Fanny Kelly

FIRST INTIMATION OF MY LITTLE MARY’S FATE—DESPAIR AND DELIRIUM—A SHOWER OF GRASSHOPPERS—A FEAST AND A FIGHT—AN ENRAGED SQUAW—THE CHIEF WOUNDED.

One day, as I was pursuing what seemed to me an endless journey, an Indian rode up beside me, whom I did not remember to have seen before.

At his saddle hung a bright and well-known little shawl, and from the other side was suspended a child’s scalp of long, fair hair.

As my eyes rested on the frightful sight, I trembled in my saddle and grasped the air for support. A blood-red cloud seemed to come between me and the outer world, and I realized that innocent victim’s dying agonies.

The torture was too great to be endured—a merciful insensibility interposed between me and madness.

I dropped from the saddle as if dead, and rolled upon the ground at the horse’s feet.

When I recovered, I was clinging to a squaw, who, with looks of astonishment and alarm, was vainly endeavoring to extricate herself from my clutches.

With returning consciousness, I raised my eyes to the fearful sight that had almost deprived me of reason; it was gone.

The Indian had suspected the cause of my emotion, and removed it out of sight.

They placed me in the saddle once more, and not being able to control the horrible misery I felt, I protested wildly against their touch, imploring them to kill me, and frantically inviting the death I had before feared and avoided.

When they camped, I had not the power or reason to seek my own tent, but fell down in the sun, where the chief found me lying. He had been out at the head of a scouting party, and knew nothing of my sufferings.

Instantly approaching me, he inquired who had misused me. I replied, “No one. I want to see my dear mother, my poor mother, who loves me, and pines for her unhappy child.”

I had found, by experience, that the only grief with which this red nation had any sympathy was the sorrow one might feel for a separation from a mother, and even the chief seemed to recognize the propriety of such emotion.

On this account I feigned to be grieving solely for my dear widowed mother, and was treated with more consideration than I had dared to expect.

Leaving me for a few moments, he returned, bringing me some ripe wild plums, which were deliciously cooling to my fever-parched lips.

Hunger and thirst, sorrow and fear, with unusual fatigue and labor, had weakened me in mind and body, so that, after trying to realize the frightful vision that had almost deprived me of my senses, I began to waver in my knowledge of it, and half determined that it was a hideous phantom, like many another that had tortured my lonely hours.

I tried to dismiss the awful dream from remembrance, particularly as the days that followed found me ill and delirious, and it was some time before I was able to recall events clearly.

About this time there was another battle; and many having already sank under the united misery of hunger and fatigue, the camp was gloomy and hopeless in the extreme.

The Indians discovered my skill in dressing wounds, and I was called immediately to the relief of the wounded brought into camp.

The fight had lasted three days, and, from the immoderate lamentations, I supposed many had fallen, but could form no idea of the loss.

Except when encamped for rest, the tribe pursued their wanderings constantly; sometimes flying before the enemy, at others endeavoring to elude them.

I kept the record of time, as it passed with the savages, as well as I was able, and, with the exception of a few days lost, during temporary delirium and fever at two separate times, and which I endeavored to supply by careful inquiry, I missed no count of the rising or setting sun, and knew dates almost as well as if I had been in the heart of civilization.

One very hot day, a dark cloud seemed suddenly to pass before the sun and threaten a great storm. The wind rose, and the cloud became still darker, until the light of day was almost obscured.

A few drops sprinkled the earth, and, then, in a heavy, blinding, and apparently inexhaustible shower, fell a countless swarm of grasshoppers, covering every thing and rendering the air almost black by their descent.

It is impossible to convey an idea of their extent; they seemed to rival Pharaoh’s locusts in number, and no doubt would have done damage to the food of the savages had they not fallen victims themselves to their keen appetites.

To catch them, large holes are dug in the ground, which are heated by fires. Into these apertures the insects are then driven, and, the fires having been removed, the heated earth bakes them.

They are considered good food, and were greedily devoured by the famishing Sioux. Although the grasshoppers only remained two days, and went as suddenly as they had come, the Indians seemed refreshed by feasting on such small game, and continued to move forward.

Halting one day to rest beside good water, I busily engaged myself in the chief’s tipi, or lodge. I had grown so weak that motion of any kind was exhausting to me, and I could scarcely walk. I felt that I must soon die of starvation and sorrow, and life had ceased to be dear to me.

Mechanically I tried to fulfill my tasks, so as to secure the continued protection of the old squaw, who, when not incensed by passion, was not devoid of kindness.

My strength failed me, and I could not carry out my wishes, and almost fell as I tried to move around.

This met with disapprobation, and, better fed than myself, she could not sympathize with my want of strength. She became cross, and left the lodge, threatening me with her vengeance.

Presently an Indian woman, who pitied me, ran into the tipi in great haste, saying that her husband had got some deer meat, and she had cooked it for a feast, and begged me to share it. As she spoke, she drew me toward her tent, and, hungry and fainting, I readily followed.

The chief saw us go, and, not disdaining a good dinner, he followed. The old squaw came flying into the lodge like an enraged fury, flourishing her knife, and vowing she would kill me.

I arose immediately and fled, the squaw pursuing me. The chief attempted to interfere, but her rage was too great, and he struck her, at which she sprang like an infuriated tiger upon him, stabbing him in several places.

Her brother, who at a short distance beheld the fray, and deeming me the cause, fired six shots, determining to kill me. One of these shots lodged in the arm of the chief, breaking it near the shoulder. I then ran until I reached the outskirts of the village, where I was captured by a party who saw me running, but who knew not the cause.

Thinking that I was endeavoring to escape, they dragged me in the tent, brandishing their tomahawks and threatening vengeance.

After the lapse of half an hour some squaws came and took me back to the lodge of the chief, who was waiting for me, before his wounds could be dressed. He was very weak from loss of blood.

I never saw the wife of the chief afterward.

Indian surgery is coarse and rude in its details. A doctor of the tribe had pierced the arm of the chief with a long knife, probing in search of the ball it had received, and the wound thus enlarged had to be healed.

As soon as I was able to stand, I was required to go and wait on the disabled chief. I found his three sisters with him, and with these I continued to live in companionship.

One of them had been married, at the fort, to a white man, whom she had left at Laramie when his prior wife arrived.

She told me that they were esteemed friendly, and had often received supplies from the fort, although at heart they were always the enemy of the white man.

“But will they not suspect you?” asked I. “They may discover your deceit and punish you some day.”

She laughed derisively. “Our prisoners don’t escape to tell tales,” she replied. “Dead people don’t talk. We claim friendship, and they can not prove that we don’t feel it. Besides, all white soldiers are cowards.”

Shudderingly I turned away from this enemy of my race, and prepared to wait on my captor, whose superstitious belief in the healing power of a white woman’s touch led him to desire her services.

The wounds of the chief were severe, and the suppuration profuse. It was my task to bathe and dress them, and prepare his food.

Hunting and fishing being now out of the question for him, he had sent his wives to work for themselves, keeping the sisters and myself to attend him.

War with our soldiers seemed to have decreased the power of the chief to a great extent.

As he lay ill, he evidently meditated on some plan of strengthening his forces, and finally concluded to send an offer of marriage to the daughter of a war-chief of another band.

As General Sully’s destructive attack had deprived him all ready offerings, he availed himself of my shoes, which happened to be particularly good, and, reducing me to moccasins, sent them as a gift to the expected bride.

She evidently received them graciously, for she came to his lodge almost every day to visit him, and sat chatting at his side, to his apparent satisfaction.

The pleasure of this new matrimonial acquisition on the part of the chief was very trying to me, on account of my limited wardrobe, for as the betrothed continued in favor, the chief evinced it by giving her articles of my clothing.

An Indian woman had given me a red silk sash, such as officers wear. The chief unceremoniously cut it in half, leaving me one half, while the coquettish squaw received the rest.

An Indian husband’s power is absolute, even to death.

No woman can have more than one husband, but an Indian can have as many wives as he chooses.

The marriage of the chief was to be celebrated with all due ceremony when his arm got well.

But his arm never recovered. Mr. Clemens, the interpreter, tells me (in my late interview with him), that he still remains crippled, and unable to carry out his murderous intentions, or any of his anticipated wicked designs.

He is now living in the forts along the Missouri River, gladly claiming support from the Government.