University of Virginia Library

CAPTIVITY AMONG THE SIOUX.

CHAPTER I.

I Was born in Orillia, Canada, in 1845. Our home
was on the lake shore, and there amid pleasant surroundings
I passed the happy days of early childhood.

The years 1852 to 1856 witnessed, probably, the
heavest immigration the West has ever known in a
corresponding length of time. Those who had gone
before sent back to their friends such marvelous accounts
of the fertility of the soil, the rapid development
of the country, and the ease with which fortunes
were made, the "Western fever" became almost epidemic.
Whole towns in the old, Eastern States were
almost depopulated. Old substantial farmers, surrounded
apparently by all the comforts that heart
could wish, sacrificed the homes wherein their families
had been reared for generations, and, with all their
worldly possessions, turned their faces toward the setting

sun. And with what high hopes! Alas! how
few, comparatively, met their realization.

In 1856, my father, James Wiggins, joined a New
York colony bound for Kansas. Being favorably impressed
with the country and its people, they located the
town of Geneva, and my father returned for his family.
Reaching the Missouri River on our way to our new
home, my father was attacked with cholera, and died.
In obedience to his dying instructions, my widowed
mother, with her little family, continued on the way to
our new home. But, oh! with what saddened hearts
we entered into its possession. It seemed as if the
light of our life had gone out. He who had been
before to prepare that home for us, was not there to
share it with us, and, far away from all early associations,
almost alone in a new and sparsely settled
country, it seemed as though hope had died.

But God is merciful. He prepares the soul for its
burdens. Of a truth, "He tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb."

Our family remained in this pleasant prairie home,
where I was married to Josiah S. Kelly.

My husband's health failing, he resolved upon a
change of climate. Accordingly, on the 17th of May,
1864, a party of six persons, consisting of Mr. Gardner
Wakefield, my husband, myself, our adopted daughter
(my sister's child), and two colored servants, started
from Geneva, with high-wrought hopes and pleasant

anticipations of a romantic and delightful journey
across the plains, and a confident expectation of future
prosperity among the golden hills of Idaho.

A few days after commencing our journey, we were
joined by Mr. Sharp, a Methodist clergyman, from
Verdigris River, about thirty miles south of Geneva;
and, a few weeks later, we overtook a large train of
emigrants, among whom were a family from Allen
County with whom we were acquainted—Mr. Larimer,
wife, and child, a boy eight years old. Preferring to
travel with our small train, they left the larger one
and became members of our party. The addition of
one of my own sex to our little company was cause
of much rejoicing to me, and helped relieve the dullness
of our tiresome march.

The hours of noon and evening rest were spent in
preparing our frugal meals, gathering flowers with our
children, picking berries, hunting curiosities, or gazing
in wrapt wonder and admiration at the beauties of this
strange, bewildering country.

Our amusements were varied. Singing, reading,
writing to friends at home, or pleasant conversation,
occupied our leisure hours.

Sc passed the first few happy days of our emigration
to, the land of sunshine and flowers.

When the sun had set, when his last rays were
flecking the towering peaks of the Rocky Mountains,
gathering around the camp-fires, in our home-like tent,

we ate with a relish known only to those who, like us,
scented the pure air, and lived as nature demanded.

At night, when our camp had been arranged by
Andy and Franklin, our colored men, it was always
in the same relative position, Mr. Kelly riding a few
miles ahead as evening drew near to select the camping
ground.

The atmosphere, which during the day was hot and
stifling, became cool, and was laden with the odor of
prairie flowers, the night dews filling their beautiful
cups with the waters of heaven.

The solemnity of night pervaded every thing. The
warblings of the feathered tribe had ceased. The antelope
and deer rested on the hills; no sound of laughing,
noisy children, as in a settled country; no tramping
of busy feet, or hurrying to and fro. All is silent.
Nature, like man, has put aside the labors of the day,
and is enjoying rest and peace.

Yonder, as a tiny spark, as a distant star, might be
seen from the road a little camp-fire in the darkness
spread over the earth.

Every eye in our little company is closed, every
hand still, as we lay in our snugly-covered wagons,
awaiting the dawn of another day.

And the Eye that never sleeps watched over us in our
lonely camp, and cared for the slumbering travelers.

Mr. Wakefield, with whom we became acquainted
after he came to settle at Geneva, proved a most agreeable

companion. Affable and courteous, unselfish,
and a gentleman, we remember him with profound
respect.

A fine bridge crosses the Kansas River. A half-hour's
ride through the dense heavy timber, over a jet-black
soil of incalculable richness, brought us to this
bridge, which we crossed.

We then beheld the lovely valley of the prairies,
intersecting the deep green of graceful slopes, where
waves tall prairie grass, among which the wild flowers
grow.

Over hundreds of acres these blossoms are scattered,
yellow, purple, white, and blue, making the earth
look like a rich carpet of variegated colors; those
blooming in spring are of tender, modest hue, in later
summer and early autumn clothed in gorgeous splendor.
Solomon's gold and purple could not outrival them.

Nature seemingly reveled in beauty, for beauty's
sake alone, for none but the simple children of the
forest to view her in state.

Slowly the myriad years come and go upon her solitary
places. Tender spring-time and glorious summer
drop down their gifts from overflowing coffers, while
the steps of bounding deer or the notes of singing
birds break upon the lonely air.

The sky is of wonderful clearness and transparency.
Narrow belts and fringes of forest mark the way of
winding streams.

In the distance rise conical mounds, wrapped in the
soft veil of dim and dreamy haze.

Upon the beaten road are emigrants wending their
way, their household goods packed in long covered
wagons, drawn by oxen, mules, or horses; speculators
working their way to some new town with women and
children; and we meet with half-breed girls, with
heavy eye-lashes and sun-burnt cheeks, jogging along
on horseback.

I was surprised to see so many women among the
emigrants, and to see how easily they adapted themselves
to the hardships experienced in a journey across
the plains.

As a rule, the emigrants travel without tents, sleeping
in and under wagons, without removing their
clothing.

Cooking among emigrants to the far West is a very
primitive operation, a frying-pan and perhaps a Dutch
oven comprising the major part of the kitchen furniture.

The scarcity of timber is a source of great inconvenience
and discomfort, "buffalo chips" being the substitute.
At some of the stations, where opportunity
offered, Mr. Kelly bought wood by the pound, as I
had not yet been long enough inured to plains privations
to relish food cooked over a fire made with
"chips" of that kind.

We crossed the Platte River by binding four wagon

boxes together, then loaded the boat with goods, and
were rowed across by about twenty men.

We were several days in crossing. Our cattle and
horses swam across. The air had been heavy and oppressively
hot; now the sky began to darken suddenly,
and just as we reached the opposite shore, a gleam of
lightning, like a forked tongue of flame, shot out of
the black clouds, blinding us by its flash, and followed
by a frightful crash of thunder.

Another gleam and another crash followed, and the
dense blackness lowered threateningly over us, almost
shutting out the heights beyond, and seeming to encircle
us like prisoners in the valley that lay at our
feet.

The vivid flashes lighting the darkness for an instant
only made its gloom more fearful, and the heavy rolling
of the thunder seemed almost to rend the heavens
above it.

All at once it burst upon our unprotected heads in
rain. But such rain! Not the gentle droppings of an
afternoon shower, nor a commonplace storm, but a
sweeping avalanche of water, drenching us completely
at the first dash, and continuing to pour, seeming to
threaten the earth on which we stood, and tempt the
old Platte to rise and claim it as its own.

Our wagon covers had been removed in the fording,
and we had no time to put up tents for our protection
until its fury was exhausted. And so we were forced

to brave the elements, with part of our company on
the other side of the swollen river, and a wild scene,
we could scarcely discern through the pelting rain, surrounding
us.

One soon becomes heroic in an open-air life, and so
we put up what shelter we could when the abating
storm gave us opportunity; and, wringing the water
out of clothes, hair, and eye-brows, we camped in
cheerful hope of a bright to-morrow, which did not
disappoint us, and our hundreds of emigrant companions
scattered on the way.

Each recurring Sabbath was gratefully hailed as a
season of thought and repose; as a matter of conscience
and duty we observed the day, and took pleasure in
doing so.

We had divine service performed, observing the
ceremonies of prayer, preaching, and singing, which
was fully appreciated in our absence from home and
its religious privileges.

Twenty-five miles from California Crossing is a place
called Ash Hollow, where the eye is lost in space as it
endeavors to penetrate its depths. Here some years
before, General Harney made his name famous by an
indiscriminate massacre of a band of hostile Indians,
with their women and children.