outside, to proceed in the work of destruction, which they did with the ferocity and yells of so many fiends. Mrs. Whitman, hearing the shrieks and groans of the dying, looked out of the window and was shot through the breast by a son of the chief, but not mortally wounded. A party then rushed up stairs and dispatched the niece on the spot, dragged her down by the hair of her head and taking her to the front of the house, mutilated her in a shocking manner with their knives and tomahawks.
There was one man who had a wife bedridden. On the commencement of the affray he ran to her room, and, taking her up in his arms, carried her unperceived by the Indians to the thick bushes that skirted the river, and hurried on with his burden in the direction of Fort Walla-Walla. Having reached a distance of fifteen miles, he became so exhausted that, unable to carry her further, he concealed her in a thick clump of bushes on the margin of the river, and hastened to the Fort for assistance.
On his arrival, Mr. McBain immediately sent out men with him, and brought her in. She had fortunately suffered nothing more than fright. The number killed, (including Dr. and Mrs. Whitman,) amounted to fourteen. The other females and children were carried off by the Indians, and two of them were forthwith taken as wives by Sil-aw-kite's son and another. A man employed in the little mill, forming a part of the establishment, was spared to work the mill for the Indians. The day following the awful tragedy, a Catholic priest, who had not heard of the massacre, stopped on seeing the mangled corpses strewn round the house, and requested permission to bury them, which was readily granted.
On the priest leaving the place, he met, at a distance of five or six miles, a brother missionary of the deceased, Mr. Spaulding, the field of whose labors lay about a hundred miles off, at a place on the river Coldwater. He communicated to him the melancholy fate of his friends, and advised him to fly as fast as possible, or, in all probability, he would be another victim. He gave him a share of his provisions, and Mr. Spaulding hurried homeward, full of apprehensions for the safety of his own family; but, unfortunately, his horse escaped from him in the night, and after a six days' toilsome march on foot, having lost his way, he at length reached the banks of the river, but on the opposite side to his own home.
In the dead of the night, in a state of starvation, having eaten nothing for three days, everything seeming to be quiet about his own place, he cautiously embarked in a small canoe, and paddled across the river. But he had no sooner landed than an Indian seized him, and dragged him to his own house, where he found all his family prisoners, and the Indians in full possession. These Indians were not of the same tribe with those who had destroyed Dr. Whitman's family, nor had they at all participated in the outrage; but having heard of it, and fearing the white man would include them in their vengeance, they had seized on the family of Mr. Spaulding for the purpose of holding them as hostages for their own safety. The family were uninjured; and he was overjoyed to find things no worse.
Notwithstanding this awful tragedy the heroic women remained at their posts in the different missionary stations in the territory, and long afterwards pursued those useful labors which, by establishing pioneer-settlements in the wilderness, and by civilizing and christianizing the wild tribes, prepared the way for the army of emigrants which is now converting that vast wilderness into a great and flourishing state.
In the great wars of American history, there are, in immediate connection with the army, two situations in which woman more prominently appears: the former is where, in her proper person, she accompanies the army as avivandiere, or as the daughter of the regiment, or as the comrade and help-meet of her husband; the latter, and less frequent capacity, is that of a soldier, matching in the ranks and facing the foe in the hour of danger. During the war for Independence a large number of brave and devoted women served in the army, principally in their true characters as wives of regularly enlisted soldiers, keeping even step with the ranks upon the march, and cheerfully sharing the burdens, privations, hardships, and dangers of military life.
In some cases where both wife and husband took part in the struggle for independence, the wife even surpassed her husband in those heroic virtues which masculine vanity arrogates as its exclusive possession. The name of Mrs. Jemima Warner has been embalmed in history as one of those remarkable women in whom was seen at once the true wife, the heroine, and the patriot.
She appears to have been a native of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and became the wife of James Warner, a private in Captain Smith's company, of Daniel Morgan's rifle corps.
In 1775 she followed her husband to the north, and joined him at Prospect Hill, Cambridge, in the fall of that year. Morgan's riflemen were picked men, and were sure to be placed in the posts where the greatest danger threatened.
But James Warner, though a stalwart man in appearance, possessed none of the qualities demanded in extraordinary emergencies. If ever man needed, in hardship and danger, a constant companion, superior to himself, it was private James Warner, and such a companion was his wife Jemima. She is described as gifted with the form and personal characteristics of a true heroine, and the heroic qualities which she displayed through all the romantic and tragic campaign against Canada proves that her spirit corresponded to the frame which it animated.
The Canadian campaign was in many respects the severest and most trying of any during the Revolution. General Arnold's march through the woods of Maine was attended with delays, misfortunes, and losses which would have discouraged any but the bravest, and most determined and hardy. The strength, and fortitude of the men was tried to the utmost, by wearisome marches, floods, winter's cold and famine, and in these crises private Warner was one of those few whose soldiership failed to stand the test.
The advanced guard of the army of the wilderness was composed of Morgan's troops, who, with incredible labor and hardship, ascended the Dead river and crossed the highlands into the Canadian frontier, one hundred and twenty miles from Quebec, with their last rations in their knapsacks, and with their passage obstructed by a vast swamp overflowed with water from two to three feet deep. Smith's and Hendrick's companies reached it first, and halted to wait for stragglers. Mrs. Warner came up with another woman, the wife of Sergeant Grier, of Hendrick's company—as much a heroine as herself, though less unfortunate in her experience. The soldiers were entering the water, breaking the ice as they went with their gun-stocks, and the women courageously wading after them, when some one shouted, "Where is Warner?" Jemima, who had not noticed her husband's disappearance, started back in search of him. Warner was no more enfeebled in body than many of the other men, but his fortitude had given out. Begging his comrades to delay their march for a while, she hurried back in search of her husband, but an hour passed, and his company marched without him. Utterly destitute of that forethought which is so necessary an element of endurance and resolution in extremity, he had eaten all his rations, which should have lasted him two days. Knowing that the supplies of the army were exhausted, his faint heart saw no hope ahead. His brave wife had had a sad trial with him. From the day that provisions had began to be scarce he had been the same improvident laggard. Familiar with his failings, she was in the habit of hoarding food, the price of her own secret fastings, against such need as this. She now exerted herself to the utmost to rouse him, and induce him to press on and rejoin his comrades. It was long before she prevailed, and at last, when they started, the army had gone on, and Warner and his heroic wife were forced to make their way through the wilderness alone. She realized that her husband's safety depended entirely upon herself, and took care of him as she would have taken care of a child. Refusing to entertain, for a moment, the thought of perishing in the wilderness, she did her best to cheer her husband and drive such thoughts from his mind. It was a thankless task, but her love and devotion were equal to everything. Endowed with a strong constitution, and free from disease, the young soldier could have survived the terrible march to Canada, had he possessed but a little of her courage and good sense. Taking the lead in the bitter journey, through swamps and snows, threading the tangled forests, climbing cliffs, and fording half-frozen creeks,—day after day the heroic woman pushed her faint-hearted husband on, feeding him from her own little store of ember-baked cakes, and eating almost nothing herself till they were more than half way to Sertigan on the Chaudiere river, toward Quebec.
Here Warner dropped down, completely discouraged, and resisted all his wife's entreaties to rise again. It was in vain that she appealed to every motive that could nerve a soldier, every sentiment that could inspire and stimulate a man. Relief, she said,mustbe before them, and not far away; for her sake, would he not try once more? Her pleadings and her tears were wasted. The faint-hearted soldier had made his last halt. Weak he undoubtedly was, but comparing the nourishment each had taken, she should have been physically worse off than he. It was the superiority of her mental and moral organization that kept her from sinking as low as her husband. Failing to stir him to make another effort to save himself, she filled his canteen with water, and placing that and the little remnant of her wretched bread between his knees, she turned away and went down the river, with a heavy but dauntless heart, in search of help. On her way she met a boat coming up the river, and in it were two army officers and two friendly Indians. Hailing the party, she told them of her distress and begged them to take her husband on board. They replied that it was impossible. They had been sent after Lieutenant Macleland, a sick officer left behind with an attendant, at Twenty-foot Falls, and the little birch bark canoe would only carry two more men. They could only spare her food enough to keep herself alive. Weeping, she turned back and sadly followed the canoe up the stream till it was lost to view. When she again reached the spot where she had left her discouraged husband, she found him alive but helpless, and sinking fast. While the devoted wife sat by his side, doing what little she could for his comfort, the canoe party came down the river, bearing the gallant Macleland, their loved but dying officer. Again the hapless wife begged, with piteous tears, that they would take her husband in. No! All her prayers were useless. Macleland was worth more than Warner.
When all hope had fled, Jemima staid faithfully by her husband till he had breathed his last. She could only close his eyes and try to cover his body from the wolves. Then, when love had done its best, she strapped his powder horn and pouch to her person, shouldered his rifle, and set out on her weary tramp toward Quebec. Melancholy as it was, one sees a certain sublimity in the woman's act of selecting and carrying with her those warlike keepsakes. It was in perfect keeping with those tragic times. Tender thoughtfulness of her poor husband's martial honor outlived her power to inspire him again to her heroism, and made her grand in the forlornness of her sorrow. She was determined that his arms should go to the war, if he could not.
The same brave mind that had made her so admirable as a soldier's helpmeet, upheld her through tedious hardships and continued perils on her lonely way to the settlement. Once there, it was necessary for her to wait till she could recover her exhausted strength. Her triumph over the severe tasking of all those bitter days in the wilderness, without chronic injury, or even temporary sickness, would be called now, in a woman, a miracle of endurance.
As she passed on from parish to parish, the simple Canadian peasant, always friendly to the American cause, welcomed with warm hospitality the handsome young woman, the story of whose singular bravery and devotion had reached their ears.
Her subsequent life and history is shrouded in obscurity. We know not whether she married a husband worthier of such a partner in those trying times, or whether she retired to brood alone over a sorrow with which shame for the object of her grief must have mingled. Whatever her lot may have been, her name deserves a place on the golden roll of our revolutionary heroines.
As we have already remarked, only a few instances are on record where women served in the army of the revolution as enlisted soldiers. Occasional services performed under the guise of men, were more frequent. As bearers of dispatches and disguised as couriers, they glided through the enemy's lines. Donning their father's or brother's overcoats and hats, they deceived the besiegers of the garrison into the belief that soldiers were not lacking to defend it, and even ventured in male habiliments to perform more perilous feats; such, for example, as the following:
Grace and Rachel Martin, the wives of two brothers who were absent with the patriot army, receiving intelligence one evening that a courier under guard of two British officers, would pass their house on a certain night with important dispatches, resolved to surprise the party and obtain the papers.
Disguising themselves in their husband's outer garments, and providing themselves with arms, they waylaid the enemy. Soon after they took their station by the roadside, the courier and his escort made their appearance. At the proper moment the disguised ladies sprang from their bushy covert, and presenting their pistols, ordered the party to surrender their papers. Surprised and alarmed, they obeyed without hesitation or the least resistance. The brave women having put them on parole, hastened home by the nearest route, which was a bypath through the woods, and dispatched the documents to General Greene.
Perhaps the most remarkable case of female enlistment and protracted service in the patriot army, was that of Deborah Samson. The career of this woman shows that her motive in adopting and following the career of a soldier was a praiseworthy one. The whole country was aglow with patriotic fervor, and in no section did the flame burn with a purer luster than in that where Deborah was nurtured. It was not idle curiosity nor mere love of roving, that incited her, in those straitlaced days, to abandon her home and join in the perilous fray where the standard of freedom was "full high advanced." She had evidently counted the cost of the extraordinary step which she was about to take, but found in the difficulties and dangers which it entailed nothing to obstruct or daunt her purpose.
Her parents were in humble circumstances, and lived in Plymouth, Massachusetts, where Deborah grew up with but slender advantages for anything more than a practical education; and yet such was her diligence in the acquisition of knowledge, that before she was eighteen she had shown herself competent to take charge of a district school, in which duty she displayed some of the same qualities which made her after-career remarkable.
She seems for several months to have cherished the secret purpose of enlisting in the American army, and with that view laid aside a small sum from her scanty earnings as a school-teacher, with which she purchased a quantity of coarse fustian; out of this material, working at intervals and by stealth, she made a complete suit of men's clothes, concealing in a hay-stack each article as it was finished.
When her preparations had been completed, she informed her friends that she was going in search of higher wages for her labor. Tieing her new suit of men's attire in a bundle, she took her departure. She probably availed herself of the nearest shelter for the purpose of assuming her disguise. Her stature was lofty for a woman, and her features, though finely proportioned, were of a masculine cast. When at a subsequent period she had donned the buff and blue regimentals and marched in the ranks of the patriot army, she is said to have looked every inch the soldier.
Pursuing her way she presented herself at the camp of the American army as one of those patriotic young men who desired to assist in opposing the British, and securing the independence of their country.
Her friends, supposing that she was engaged at service at some distant point, made little inquiry as to her whereabouts, knowing her self-reliance, and her ability to follow out her own career without the aid of their counsel or assistance. Those who were nearest to her appear to have never made such a search for her as would have led to her discovery.
Having decided to enlist for the whole term of the war, from motives of patriotism, she was received and enrolled as one of the first volunteers in the company of Captain Nathan Thayer, of Medway, Massachusetts, under the name of Robert Shirtliffe. Without friends and homeless, as the young recruit appeared to be, she interested Captain Thayer, and was received into his family while he was recruiting his company. Here she remained some weeks, and received her first lessons in the drill and duties of the young soldier.
"Accustomed to labor from childhood upon the farm and in outdoor employment, she had acquired unusual vigor of constitution; her frame was robust and of masculine strength; and, having thus gained a degree of hardihood, she was enabled to acquire great expertness and precision in the manual exercise, and to undergo what a female, delicately nurtured, would have found it impossible to endure. Soon after they had joined the company, the recruits were supplied with uniforms by a kind of lottery. That drawn by Robert did not fit, but, taking needle and scissors, he soon altered it to suit him. To Mrs. Thayer's expression of surprise at finding a young man so expert in using the implements of feminine industry, the answer was, that, his mother having no girl, he had been often obliged to practice the seamstress's art."
While in the family of Captain Thayer, she was thrown much into the society of a young girl then visiting Mrs. Thayer. She soon began to show much partiality for Deborah (or Robert), and as she seemed to be versed in the arts of coquetry, Robert felt no scruples in paying close attention to one so volatile and fond of flirtation; she also felt a natural curiosity to learn within how short a time a maiden's fancy might be won.
Mrs. Thayer regarded this little romance with some uneasiness, as she could not help perceiving that Robert did not entirely reciprocate her young friend's affection. She accordingly lost no time in remonstrating with Robert, and warning him of the serious consequences of his folly in trifling with the feelings of the maiden. The remonstrance and caution were good-naturedly received, and the departure of the blooming soldier soon after terminated all these love passages, though Robert received from his fair young friend some souvenirs, which he cherished as relics in after years.
For three years, and until 1781, our heroine appears as a soldier, and during this time she gained the approbation and confidence of the officers by her exemplary conduct and by the fidelity with which her duties were performed. When under fire, she showed an unflinching boldness, and was a volunteer in several hazardous enterprises. The first time she was wounded, was in a hand-to-hand fight with a British dragoon, when she received a severe sword-cut in the side of her head, laying bare her skull.
About four months after the first wound, she was again doomed to bleed in her country's cause, receiving another severe wound in her shoulder, the bullet burying itself deeply, and necessitating a surgical examination.
She described her first emotion when the ball struck her, as a sickening terror lest her sex should be discovered. The pain of the wound was scarcely felt in her excitement and alarm, even death on the battle-field she felt would be preferable to the shame that would overwhelm her in case the mystery of her life were unveiled. Her secret, however, remained undiscovered, and, recovering from her wound, she was soon able again to take her place in the ranks.
Some time after, she was seized with a brain fever, which was then prevalent in the army. During the first stages of her malady, her greatest suffering was the dread that consciousness would desert her and her carefully guarded secret be disclosed to those about her. She was carried to the hospital, where her case was considered a hopeless one. One day the doctor approached the bed where she lay, a corpse, as every one supposed. Taking her hand, he found the pulse feebly beating, and, attempting to place his hand on the heart, he discovered a female patient, where he had little expected one. The surgeon said not a word of his discovery, but with a prudence, delicacy, and generosity ever afterwards appreciated by the sufferer, he provided every comfort her perilous condition required, and paid her those medical attentions which soon secured her return to consciousness. As soon as her condition would permit, he had her removed to his own house, where she could receive the better care.
After her health was nearly restored, Doctor Binney, her generous benefactor, had a long conference with the commanding officer of the company in which Robert had served, and this was followed by an order to the youth to carry a letter to General Washington.
Ever since her removal into the doctor's family, she had entertained the suspicion that he had discovered the secret of her life. Often while conversing with him, she watched his face with anxiety, but never discovered a word or look to indicate that the physician knew or suspected that she was other than what she represented herself to be. But when she received the order to carry the letter to the commander-in-chief, her long cherished misgivings became at last a certainty.
The order must be obeyed. With a trembling heart she pursued her course to the headquarters of Washington. When she was ushered into the presence of the Chief, she was overpowered with dread and uncertainty, and showed upon her face the alarm and confusion which she felt. Washington, noticing her agitation, and supposing it to arise from diffidence, kindly endeavored to re-assure her. She was soon bidden to retire with an attendant, while he read the communication of which she had been the bearer.
In a few moments, she was again summoned to the presence of Washington, who handed her in silence a discharge from the service, with a note containing a few brief words of advice, and a sum of money sufficient to bear her expenses to some place where she might find a home. To her latest hour, she never forgot the delicacy and forbearance shown her by that great and good man.
After the war was over, she became the wife of Benjamin Gannet, of Sharon. During the presidency of General Washington, she was invited to visit the seat of government, and, during her stay at the capital, Congress granted her a pension and certain lands in consideration of her services to the country as a soldier.
In the War of 1812, woman shared more or less in the hard and perilous duties of a soldier, especially upon the Canadian border, and on the western frontier, where Indian hostilities now broke out afresh. She stood guard in the homes exposed to attack all along the thin line, which the savage or the British soldier threatened to break through, and on more than one battle-field proved her lineal descent from the brave mothers of the Revolution.
To the female imagination, the war with Mexico must have been clothed with peculiar hardships and dangers. The length of the marches, the vast distance from home, the torrid heats, fell diseases that prevailed in that clime, and the nature of the half-civilized enemy, all conspired to warn the gentler sex against taking part in that conflict. And yet all these appalling difficulties and perils could not damp the martial ardor of Mrs. Coolidge. She was born in Missouri, where, at St. Louis, she married her husband, who was a Mexican trader. Accompanying him on one of his yearly journeys to Santa Fe, she had the misfortune to see him meet his death, at the hands of a Mexican bravo, in the outskirts of that city.
Her life had been a stirring one from her early girlhood, and, when war broke out with Mexico, she attired herself in manly garments, and by her stature and rather masculine appearance readily passed muster with the recruiting officer. Under the name of James Brown, she was duly entered on the rolls of a Missouri company, which soon after took steamboat for Fort Leavenworth, the rendezvous. From this point, on the 16th of June, 1846, a force of sixteen hundred and fifty-eight men, including our heroine (or hero), took up their line of march to Santa Fé.
Most of this little army were mounted men, and of this number was Mrs.Coolidge, who was an admirable horsewoman. Their course lay over the almostboundless plains that stretch westward to the foothills of the RockyMountains, a distance of nearly one thousand miles.
In fifty days they reached Santa Fe, of which they took possession without opposition. The soldierly bearing and quick intelligence of Mrs. Coolidge soon attracted the attention of Col. Kearney, the commanding officer, and she was selected by him to be one of the bearers of dispatches to the war department.
A picked mustang, of extraordinary mettle and endurance, was placed at her disposal; a strong and fleet horse of the messenger stock, crossed with the mustang, was selected for her guide, a sturdy Scotchman, formerly in the Santa Fé trade; and one bright day, early in September, they set out on their long and perilous journey for Leavenworth. The first sixteen miles, over a broken and hilly country, was void of incident. They had passed through Arroyo Hondo and reached the Cañon, (El Boca del Cañon,) one of the gateways to Santa Fé; as they were threading this narrow pass, they saw, on turning a short angle of the precipice that towered three hundred feet above them, four mounted Mexicans, armed to the teeth and prepared to dispute their passage. One of them dismounted, and, advancing towards our couriers, waved a white handkerchief, and demanded in Spanish and in broken English their surrender. The guide replied in very concise English, telling him to go to a place unmentionable to polite ears. The envoy immediately rejoined his companions and mounted his horse; the party then turned and trotted forward a few paces as if they were about to give Mrs. Coolidge and the guide a free passage, when they suddenly wheeled their horses, and, discharging their pieces, seized their lances and dashed down full tilt upon our heroine and her guide. A shot from the guide's rifle hurled one of the Mexicans out of his saddle, like a stone from a sling. Mrs. Coolidge was less fortunate in her aim; missing the rider, her bullet struck a horse full in the forehead, but such was the speed with which it was approaching, that it was carried within twenty paces of the spot where she stood before it fell; the rider, uninjured, quickly extricated himself, and, seizing from his holster a horse-pistol, shot Mrs. Coolidge's horse, which nevertheless still kept his legs, and, as her assailant rushed towards her with hismachete, or large knife, she leveled a pistol and sent a ball through one of his legs, breaking it and bringing him to the ground. Dismounting from her horse, which was reeling and staggering with loss of blood, she held her other pistol to the head of the prostrate guerrilla, who surrendered at discretion.
Meanwhile, the guide had dispatched one of the two remaining Mexicans, and, though he had a shot in the fleshy part of his leg, he had succeeded in compelling the other to surrender by shooting his horse.
Mrs. Coolidge now, for the first time, discovered blood dripping from a wound made by a musket-ball in her bridle-arm. Hastily winding her scarf about it, she bound the arms of her prisoner with a piece of rope, and broke his lance and the locks of his pistols and carbine. The other prisoner was served in the same fashion. The arms of the two dead Mexicans were also broken or disabled. The fleetest and best of the two remaining horses was taken by Mrs. Coolidge in lieu of her own gallant little mustang, which was now gasping out his life on the rocky bottom of the pass. Our gallant couriers then paroled the two prisoners, and galloped rapidly down the cañon, taking the other mustang with them, and leaving the guerrillas to find their way home as they best might. As they mounted their horses, the guide remarked to Mrs. Coolidge that he had heretofore entertained the suspicion that she might be a woman, but that now he knew she was a man.
A swift ride brought them to old Pecos, a distance of ten miles, where they supped and passed the night. Their wounds were mere scratches and did not necessitate any delay, and the next day, after a long, slow gallop, they reached Los Vegas. Then, keeping their course to the northwest and pushing rapidly forward, they passed the present site of Fort Union, and, having secured a large supply of dried buffalo meat, crossed the wonderfulmesaor table-land west of the Canadian River, and encamped for a night and day on the east bank of that stream.
The next stretch for two hundred miles lay through a country infested with Utah and Apache Indians. Three or four days of swift riding would carry them through this dangerous region to a place of security on the Arkansas River. If they should meet a hostile band, it was agreed that they would trust for safety in the swiftness of their steeds, which had already proved themselves capable of both speed and endurance.
They had crossed Rabbit ear Creek and reached the Cimarron, without seeing even the sign of a foe, when, early one morning, the guide, looking eastward over the vast sandy plain, from the camp where they had passed the night, saw far away a body of fifty mounted Indians, whom, after examining with his glass, he pronounced to be Utahs coming rapidly towards them. There was no escape, and, in accordance with their programme, they mounted their horses and rode slowly to meet them.
The Indians, spying them, formed a semicircle and galloped towards the fearless couple, who put their horses to a canter, and, riding directly against the center of the line of warriors, dashed through it on the run. The Indians, quickly recovering from the astonishment produced by this daring manoeuver, wheeled their horses and dashed after them. All but ten of the Indians were soon distanced; these ten continued the pursuit, but in an hour and a half this number was reduced to seven, and in another hour only five remained. They were evidently young braves, who were hoping to distinguish themselves by taking two American soldiers' scalps.