University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XXV.

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
ray 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 scat
ter 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.