Fanny Kelly

MEET ANOTHER WHITE FEMALE CAPTIVE—SAD STORY OF MARY BOYEAU—A CHILD ROASTED AND ITS BRAINS DASHED OUT—MURDER OF MRS. FLETCHER—FIVE CHILDREN SLAUGHTERED—FATE OF THEIR MOTHER.

It was about this time that I had the sorrowful satisfaction of meeting with a victim of Indian cruelty, whose fate was even sadder than mine.

It was a part of my labor to carry water from the stream at which we camped, and, awakened for that purpose, I arose and hurried out one morning before the day had yet dawned clearly, leaving the Indians still in their blankets, and the village very quiet.

In the woods beyond I heard the retiring howl of the wolf, the shrill shriek of the bird of prey, as it was sweeping down on the unburied carcass of some poor, murdered traveler, and the desolation of my life and its surroundings filled my heart with dread and gloom.

I was so reduced in strength and spirit, that nothing but the dread of the scalping-knife urged my feet from task to task; and now, returning toward the tipi, with my heavy bucket, I was startled to behold a fair-faced, beautiful young girl sitting there, dejected and worn, like myself, but bearing the marks of loveliness and refinement, despite her neglected covering.

Almost doubting my reason, for I had become unsettled in my self-reliance, and even sanity, I feared to address her, but stood spell-bound, gazing in her sad brown eyes and drooping, pallid face.

The chief stood near the entrance of the tipi, enjoying the cool morning air, and watching the interview with amusement. He offered me a book, which chanced to be one of the Willson’s readers, stolen from our wagons, and bade me show it to the stranger.

I approached the girl, who instantly held out her hand, and said: “What book is that?”

The sound of my own language, spoken by one of my own people, was too much for me, and I sank to the ground by the side of the stranger, and, endeavoring to clasp her in my arms, became insensible.

A kindly squaw, who was in sight, must have been touched by our helpless sorrow; for, when recovering, she was sprinkling my face with water from the bucket, and regarding me with looks of interest.

Of course, we realized that this chance interview would be short, and, perhaps, the last that we would be able to enjoy, and, while my companion covered her face and wept, I told my name and the main incidents of my capture; and I dreaded to recall the possible fate of my Mary, lest I should rouse the terrible feelings I was trying to keep in subjection as my only hope of preserving reason.

The young girl responded to my confidence by giving her own story, which she related to me as follows:

“My name is Mary Boyeau; these people call me Madee. I have been among them since the massacre in Minnesota, and am now in my sixteenth year. My parents were of French descent, but we lived in the State of New York, until my father, in pursuance of his peculiar passion for the life of a naturalist and a man of science, sold our eastern home, and came to live on the shores of Spirit Lake, Minnesota.

“The Indians had watched about our place, and regarded what they had seen of my father’s chemical apparatus with awe and fear. Perhaps they suspected him of working evil charms in his laboratory, or held his magnets, microscopes, and curiously-shaped tubes in superstitious aversion.

“I can not tell; I only know that we were among the first victims of the massacre, and that all my family were murdered except myself, and, I fear, one younger sister.”

“You fear!” said I. “Do you not hope that she escaped?”

The poor girl shook her head. “From a life like mine death is an escape,” she said, bitterly.

“Oh! it is fearful! and a sin to rush unbidden into God’s presence, but I can not live through another frightful winter.

“No, I must and will die if no relief comes to me. For a year these people regarded me as a child, and then a young man of their tribe gave a horse for me, and carried me to his tipi as his wife.”

“Do you love your husband?” I asked.

A look, bitter and revengeful, gleamed from her eyes.

“Love a savage, who bought me to be a drudge and slave!” she repeated. “No! I hate him as I hate all that belong to this fearful bondage. He has another wife and a child. Thank God!” she added, with a shudder, “that I am not a mother!”

Misery and the consciousness of her own degraded life seemed to have made this poor young creature desperate; and, looking at her toil-worn hands and scarred arms, I saw the signs of abuse and cruelty; her feet, too, were bare, and fearfully bruised and travel-marked.

“Does he ill treat you?” I inquired.

“His wife does,” she answered. “I am forced to do all manner of slavish work, and when my strength fails, I am urged on by blows. Oh! I do so fearfully dread the chilling winters, without proper food or clothing; and I long to lie down and die, if God’s mercy will only permit me to escape from this hopeless imprisonment. I have nothing to expect now. I did once look forward to release, but that is all gone. I strove to go with the others, who were ransomed at Fort Pierre, and Mrs. Wright plead for me with all her heart; but the man who bought me would not give me up, and my prayers were useless.

“Mr. Dupuy, a Frenchman, who brought a wagon for the redeemed women and children, did not offer enough for me; and when another man offered a horse my captor would not receive it.

“There were many prisoners that I did not see in the village, but I am left alone. The Yanktons, who hold me, are friendly by pretense, and go to the agencies for supplies and annuities, but at heart they are bitterly hostile. They assert that, if they did not murder and steal, the Father at Washington would forget them; and now they receive presents and supplies to keep them in check, which they delight in taking, and deceiving the officers as to their share in the outbreaks.”

Her dread of soldiers was such that she had never attempted to escape, nor did she seem to think it possible to get away from her present life, so deep was the despair into which long-continued suffering had plunged her.

Sad as my condition was, I could not but pity poor Mary’s worse fate. The unwilling wife of a brutal savage, and subject to all the petty malice of a scarcely less brutal squaw, there could be no gleam of sunshine in her future prospects. True, I was, like her, a captive, torn from home and friends, and subject to harsh treatment, but no such personal indignity had fallen to my lot.

When Mary was first taken, she saw many terrible things, which she related to me, among which was the following:

One day, the Indians went into a house where they found a woman making bread. Her infant child lay in the cradle, unconscious of its fate. Snatching it from its little bed they thrust it into the heated oven, its screams torturing the wretched mother, who was immediately after stabbed and cut in many pieces.

Taking the suffering little creature from the oven, they then dashed out its brains against the walls of the house.

One day, on their journey, they came to a narrow but deep stream of water. Some of the prisoners, and nearly all of the Indians, crossed on horseback, while a few crossed on logs, which had been cut down by the beaver. A lady (by name Mrs. Fletcher, I believe), who was in delicate health, fell into the water with her heavy burden, unable, on account of her condition, to cross, and was shot by the Indians, her lifeless body soon disappearing from sight. She also told me of a white man having been killed a few days previous, and a large sum of money taken from him, which would be exchanged for articles used among the Indians when they next visited the Red River or British Possessions. They went, she told me, two or three times a year, taking American horses, valuables, etc., which they had stolen from the whites, and exchanging them for ammunition, powder, arrow points, and provisions.

Before they reached the Missouri River they killed five of Mrs. Dooley’s children, one of which was left on the ground in a place where the distracted mother had to pass daily in carrying water from the river; and when they left the camp the body remained unburied. So terrible were the sufferings of this heart-broken mother, that, when she arrived in safety among the whites, her reason was dethroned, and I was told that she was sent to the lunatic asylum, where her distracted husband soon followed.

Mary wished that we might be together, but knew that it would be useless to ask, as it would not be granted.

I gave her my little book and half of my pencil, which she was glad to receive. I wrote her name in the book, together with mine, encouraging her with every kind word and hope of the future. She could read and write, and understood the Indian language thoroughly.

The book had been taken from our wagon, and I had endeavored to teach the Indians from it, for it contained several stories; so it made the Indians very angry to have me part with it.

For hours I had sat with the book in my hands, showing them the pictures and explaining their meaning, which interested them greatly, and which helped pass away and relieve the monotony of the days of captivity which I was enduring. Moreover, it inspired them with a degree of respect and veneration for me when engaged in the task, which was not only pleasant, but a great comfort. It was by this means they discovered my usefulness in writing letters and reading for them.

I found them apt pupils, willing to learn, and they learned easily and rapidly. Their memory is very retentive—unusually good.