University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XI.

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 amunition, 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 heartbroken
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.