The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Indian: On the Battle-Field and in the Wigwam
Title: The Indian: On the Battle-Field and in the Wigwam
Author: John Frost
Illustrator: William Croome
Release date: April 14, 2014 [eBook #45385]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
THE INDIAN:
ON THE BATTLE-FIELD AND IN THE WIGWAM.
By John Frost
Wentworth & Company,
1857
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CONTENTS
HAROLD DEAN; OR, THE INDIAN’S REVENGE.
BIENVILLE’S EXPEDITION AGAINST THE CHICKASAWS.
PREFACE.
These sketches are drawn from a great variety of sources, and are intended, not only to exhibit the Indian character in all its phases, but to comprise in a small compass a valuable collection of narratives of Indian warfare, embracing views of their peculiar methods of strategy, ambuscades, and surprises—their treatment of prisoners, and their other characteristic manners and customs.
By the aid of Mr. Croome, and other eminent artists, I have been able to illustrate the volume quite profusely with engravings. I trust that the work will be found a useful as well as interesting contribution to historical literature.
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STORIES OF THE INDIANS.
INDIAN GRATITUDE.
OT long after Connecticut began to be settled by the English, a stranger Indian came one day to a tavern in one of its towns in the dusk of the evening, and requested the hostess to supply him with something to eat and drink; at the same time he honestly told her that he could not pay for either, as he had had no success in hunting for several days; but that he would return payment as soon as he should meet with better fortune.
The hostess, who was a very ill-tempered woman, not only flatly refused to relieve him, but added abuse to her unkindness, calling him a lazy, drunken fellow, and told him that she did not work so hard herself, to throw away her earnings upon such vagabonds as he was.
There was a man sitting in the same room of the tavern, who, on hearing the conversation, looked up, and observing the Indian’s countenance, which plainly showed that he was suffering severely from want and fatigue, and being of a humane disposition, he told the woman to give the poor wanderer some supper, and he would pay for it.
She did so: and when the Indian had finished his meal, he turned towards his benefactor, thanked him, and told him that he should not forget his kindness. “As for the woman,” he added, “all I can give her is a story—if she likes to hear it.” The woman, being now in a rather, better temper, and having some curiosity to hear what he had to tell, readily consented, and the Indian addressed her as follows:
“I suppose you read the Bible?” The woman assented. “Well,” continued the Indian, “the Bible say, God made the world, and then he took him, and looked on him, and say, ‘It’s all very good.’ Then he made light, and took him, and looked on him, and say, ‘It’s all very good.’ Then he made dry land, and water, and sun, and moon, and grass, and trees, and took him, and say, ‘It’s all very good.’ Then he made beasts, and bird, and fishes, and took him, and looked on him, and say, ‘It’s all very good.’ Then he made man, and took him, and looked on him, and say, ‘It’s all very good.’ And last of all he made woman, and took him, and looked on: him, and he no dare say one such word.” The Indian, having told his story, departed.
Some years after, the man who had be friended the Indian had occasion to go some distance into the wilderness between Litchfield and Albany, which is now a populous city, but then contained only a few houses. Here he was taken prisoner by an Indian scout, and carried off into Canada. When he arrived at the principal settlement of their tribe, which was on the banks of the great river St. Lawrence, some of the Indians proposed that he should be put to death, in revenge for the wrongs that they had suffered from the white men; and this probably would have been his fate, had not an old Indian woman, or squaw, as they are called, demanded that he should be given up to her, that she might adopt him in place of her son, whom she had lately lost in war. He was accordingly given to her, and, as it is customary under such circumstances, was thenceforth treated in the same manner as her own son.
In the following summer, as he was one day at work in the forest by himself, felling trees, an Indian, who was unknown to him, came; up and asked him to meet him the following day at a certain spot which he described. The white man agreed to do so, but not without some apprehension that mischief was intended. During the night these fears increased to so great a degree, as effectually to prevent his keeping his appointment.
However, a few days after, the same Indian, finding him at work, mildly reproved him for not keeping his promise. The man made the best excuse he could, but the Indian was not satisfied until he had again promised to meet him the next morning at the place already agreed on.
Accordingly, when he arrived at the spot, he found the Indian already there, provided with two muskets and powder, and two knapsacks. The Indian ordered him to take one of each, and to follow him. The direction of their march was southward. The man followed without the least knowledge of what he was to do, or whither he was going, but he concluded that if the Indian intended to do him harm, he would have despatched him at the first meeting, and certainly would not have provided him with a musket and powder for defence. His fears, therefore, gradually subsided, although the Indian maintained an obstinate silence when he questioned him concerning the object of their expedition.
In the day time they shot and cooked as much game as they required, and at night they kindled a fire by which they slept. After a fatiguing journey through the forest for many days, they came one morning to the top of a hill from which there was the prospect of a cultivated country, interspersed with several snug farm-houses.
“Now,” said the Indian to his joyful companion, “do you know where you are?”
“Yes,” replied he, “we are not ten miles from my own village.”
“And do you not remember a poor Indian at the tavern?—you feed him—you speak kind to him—I am that poor Indian;—now go home.” Having said this, he bade him farewell, and the man joyfully returned to his own home.
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INDIAN FRIENDSHIP.
OME of the earlier settlers of Virginia acted in the most barbarous manner towards their Indian neighbors, and it is, therefore, not wonderful that they sometimes received a terrible punishment. But though revenge was usually uppermost in the breasts of the injured ones, instances occurred in which the sacred feeling of friendship triumphed over that passion and the prejudice of the race.
On one occasion, Colonel Bird was employed by the English government to transact some business with the tribe of Cherokees. It unfortunately happened that a short time before he went among them, some white people had seized two Indians, who had given them some trifling offence, and had put them to death; and the Indians, indignant at the outrage, determined to take revenge whenever the opportunity offered. The appearance of Colonel Bird presented the wished-for opportunity, and consultations were held as to the most effectual means of getting him into their power, and of making him the sacrifice.
Colonel Bird perceived their intentions, and felt that he had just cause for alarm, as he was in their country, without the means of escape. Among the neighboring Cherokees, was one named Silouee, celebrated as a chief and pow-wow, or medicine man. He had known Colonel Bird for some time, had eaten with him, and felt a deep friendship for him. Silouee told Colonel Bird not to be alarmed, and even assured him that the Indians should not injure him. At length, in a general council of the chiefs and old men of the tribe, it was determined in spite of Silouee’s earnest remonstrances, that Colonel Bird should be put to death in revenge for the loss of their countrymen.
Two warriors were despatched to Colonel Bird’s tent, to execute the cruel sentence. Silouee insisted on accompanying them. On reaching the tent, Silouee rushed in before them, threw himself on the bosom of his friend, and as the warriors approached, he exclaimed, “This man is my friend; before you take him, you must kill me.”
Awed by Silouee’s determined magnanimity, the warriors returned to the council, and related what had occurred. Indians generally respect a faithful friend as much as they esteem one who is implacable in his revenge. The consultation was reversed. Silouee’s noble conduct altered their purpose. They therefore released Colonel Bird, and bade him go to his home in peace. Silouee acted as his guide and protector until Colonel Bird came in sight of his tent. As they parted, the Indian’s last words to his friend were, “When you see poor Indian in fear of death from cruel white men, remember Silouee.”
Some years after Colonel Bird’s life had been saved by Silouee, he became a Virginia planter, and took up his residence near the James river. Silouee retained his friendship for him, becoming his near neighbor. Like many of his nation, he had, by intercourse with the whites, acquired a great taste for “strong waters,” or ardent spirits, and the dignity of the chief was frequently lowered by drunkenness. On one occasion, Colonel Bird had gone to another part of the country, on business, and had left the care of his plantation to his overseer. The tobacco had obtained some size, and a long drought coming on, there was a prospect that the crop would be much injured. We have stated that Silouee was a pow-wow, or Indian medicineman and conjurer. One day when he came to the plantation, the overseer expressed his opinion that the tobacco crop would be entirely lost, if rain did not soon fall.
“Well,” said the Indian, “what will you give me if I bring rain?”
“You bring rain,” said the overseer, laughing.
“Me can,” said the Indian. “Give me two bottles of rum—only two, and me bring rain enough.”
The overseer cast his eye towards the heavens, but could discern no appearance that foretold rain. To gratify the Indian, he promised to give him the two bottles of rum when Colonel Bird arrived, in case the rain should come speedily and save the crop of tobacco.
Silouee now fell to pow-wowing with all his might, making grimaces, contorting his body, and uttering strange, unintelligible ejaculations.
It was a hot, close day, and it so happened that towards evening, the sky, which had been clear for some weeks, clouded over, and the appearance of the heavens was strongly in favor of rain. Before midnight thunder was heard, and heavy showers of rain watered the colonel’s plantation thoroughly; while it was remarked that the showers were so partial that the neighboring plantations were left almost as dry as they were before. The Indian waited quietly till the rain was over, and then walked away. A few days after, the colonel returned to the plantation, and, when Silouee heard of his arrival, he went immediately to visit him.
“Master Bird,” said he, “me come for my two bottles of rum.”
“Your two bottles of rum,” exclaimed the colonel, pretending not to know any thing of the matter; “pray do I owe you two bottles of rum?”
“You do,” replied the Indian.
“How so?” inquired the colonel.
“Me bring you rain—me save your crop,” said the Indian.
“You bring rain,” said the colonel; “no such thing.”
“Me did,” persisted the Indian; “me loved you; me tell overseer to give me two bottles of rum, and then me bring rain. Overseer say he would; me bring cloud, then rain; now me want rum.”
“You saw the cloud,” said Colonel Bird; “you are a sad cheat.”
“Me no cheat,” said the Indian; “me saw no cloud; me bring cloud.”
“Well, well,” said the colonel, “you are an old friend, and you shall have the rum, since you beg so hard for it. But mind you, it is not for the rain. The Great Spirit sent the rain, not you.”
“Well,” said the Indian, “your tobacco had rain upon it—why others have none? Answer that, colonel, if you can.”
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THE CAPTIVE SISTER.
NSTANCES are recorded in which white children have been captured and brought up by the Indians, and have so far forgotten early associations as to become identified in habits and manners with their red captors. In most of these cases, the adopted Indian could not be induced to return to the haunts of civilization and the friends of his or her race; which fact would seem to prove that, either the life of the Indian is happier than that of the civilized white man, or, the qualities of our nature may be altered by the power of habit.
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In 1778, the family of Mr. Jonathan Slocum, near Wilkesbarre, (Campbell’s Wyoming,) Pennsylvania, was attacked by Indians. Within the house were two girls, aged nine and five years, a son of thirteen, a little boy of two and a half, and their mother. The men were working in the field, and two youths were in the porch grinding a knife. One of the latter was shot and scalped with his own knife. The eldest sister seized the little boy and ran with him towards the fort. The Indians took the boy who had been turning the grindstone, young Slocum, and his sister Frances, and prepared to depart. Little Slocum being lame, they set him down, and proceeded on their way. One of the Indians threw the little girl over his shoulder, and her weeping face was the last object of the mother’s gaze.
About a month afterwards, the savages returned, murdered the aged grandfather, shot a ball into the leg of the lame boy, and then plunging into the woods were heard of no more. Years passed away; the mother died of grief for her lost child. The two remaining brothers, grown to manhood, resolved to ascertain the fate of their sister. They made every inquiry, travelled through the west and into the Canadas, but all in vain; and for fifty-eight years, the captive’s fate was unknown.
At length, in 1836, accident discovered what inquiry could not. The Hon. G. W. Ewing, United States agent to Indian Territory, while travelling on the banks of the Mississiniwa, lost his way and was benighted, and compelled to take shelter in an Indian wigwam. The agent was kindly received, and after supper, entered into conversation with the hostess. He was soon surprised by observing that her hair was fine and flaxen-colored, and that, under her dress, her skin appeared to be white. Upon inquiry, she informed him that she was the daughter of white parents, that her name was Slocum, that when five years old she had been carried captive, by Indians, from a house on the Susquehanna. All else was forgotten.
On reaching home, Ewing wrote an account of the affair, and sent it to Lancaster for publication. Through neglect, however, it was not published for two years afterwards; but it was then seen by Mr. Slocum, of Wilkes-barre, the little boy who had been saved by the girl, sixty years before. He immediately started for Indiana, accompanied by the sister who had saved him, at the same time writing to his brother to meet him at the wigwam. The incidents connected with this visit have been preserved, and are interesting.
On entering the cabin, they beheld an Indian woman, apparently seventy-five years old, painted and jewelled. Yet her hair was as the agent had described it, and her skin beneath her dress appeared white. They obtained an interpreter and began to converse. We may imagine the feelings of the little party, while they listened to the Indian wo-an’s tale. The incidents of the assault and capture—too well known already—were disclosed with a faithfulness which left no room for doubt. “How came your nail gone?” inquired the sister. “My elder brother pounded it off when I was a little child in the shop.”
“What was your name then?” She did not remember. “Was it Frances?” She smiled on hearing the long-forgotten sound, and promptly answered, “Yes.” All were now satisfied that they were of one family, and yet there was little joy in that meeting. There was a sadness, not merely through remembrance of the past, but of a kind present, deep, painful; for though the brothers were walking the cabin unable to speak, and the sister was sobbing, yet there sat the poor Indian sister, no throb of emotion disturbing her equanimity.
Her previous history may soon be told. It was the Delaware tribe who had taken her captive, and when she grew up among them, she married one of their chiefs. He died or deserted her, and she then married a Miami. She had two daughters, who both grew up and married Indians. They all lived in one cabin. The brothers and sisters tried to persuade their sister to return with them, and, if she desired it, to bring her children. She answered that she had always lived with the Indians; that they had always been kind to her; that she had promised her late husband, on his death-bed, never to leave them, and that promise she was resolved to keep. The three generous relatives then retraced their steps, sorrowing that they were compelled to leave their sister in the wilderness.
The Indian sister died in 1847. Her manners and customs were those of the Indians until her death, yet she was admired alike by the red and white men. Her grave is on a beautiful knoll, near the confluence of the Mis-sissiniwa and the Wabash, a spot which had been her residence for nearly thirty years.
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PARENTAL AFFECTION.
URING the frequent wars between the Indians and the early settlers of New England, the former defeated a party of English soldiers. Their retreat was without order; and a young English officer, in attempting to escape, was pursued by two savages. Finding escape impracticable, and determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, he turned round to face his foes. A violent struggle commenced, and he must have fallen, if an old chief had not thrown himself between the combatants. The red men instantly retired with respect. The old man took the young officer by the hand, dispelled his fears, and led him through the forest to his wigwam, where he treated him with the greatest kindness. He seemed to take pleasure in the youth’s company; he was his constant companion; he taught him his language, customs, and arts. Thoughts of home would sometimes haunt the young Englishman. At these times, Wanou would survey his young friend attentively, and the tears would fill his eyes.
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When the spring returned, the war was renewed, and Wanou whose strength was still sufficient to bear the toils of war, set out with the rest of the braves, and his white prisoner.
When the Indians arrived in sight of the English camp, Wanou showed the young officer his countrymen, observing his countenance the while. “There are thy brethren,” said he, “waiting to fight us. Listen to me. I have saved thy life. I have taught thee to make a canoe, and bow and arrows; to hunt the bear and the buffalo; to bring down the deer at full speed, and to outwit even the cunning fox. What wast thou when I first led thee to my wigwam? Thy hands were like those of a child; they served neither to support nor to defend thee; thou wert ignorant, but from me thou hast learned every thing. Wilt thou be ungrateful, and raise up thy arm against the red man?”
The young man declared with warmth that he would rather lose his own life than shed the blood of his Indian friends. The old warrior covered his face with his hands, bowed his head and remained in that posture for some time, as if overcome by some painful recollection. Then with a strong effort, he said to the young man, “Hast thou a father?”
“He was living,” said the young man, “when I left my native country.”
“Oh! how fortunate he is still to have a son!” cried the Indian; and then, after a moment’s silence, he added, “Knowest thou that I have been a father; but I am no longer so! I saw my son fall in battle; he fought bravely by my side; my son fell covered with wounds, and he died like a man! but I revenged his death; yes, I revenged his death!”
Wanou pronounced these words with a terrible vehemence; but at length he became calm, and turning towards the east, where the sun had just risen, he said, “Young man, thou seest that glorious light—does it afford thee any pleasure to behold it?”
“Yes,” replied the officer, “I never look upon the rising sun without pleasure, or without feeling thankful to our great father who created it.”
“I am glad thou art happy, but there is no more pleasure for me,” said Wanou. A moment after, he showed the young man a shrub in full bloom, and said, “Hast thou any pleasure in beholding this plant?”
“Yes, great pleasure,” replied the young man.
“To me, it can no longer give pleasure,” said the old man; and then embracing the young Englishman, he concluded with these words, “Begone! hasten to thy country, that thy father may still have pleasure in beholding the rising sun, and the flowers of spring.”
Poor chief; the death of his beloved son had broken his heart.
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THE FRIENDLY MANOEUVRE.
ANY years ago, a Scotchman and his wife, named M’Dou-gall, emigrated to America. Having but very little money, he purchased some land upon the verge of civilization, where it was sold for a low price. By great exertions and the aid of his neighbors, M’Dougall soon had a comfortable farm, well stocked. But the inconvenience of distance from the church, market, and mill, were felt, and caused discontent with the location.
One day, while the farmer was away at the mill, the duty of driving up the cows to milk devolved on the wife, and that thrifty and industrious woman went out in quest of them. Not accustomed to going far from the house, she wandered through the woods, got bewildered, and just before dark sank upon the ground in despair. An Indian hunter soon came along, and guessing her situation, induced her to follow him to his wigwam, where she was kindly fed and lodged for the night by the hunter’s wife.
In the morning, the Indian conducted his guest to her cattle, and thence home. M’Dou-gall, grateful for his service, presented him with a suit of clothes, and invited him to become his frequent visitor. Three days afterwards he returned, and endeavored, partly, by signs, and partly in broken English, to induce M’Dougall to follow him; but the Scotchman refused. Time was precious to him who owed all his comforts to hard labor, and the Indian repeated his entreaties in vain. The poor fellow looked grieved and disappointed; but a moment after, a sudden thought struck him.
Mrs. M’Dougall had a young child, which the Indian’s quick eye had not failed to notice; and finding that words and gestures would not persuade his Scotch friend, he approached the cradle, seized the child, and darted out of the house with the speed of the antelope. The father and mother instantly followed, calling loudly on him to return; but he had no such intention. He led them on, now slower, now faster, occasionally turning towards them, laughing and holding up the child to their view. After proceeding in this manner for some time, the Indian halted on the margin of a most beautiful prairie, covered with the richest vegetation, and extending over several thousand acres. In a moment after, the child was restored to its parents, who, wondering at such strange proceedings, stood awhile panting for breath. On the other hand, the Indian seemed overjoyed at the success of his manoevre, and never did a human being frisk about and gesticulate with greater animation.
At length his feelings found vent in broken English, nearly in these words:—“You think Indian treacherous; you think him wish steal the child. No, no, Indian has child of his own. Indian knew you long ago; saw you when you not see him; saw you hard working man. Some white men bad and hurt poor Indian. You not bad; you work hard for your wife and child; but you choose bad place; you never make rich there. Indian see your cattle far in the forest; think you come and catch them; you not come; your wife come. Indian find her faint and weary; take her home; wife fear go in; think Indian kill her! No, no! Indian lead her back; meet you very sad; then very glad to see her. You kind to Indian; give him meat and drink and better clothes than your own. Indian grateful; wish you come here; not come; Indian very sorry; take the child; know you follow child; if Indian farm, Indian farm here. Good ground; not many trees; make road in less than half a moon; Indian help you. Indians your friends; come, live here.”
M’Dougall instantly saw the advantages of the change, and taking the red man’s advice, the day was soon fixed for the removal of his log-house, along with the rest of his goods and chattels; and the Indian, true to his word, brought a party of his red brethren to assist in one of the most romantic removals that ever took place. A fertile spot was selected in the “garden of the desert,” a fine farm soon smiled around, and M’Dougall had no cause to regret the Indian’s friendly manoeuvre.
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GRAND-SUN.
RAND-SUN was a chief of the Natchez tribe. Sun was a common name for all chiefs of that nation; this chief was particularly distinguished in the first war with the French, in which the Natchez engaged, and the title of Great-Sun was given him by his people. He was brave, wise, and generous, and a friend to the whites until the haughty and overbearing disposition of one man brought ruin upon the whole colony. The affair occurred in 1729.
Grand-Sun resided in the beautiful village called White Apple, near the French post of Natchez, the commandant of which was M. Chopart. This officer had been removed from his post on account of his misconduct and and abominable injustice towards the Indians, but had been reinstated, and his conduct had been the same as before. He projected the building an elegant village, and none appeared to suit his purpose so well as the White Apple of Grand-Sun. He sent for the chief to the fort, and unhesitatingly told him that he must give up his village, and remove elsewhere. Grand-Sun stifled his surprise, and replied, “that his ancestors had lived in that village for as many years as there were hairs in his double queu, and, therefore, it was good that they should continue there still.” This was interpreted to the commandant, and he became so enraged, that he threatened Grand-Sun with punishment if he did not comply.
A council of the Natchez was held. They saw that all was hopeless, unless they could rid themselves of Chopart by some stratagem. They decided to attempt it. To gain time, an offer was made to the commandant, of tribute, in case he should permit them to remain on their lands until harvest. The offer was accepted, and the Indians matured their plan. Bundles of sticks were sent to the neighboring tribes, and their meaning explained. Each bundle contained as many sticks as days before the massacre of the French at Natchez; and that no mistake should arise in regard to the fixed day, every morning a stick was drawn from the bundle and broken in pieces, and the day of the last stick was that of the execution.
The secret was confided to none but the older warriors, who could be depended upon. But Grand-Sun was compelled to make a great sacrifice of private feeling in revenging the wrongs of his countrymen. He had won the respect and esteem of several of the French hunters by his generosity and other noble qualities; and the very intimate acquaintance of one of them in particular. This was Armand Griffin, whose family resided at Natchez, while he engaged in the laborious but profitable business of hunting. Grand-Sun and Griffin had become close friends. The hospitable door of the chief’s wigwam was ever open to the hunter, and the latter frequently visited him, Grand-Sun had instructed him in all the mysteries of woodcraft, and Griffin being naturally of a daring and restless temper, had become one of the boldest and best hunters in that part of the country. In return, he instructed Grand-Sun in many of the arts of the white man, and thus mutual services strengthened the links of friendship.
When Grand-Sun had matured his scheme of revenge, he thought of the situation of Griffin’s family, and without hinting his purpose, advised the hunter to remove them for a time. But he either would not or could not, disregarding the earnest entreaties of the chief to that effect. As the appointed day approached, and the security of feeling among the French promised success to the scheme of massacre, Grand-Sun renewed his entreaties, but still without daring to disclose the secret intent. Griffin not only said that his family must remain at the post, but that he himself must be there upon the day which the chief knew was fixed for the dreadful revenge. After a struggle between friendship and patriotism, the chief with stoic fortitude resolved to sacrifice his friend rather than disclose his scheme and thus trust to the white man’s faith for keeping such a secret.
About sunset the day before the massacre, Griffin and Grand-Sun, who had been out hunting during the day, arrived at the verge of the village of White Apple. A crowd of red men were assembled to welcome their great chief. The friends stopped upon an elevated piece of ground near the Indians. Grand-Sun had just been urging upon his friend the removal of his family from the fort. But as Griffin had given signs of beginning to suspect something wrong, he suddenly checked his persuasive appeal and taking his hand, thus bade him farewell for ever.