Fanny Kelly

SUPPER IN HONOR OF OUR RE-UNION—DEPARTURE FROM FORT SULLY—INCIDENTS BY THE WAY—ARRIVAL AT GENEVA—MOTHER AND CHILD—A HAPPY MEETING.

Fort Sully was garrisoned by three companies of the Sixth Iowa Cavalry, and I should be recreant to every sense of justice did I not more particularly express my gratitude to them all—officers and men—for the delicate, more than brotherly, kindness shown me during my stay of two months among them.

They had fought gallantly during that summer, and punished severely the Indians who held me captive; and though my sufferings at the time were increased tenfold thereby, I believe the destitute condition of the Indians had much to do with my final restoration to freedom. Had there been plenty of food in the Indian villages, none would have gone to Fort Sully to make a treaty.

On each of the two evenings we remained at the fort after my husband’s arrival, we were honored with a “feast,” in marked contrast with those I had attended while with the savages. Stewed oysters relished better than stewed dog, and the abundance of other good things, with the happy-looking, kind, sympathetic faces of my own people around the board, filled me with a feeling of almost heavenly content.

Mr. Harry Chatterton presided at the first, and, in a feeling manner, expressed the delight and satisfaction his comrades and himself experienced in this hour of our re-union:

“May the good Father of mercies ever protect and bless you; make the sun of happiness to brightly shine upon you, and may it never again be dimmed by stern misfortune! is the earnest and heartfelt wish of every person in this fort to-day.”

With deep emotion these words were spoken, and we felt convinced they were from the innermost depths of the heart.

How many affectionate, generous natures are among us, whom we can never appreciate until some heavy cloud drops down upon us, and they, with their cheerful words and kind acts, assist us to rise, and in hours of joy they are ready to grasp us by the hand, and welcome us to happiness?

Anxious for a re-union with our friends, and to be once more with my dear mother, we bade farewell to those who had shown us so much kindness and attention, and commenced our journey at daylight, to prevent the Indians, many of whom remained about the fort, knowing of my departure, as I was in constant dread of recapture.

Fort Sully is on the Missouri River, three hundred miles from Sioux City, by land, which distance we traveled in an ambulance. At all the military posts, stations, and towns through which we passed, all—military and civilians—seemed to vie with each other in kindness and attention. Those living in frontier towns know what the nature of the Indian is, and could most heartily sympathize with one who had suffered from captivity among them.

At Yankton I received particularly kind attention, from Mrs. Ash, of the Ash Hotel, who also gave me the information, elsewhere written, of the fate of Mrs. Dooley and Mrs. Wright. Here, also, I met a number of the Sixth Iowa Cavalry, to which gallant regiment I was under so great obligation. Dr. Bardwell, a surgeon of that regiment, who was at Fort Sully at the time the Blackfeet came in to make a treaty, and were sent off after me, and who, I had previously been informed, was active in measures tending to my release, was stationed at Yankton, and manifested the kindness of his heart in many ways.

At Sioux City, Council Bluffs, and St. Joe, crowds of visitors flocked to see the white woman who had been a captive with the Indians; and I was compelled to answer many questions. From St. Joe, we made all haste for Leavenworth, Kansas, where I was received by friends and relatives as one risen from the dead.

At last we reached our old home in Geneva; the home from which we had departed but a few months before, lured to new fields by the brightest hopes of future prosperity. Alas! what disappointments had fallen to our lot! But soon I was clasped in my dear mother’s arms, and all my sorrows were swallowed up in the joy of that re-union.

On the morning of our departure for the plains, she said (while tears of sorrow filled her eyes) that she felt as though it was our final farewell. Her fears were agonizing in my behalf. She seemed to have a presentiment of evil—a dark, portentous cloud hung over my head, she felt, that would burst upon me, and scatter dismay and grief—which too well was realized in the days that followed.

I endeavored to cheer her with hope, and smilingly assured her that, as soon as the Pacific Railroad was completed, I should visit my home and her; and, though many miles might separate us, we still would be one in heart; and the facilities for traveling were becoming so easy and rapid, we could not be separated for any great length of time. But her sad heart refused to be comforted. A mother’s unchanging love—stronger than death, faithful under every circumstance, and clinging with tenacity to the child of her affection, could not part with me without a pang of anguish, which was increased tenfold when the news of my capture reached her.

Gradually she sank under this heavy affliction; health rapidly gave way, and for three long months she lay helpless, moaning and bewailing the loss of her children; for, scarcely had she aroused from the terrible stupor and grief which the news of my brother’s death from poison, while a soldier in the Union army, had plunged her, when this new and awful sorrow came like a whirlwind upon her fainting spirit.

But God is good. In his great mercy he spared us both, to meet once more, and a letter from my hand, telling her of my safety, reached her in due time; and in each other’s fond embrace we were once more folded.

Oh! happy hour! Methinks the angels smiled in their celestial abodes when they witnessed that dear mother’s joy.

The reader naturally supposes that here my narrative ought to end; that, restored to husband, mother, and friends, my season of sorrow must be over. But not so. Other trials were in store for me, and, even fortified as I was by past tribulation, I sank almost despairingly under their affliction. Nor was I yet done with the Indians.

Anxious to again establish a home, we left Geneva, went to Shawneetown, where we prospered; but better prospects offering farther west, we went to Ellsworth, a new town just staked out on the western line of Kansas. I was the first woman who located there. We lived in our wagon for a time, then built a hotel, and were prospering, when fears of the Indians again harassed us.

The troops at Fort Harker, four miles east of Ellsworth, had been out, under General Hancock, in pursuit of the Indians, to punish them for murders and depredations committed along the line of the Pacific Railroad, and coming upon an Indian camp, destroyed it, inflicting a severe chastisement. This we knew would so exasperate the Indians as to render the situation of the exposed settlements one of great danger; and after my experience, a terrible dread of again falling into their hands intensified my apprehensions for our safety.

The scouts, Jack Harvey and “Wild Bill,” were constantly on the lookout, and eagerly would we look toward the hills for any one who could give us news, and gather around them, when they came from the front, with anxious faces and listening ears.

Meantime the population of Ellsworth had rapidly increased, and military companies were formed for protection. Thus we lived in a continual state of alarm, until at last one night the signal was given that the Indians were approaching, when every man flew to his post, and the women and children fled to the places of refuge that had been prepared for them, an iron-clad house and a “dug-out,” or place under ground. I fled to the latter place, where about fifty altogether had congregated, and among them were three young men who were the sole survivors of a large family—father, mother, and two sisters—murdered and horribly mutilated in the Minnesota massacres.

The Indians were repulsed, but they continued to harass us and threaten the town, so that it became necessary to apply for military protection. Accordingly, a number of colored troops were sent there, which imparted a feeling of security.

But Ellsworth was doomed to a more terrible scourge, if possible, than the Indians had threatened to be. The troops were recently from the South. Soon after their arrival among us, the cholera broke out among them, and, spreading among the citizens, created a terrible panic. The pestilence was most destructive, sweeping before it old and young, and of all classes.

My husband fell a victim to the disease.

On the 28th day of July, 1867, a violent attack of this terrible disease carried him off, and, in the midst of peril and cares, I was left a mourning, desolate widow.

Being in delicate health, I was forced to flee to the East, and stopped at St. George, where one week after my little one was ushered into this world of sorrow.

The people were panic-stricken in relation to the cholera, and when I went there, they were afraid to receive me into their homes, consequently I repaired to a small cabin in the outskirts of the town, and my adopted son and myself remained there alone for several days.

A young lady, Miss Baker, called on me in great sympathy, saying she was not afraid of cholera, and would stay with me until after my confinement.

I was very thankful for her kindness, and after the fear was over with the people, every attention that humanity could suggest was given me; but, alas! my heart was at home, and so deep were my yearnings, the physician declared it impossible for me to recover until I did go home.

The events that had transpired seemed like a fearful dream.

The physician who attended me went to Ellsworth to see if it was prudent for me to go, sending a letter immediately after, bidding me come, as the cholera had disappeared.

Oh! how changed was that home! The voice that had ever been as low, sweet music to my ear was hushed forever; the eye that had always met mine with smiling fondness was closed to light and me, and the hand so often grasped in tender love was palsied in death! Mr. Kelly, the noble, true, and devoted husband, my loved companion, the father of my innocent child, was gone. Oh! how sad that word! My heart was overwhelmed with grief, and that did its work, for it prostrated me on a bed of illness nigh unto death.

Dr. McKennon very faithfully attended me during my illness, and as I was recovering, he was seized by severe sickness himself, which proved fatal.

He was anxious to see me before he died, and desired assistance that he might be taken down stairs for the purpose.

His attendants allowed him to do so, but he fainted in the attempt, and was laid on the floor until he recovered, then raised and placed on the sofa.

I was then led into the room, and, seating myself beside him, he grasped my hand, exclaiming: “My friend, do not leave me. I have a brother in New York”—but his lips soon stiffened in death, and he was unable to utter more.

It was a severe shock to my nervous system, already prostrated by trouble and illness, and I greatly missed his attention and care.

No relative, or friend, was near to lay his weary head upon the pillow; but we laid him to rest in the burial ground of Ellsworth with sad hearts and great emotion.

In the spring I went to the end of the road further west, with an excursion party, to a place called Sheridan. On our return we stopped at Fort Hays, where I met two Indians who recognized me, and I also knew them. We conversed together. I learned they had a camp in the vicinity, and they were skulking around, reconnoitering. They were well treated here and very liberally dealt with. They inquired where I lived; I told them way off, near to the rising sun.

The next morning, when the train left town, the band, riding on horseback, jumped the ditch, and looked into the windows of the cars, hoping to see me.

They told the people that I belonged to them, and they would take my papoose and me way off to their own country; we were their property, and must go with them.

It was supposed that if I had been in the cars the Indians would have attempted to take the train.