The Life of Mary Jemison E-Book

James E. Seaver

• Herausgeber: Digital Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 297

Beschreibung

Taken captive at the early age of thirteen by Seneca Indians, Mary Jemison was trained in the wilderness to the ordinary duties of the Indian female. Embedded with the sentiments and lifestyle of the Seneca's she essentially transformed into a member of the tribe. Mary Jemison's story is a remarkable one not because of her extraordinary lifestyle, but because this was the lifestyle that, in the end, she chose for herself. When prisoners were being set free from the bondage of the Indians after the French and Indian War, Mrs. Jemison chose to remain with her Indian friends and accept her Seneca upbringing. Known for her uncommon generosity, as Westward Expansion began to flourish, those who settled near the Genesee River soon became acquainted with The White Woman.

Leseprobe

Life of Mary Jemison

DEH-HE-WÄ-MIS

By James E. Seaver

Originally Published in 1877

SIXTH EDITION, WITH APPENDIX

BUFFALO, N. Y.

PRINTING HOUSE OF MATTHEWS BROS. & BRYANT

OFFICE OF THE “BUFFALO MORNING EXPRESS”

1880

Table of Contents

Publishing Information

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

NOTE TO THE FIFTH EDITION.

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

APPENDIX I

APPENDIX II

APPENDIX III

APPENDIX IV

APPENDIX V

APPENDIX VI

CHAUTAUQUE COUNTY

CATTARAUGUS COUNTY

ERIE COUNTY

GENESEE AND WYOMING COUNTIES

ALLEGHANY COUNTY

LIVINGSTON COUNTY

MONROE COUNTY

ORLEANS AND NIAGRA COUNTIES

WAYNE AND ONTARIO COUNTIES

YATES, STEUBEN, AND CHEMUNG COUNTIES

GWE-U´-GWEH-O-NO´-GA,

O-NUN´-DÄ-GO-O-NO´-GA,

ONONDAGA COUNTY

OSWEGO AND JEFFERSON COUNTIES

O-NA´-YOTE-KÄ´-O-NO-GA,

ONEIDA COUNTY

MADISON AND CHENANGO COUNTIES

GÄ-NE-Ă´-GA-O-NO´-GA,

COUNTIES SOUTH OF THE MOHAWK

CANADA

PENNSYLVANIA

GARDEAU, — HOME OF THE “WHITE WOMAN.”— 1872

Life of Mary Jemison

DEH-HE-WÄ-MIS

THE WHITE WOMAN OF THE GENESEE

By James E. Seaver

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

TO FOURTH EDITION.

Thelife of Mary Jemison was one of singular vicissitude and trial. Taken captive at the early age of thirteen years, and trained in the wilderness to the ordinary duties of the Indian female, she became imbued with their sentiments, and transformed essentially into one of their number. Born on the sea, as it were the child of accident, made an orphan by the tomahawk of the Red man, it was her sad destiny to become lost to the race from which she sprung, and affiliated with the one which she had every reason to abhor. This transformation, the reverse of the order of nature, was perfected by her becoming the wife of an Indian, and the mother of Indian children. As if in punishment of this unnatural alliance, two of her sons meet with a violent death at the hands of their brother, and afterward, to complete the tragedy, the fratricide himself dies by the hand of violence.

Notwithstanding the severity of these domestic calamities, and the toilsome life she was forced to lead, she met her trials with fortitude, and lived to the great age of ninety-one years. Her life, however, was not without its “sunny side.” She found attached friends among her Seneca kindred, and was ever treated by them with consideration and kindness. The esteem and affection with which she was cherished is indicated by the liberal provision made for her by the Seneca chiefs, before they disposed of their hereditary domain. They ceded to her in fee-simple, and for her individual use, the “Gardeau Reservation” upon the Genesee River, which contained upward of nineteen thousand acres of land; and thus raised her and her posterity to an affluence beyond the utmost dreams of the imagination, had she chosen afterward to retain it, and return to civilized life. It was not the least hardship of her case, that, when liberty and restoration were finally offered, and urged upon her, she found they came too late for her acceptance; and she was forced to fulfill her destiny by dying, as she had lived, a Seneca woman.

The narrative of her life cannot fail to awaken our sympathies, while it may serve to remind us of the perils which surrounded our fathers during the period of colonization. As time wears away we are apt to forget, in the fullness of our present security, the dangers which Surrounded the founders of the original colonies, from the period of the French and Indian war to the close of the Revolution. It is well not to lose our familiarity with these trying scenes, lest we become insensible of our ever-continuing debt of gratitude to those who met those dangers manfully, to secure to their descendants the blessings we now enjoy. This narrative, while it brings to light a few of the darkest transactions of our early history, is not without some instruction.

It is proper to state that this work was first published in 1824, during the lifetime of Mrs. Jemison, and that shortly afterward, the author, to whose diligence we are indebted for the preservation of the incidents of her history, himself deceased. In 1842, the work was revised by Ebenezer Mix, Esq., who also added chapters V, VIII, and XV.

ROCHESTER, N. Y., March, 1856.

NOTE TO THE FIFTH EDITION.

The fact that the “Life of Mary Jemison” has long been out of print, and that of late many inquiries have been made for it, has induced the undersigned to purchase the stereotyped plates and copyright of the work, and issue the present new edition. In this edition will be found an additional chapter contributed by Wm. C. Bryant, Esq., President of the Buffalo Historical Society, and another by Mrs. Wright, widow of the late Rev. Asher Wright, who for over forty years has labored as a missionary among the Senecas.

It is deemed proper to state here, that the introduction and the editorial notes belonging to the fourth edition were prepared by the distinguished author of the League of the Iroquois and other works, Hon. Lewis H. Morgan.

Appended hereto will be found an account of the recent removal and disposition of the remains of the “White Woman,” together with some other facts of interest. There has also been added to the present volume, at considerable expense, a number of engravings illustrative of the life and customs of the Seneca Indians in the olden time. Included among these are portraits of two of Mary Jemison’s descendants now living.

WM. P. LETCHWORTH.

Glen Iris, Portageville P. O., Wyoming Co., N. Y., March, 1877.

CHAPTER I

Parentage of Mary Jemison—Born on the Sea—Lands, with her parents, in Philadelphia, in 1743—Settles in Marsh Creek, in Western Pennsylvania—Indian alarms—Her childhood and education.

AlthoughI may have frequently heard the history of my ancestry, my recollection is too imperfect to enable me to trace it further back than to my father and mother, whom I have often heard mention the families from whence they originated, as having possessed wealth, and honorable stations under the government of the country in which they resided.

On account of the great length of time that has elapsed since I was separated from my parents and friends, and having heard the story of their nativity only in the days of my childhood, I am unable to state positively which of the two countries, Ireland or Scotland, was the land of my parents’ birth and education. It, however, is my impression, that they were born and brought up in Ireland.

My father’s name was Thomas Jemison, and my mother’s, before her marriage, was Jane Erwin. Their affection for each other was mutual, and of that happy kind which tends directly to sweeten the cup of life; to render connubial sorrows lighter; to assuage every discontentment; and to promote not only their own comfort, but that of all who come within the circle of their acquaintance. Of their happiness, I recollect to have heard them often speak; and the remembrance I yet retain of their mildness and perfect agreement in the government of their children, together with their mutual attention to our common education, manners, religious instruction and wants, renders it certain in my mind that they were ornaments to the married state, and examples of connubial love worthy of imitation. After my remembrance, they were strict observers of religious duties; for it was the daily practice of my father, morning and evening, to attend, in his family, to the worship of God.

Resolved to leave the land of their nativity, they removed from their residence to a port in Ireland, where they lived but a short time before they set sail for this country, in the year 1742 or 1743, on board the ship William and Mary, bound to Philadelphia.

The intestine divisions, civil wars, and ecclesiastical rigidity and domination that prevailed in those days, were the causes of their leaving their mother country, to find a home in the American wilderness, under the mild and temperate government of the descendants of William Penn; where they might worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences, and pursue their lawful avocations without fear of molestation.

In Europe, my parents had two sons and one daughter; their names were John, Thomas, and Betsey; with whom, after having put their effects on board, they embarked, leaving a large connection of relatives and friends, under all those painful sensations which are only felt when kindred souls give the parting hand and last farewell to those to whom they are endeared by every friendly tie.

During their voyage I was born—to be the sport of fortune and almost an outcast to civil society; to stem the current of adversity through a long chain of vicissitudes, unsupported by the advice of tender parents, or the hand of an affectionate friend; and even without the enjoyment, from others, of any of those tender sympathies which are calculated to sweeten the joys of life, except such as naturally flow from uncultivated minds, that have been rendered callous by ferocity.

Excepting my birth, nothing remarkable occurred to my parents on their passage; and they were safely landed at Philadelphia. My father being fond of rural life, and having been bred to agricultural pursuits, soon left the city, and removed his family to a tract of excellent land lying on Marsh Creek, on the frontier settlement of Pennsylvania. At that place, he cleared a large farm; and for seven or eight years enjoyed the fruits of his industry. Peace attended their labors; and they had nothing to alarm them, save the midnight howl of the prowling wolf, or the terrifying shriek of the ferocious panther, as they occasionally visited the improvements to take a lamb or a calf to satisfy their hunger.

During this period my mother had two sons, between whose ages there was a difference of about three years. The oldest was named Matthew, and the other Robert.

Health presided on every countenance, and vigor and strength characterized every exertion. Our mansion was a little paradise. The morning of my childish, happy days, will ever stand fresh in my memory, notwithstanding the many severe trials through which I have passed, in arriving at my present situation, at so advanced an age. Even at this remote period, the recollection of my pleasant home at my father’s, of my parents, of my brothers and sister, and of the manner in which I was deprived of them all at once, affects me so powerfully that I am almost overwhelmed with grief that is seemingly insupportable. Frequently, I dream of those happy

days: but alas! they are gone; they have left me to be carried through a long life, dependent for the little pleasures of nearly seventy years upon the tender mercies of the Indians! In the spring of 1752, and through the succeeding seasons, the stories of Indian barbarities inflicted upon the whites in those days frequently excited in my parents the most serious alarm for our safety.

The next year, the storm gathered faster; many murders were committed; and many captives were exposed to meet death in its most frightful form, by having their bodies stuck full of pine splinters, which were immediately set on fire, while their tormentors were exulting in their distress and rejoicing in their agony.

In 1754, an army for the protection of the settlers, and to drive back the French and Indians, was raised from the militia of the colonial governments, and placed, secondarily, under the command of Colonel George Washington. In that army I had an uncle, whose name was John Jemison, who was killed at the battle of the Great Meadows, or Fort Necessity. His wife had died some time before this, and left a young child, which my mother nursed in the most tender manner, till its mother’s sister took it away, a few months after my uncle’s death. The French and Indians, after the surrender of Fort Necessity by Col. Washington, (which happened the same season, and soon after his victory over them at that place,) grew more and more terrible. The death of the whites, and the plundering and burning of their property, was apparently their only object. But as yet we had not heard the death-yell, nor seen the smoke of a dwelling that had been lit by an Indian’s hand.

The return of a new-year’s day found us unmolested; and though we knew that the enemy was at no great distance from us, my father concluded that he would continue to occupy his land another season, expecting, probably from the great exertions which the government was then making, that as soon as the troops could commence their operations in the spring, the enemy would be conquered, and compelled to agree to a treaty of peace.

In the preceding autumn, my father either moved to another part of his farm, or to another neighborhood, a short distance from our former abode. I well recollect moving, and that the barn that was on the place we moved to was built of logs, though the house was a good one.

The winter of 1754-5 was as mild as common fall seasons; and spring presented a pleasant seedtime, and indicated a plenteous harvest. My father, with the assistance of his oldest sons, repaired his farm as usual, and was daily preparing the soil for the reception of seed. His cattle and sheep were numerous, and according to the best idea of wealth that I can now form, he was wealthy.

But alas! how transitory are all human affairs! How fleeting are riches! How brittle the invisible thread on which all earthly comforts are suspended! Peace in a moment can take an immeasurable flight; health can lose its rosy cheeks; and life will vanish like a vapor at the appearance of the sun! In one fatal day, our prospects were all blasted; and death, by cruel hands, inflicted upon almost the whole of the family.

My education had received as much attention from my parents as their situation in a new country would admit. I had been at school some, where I learned to read in a book that was about half as large as a Bible; and in the Bible I had read a little. I had also learned the Catechism, which I used frequently to repeat to my parents; and every night, before I went to bed, I was obliged to stand up before my mother, and repeat some words that I suppose was a prayer.

My reading, catechism, and prayers, I have long since forgotten; though, for a number of the first years that I lived with the Indians, I repeated the prayers as often as I had an opportunity. After the revolutionary war, I remembered the names of some of the letters when I saw them; but have never read a word since I was taken prisoner. It is but a few years since a missionary kindly gave me a Bible, which I am very fond of hearing my neighbors read to me, and should be pleased to learn to read it myself, but my sight for a number of years has been so dim that I have not been able to distinguish one letter from another.

CHAPTER II

Fancied omen—Inroad of a band of Shawnees—Whole family taken captive in 1755—Marched into the wilderness—Her mother’s farewell address—Murder of her father, mother two brothers, and sister—Preparation of scalps—Indian caution, to prevent pursuit—Arrival at Fort Du Quesne.

On a pleasant day in the spring of 1755, when my father was sowing flaxseed, and my brothers driving the teams, I was sent to a neighbor’s house, a distance of perhaps a mile, to procure a horse, and return with it the next morning. I went as I was directed. I went out of the house to which I had been sent in the beginning of the evening, and saw a sheet, wide spread, approaching toward me, in which I was caught, as I have ever since believed, and deprived of my senses. The family soon found me on the ground, almost lifeless, as they said; took me in, and made use of every remedy in their power for my recovery; but without effect, till daybreak, when my senses returned, and I soon found myself in good health, so that I went home with the horse very early in the morning.

The appearance of that sheet I have ever considered as a forerunner of the melancholy catastrophe that so soon afterward happened to our family; and my being caught in it, I believe, was ominous of my preservation from death at the time we were captured.

As I before observed, I got home with my horse very early in the morning, where I found a man who lived in our neighborhood, and his sister-in-law who had three children, one son and two daughters. I soon learned that they had come there to live a short time; but for what purpose I cannot say. The woman’s husband, however, was at that time in Washington’s army, fighting for his country; and as her brother-in-law had a house, she had lived with him in his absence. Their names I have forgotten. Immediately after I got home, the man took the horse to go to his own house after a bag of grain, and took his gun in his hand for the purpose of killing some game, if he should chance to see any. Our family, as usual, was busily employed about their common business. Father was shaving an ax-helve at the side of the house; mother was making preparations for breakfast; my two oldest brothers were at work near the barn; and the little ones, with myself, and the woman and her three children, were in the house.

Breakfast was not yet ready, when we were alarmed by the discharge of a number of guns, that seemed to be near. Mother and the woman before mentioned almost fainted at the report, and every one trembled with fear. On opening the door, the man and horse lay dead near the house, having just been shot by the Indians.

I was afterward informed, that the Indians discovered him at his own house with his gun, and pursued him to father’s, where they shot him as I have related. They first secured my father, and then rushed into the house, and without the least resistance made prisoners of my mother, brothers, and sister, the woman, her three children, and myself; and then commenced plundering.

My two brothers, Thomas and John, being at the barn, escaped and went to Virginia, where my grandfather Erwin then lived, as I was informed by a Mr. Fields, who was at my house about the close of the revolutionary war.

The party that took us consisted of six Indians and four Frenchmen, who immediately commenced plundering, as I just observed, and took what they considered most valuable; consisting principally of bread, meal, and meat. Having taken as much provision as they could carry, they set out with their prisoners in great haste, for fear of detection, and soon entered the woods11. On our march that day, an Indian went behind us with a whip, with which he frequently lashed the children, to make them keep up. In this manner we traveled till dark, without a mouthful of food or a drop of water, although we had not eaten since the night before. Whenever the little children cried for water, the Indians would make them drink urine, or go thirsty. At night they encamped in the woods, without fire and without shelter, where we were watched with the greatest vigilance. Extremely fatigued, and very hungry, we were compelled to lie upon the ground, without supper or a drop of water to satisfy the cravings of our appetites. As in the day time, so the little ones were made to drink urine in the night, if they cried for water. Fatigue alone brought us a little sleep for the refreshment of our weary limbs; and at the dawn of day we were again started on our march, in the same order that we had proceeded the day before. About sunrise we were halted, and the Indians gave us a full breakfast of provision that they had brought from my father’s house. Each of us, being very hungry, partook of this bounty of the Indians, except father, who was so much overcome with his situation, so much exhausted by anxiety and grief, that silent despair seemed fastened upon his countenance, and he could not be prevailed upon to refresh his sinking nature by the use of a morsel of food. Our repast being finished, we again resumed our march; and before noon passed a small fort, that I heard my father say was called Fort Canagojigge.

That was the only time that I heard him speak from the time we were taken till we were finally separated the following night.

Toward evening, we arrived at the border of a dark and dismal swamp, which was covered with small hemlocks or some other evergreen, and various kinds of bushes, into which we were conducted; and having gone a short distance, we stopped to encamp for the night.

Here we had some bread and meat for supper; but the dreariness of our situation, together with the uncertainty under which we all labored, as to our future destiny, almost deprived us of the sense of hunger, and destroyed our relish for food.

Mother, from the time we were taken, had manifested a great degree of fortitude, and encouraged us to support our troubles without complaining; and by her conversation, seemed to make the distance and time shorter, and the way more smooth. But father lost all his ambition in the beginning of our trouble, and continued apparently lost to every care—absorbed in melancholy. Here, as before, she insisted on the necessity of our eating; and we obeyed her, but it was done with heavy hearts.

As soon as I had finished my supper, an Indian took off my shoes and stockings, and put a pair of moccasins on my feet, which my mother observed; and believing that they would spare my life, even if they should destroy the other captives, addressed me, as near as I can remember, in the following words:

“My dear little Mary, I fear that the time has arrived when we must be parted for ever. Your life, my child, I think will be spared; but we shall probably be tomahawked here in this lonesome place by the Indians. Oh! how can I part with you, my darling? What will become of my sweet little Mary? Oh! how can I think of your being continued in captivity, without a hope of your being rescued? Oh! that death had snatched you from my embraces in your infancy: the pain of parting then would have been pleasing to what it now is; and I should have seen the end of your troubles! Alas, my dear! my heart bleeds at the thought of what awaits you; but, if you leave us, remember, my child, your own name, and the names of your father and mother. Be careful and not forget your English tongue. If you shall have an opportunity to get away from the Indians don’t try to escape; for if you do they will find and destroy you. Don’t forget, my little daughter, the prayers that I have learned you—say them often: be a good child, and God will bless you! May God bless you, my child, and make you comfortable and happy.”

During this time, the Indians stripped the shoes and stockings from the little boy that belonged to the woman who was taken with us, and put moccasins on his feet, as they had done before on mine. I was crying. An Indian took the little boy and myself by the hand, to lead us off from the company, when my mother exclaimed, “Don’t cry, Mary!—don’t cry, my child! God will bless you! Farewell—farewell!”

The Indian led us some distance into the bushes or woods, and there lay down with us to spend the night. The recollection of parting with my tender mother kept me awake, while the tears constantly flowed from my eyes. A number of times in the night, the little boy begged of me earnestly to run away with him, and get clear of the Indians; but remembering the advice I had so lately received, and knowing the dangers to which we should be exposed, in traveling without a path and without a guide, through a wilderness unknown to us, I told him that I would not go, and persuaded him to lie still till morning.

Early the next morning, the Indians and Frenchmen that we had left the night before came to us; but our friends were left behind. It is impossible for any one to form a correct idea of what my feelings were at the sight of those savages, whom I supposed had murdered my parents and brothers, sister and friends, and left them in the swamp, to be devoured by wild beasts! But what could I do? A poor little defenseless girl; without the power or means of escaping; without a home to go to, even if I could be liberated; without a knowledge of the direction or distance to my former place of residence; and without a living friend to whom to fly for protection, I felt a kind of horror, anxiety, and dread, that to me seemed insupportable. I durst not cry—I durst not complain; and to inquire of them the fate of my friends, even if I could have mustered resolution, was beyond my ability, as I could not speak their language, nor they understand mine. My only relief was in silent, stifled sobs.

My suspicions as to the fate of my parents proved too true; for soon after I left them they were killed and scalped, together with Robert, Matthew, Betsey, and the woman and her two children, and mangled in the most shocking manner.

Having given the little boy and myself some bread and meat for breakfast, they led us on as fast as we could travel, and one of them went behind with a long staff, poking up all the grass and weeds that we trailed down by going over them. By taking that precaution, they avoided detection; for each weed was so nicely placed in its natural position, that no one would have suspected that we had passed that way. It is the custom of Indians, when scouting, or on private expeditions, to step carefully, and where no impression of their feet can be left—shunning wet or muddy ground. They seldom take hold of a bush or limb, and never break one; and by observing these precautions, and that of setting up the weeds and grass which they necessarily lop, they completely elude the sagacity of their pursuers, and escape that punishment which they are conscious they merit from the hand of justice.

After a hard day’s march we encamped in a thicket, where the Indians made a shelter of boughs, and then built a good fire to warm and dry our benumbed limbs and clothing; for it had rained some through the day. Here we were again fed as before. When the Indians had finished their supper, they took from their baggage a number of scalps, and went about preparing them for the market, or to keep without spoiling, by straining them over small hoops which they prepared for that purpose, and then drying and scraping them by the fire. Having put the scalps, yet wet and bloody, upon the hoops, and stretched them to their full extent, they held them to the fire till they were partly dried, and then, with their knives, commenced scraping off the flesh; and in that way they continued to work, alternately drying and scraping them, till they were dry and clean. That being done, they combed the hair in the neatest manner, and then painted it and the edges of the scalps, yet on the hoops, red. Those scalps I knew at the time must have been taken from our family, by the color of the hair. My mother’s hair was red; and I could easily distinguish my father’s and the children’s from each other. That sight was most appalling; yet I was obliged to endure it without complaining. In the course of the night, they made me to understand that they should not have killed the family, if the whites had not pursued them.

Mr. Fields, whom I have before mentioned, informed me that, at the time we were taken, he lived in the vicinity of my father; and that, on hearing of our captivity, the whole neighborhood turned out in pursuit of the enemy, and to deliver us, if possible; but that their efforts were unavailing. They, however, pursued us to the dark swamp, where they found my father, his family, and companions, stripped, and mangled in the most inhuman manner: that from thence the march of the cruel monsters could not be traced in any direction; and that they returned to their homes with the melancholy tidings of our misfortunes, supposing we had all shared in the massacre.

The next morning we pursued our journey, an Indian going behind us and setting up the weeds, as on the day before. At night, we encamped on the ground in the open air, without a shelter or fire.

In the morning we again set out early, and traveled as on the two former days; though the weather was extremely uncomfortable, from the continual falling of rain and snow.

At night the snow fell fast, and the Indians built a shelter of boughs, and kindled a fire, where we rested tolerably dry through that and the two succeeding nights.

When we stopped, and before the fire was kindled, I was so much fatigued from running, and so far benumbed by the wet and cold, that I expected that I must fall and die before I could get warm and comfortable. The fire, however, soon restored the circulation of blood; and after I had taken my supper, I felt so that I rested well through the night.

On account of the storm, we were two days at that place. On one of those days, a party consisting of six Indians, who had been to the frontier settlements, came to where we were, and brought with them one prisoner— a young white man, who was very tired and dejected. His name I have forgotten.

Misery certainly loves company. I was extremely glad to see him, though I knew from his appearance that his situation was as deplorable as my own, and that he could afford me no kind of assistance. In the afternoon the Indians killed a deer, which they dressed, and then roasted whole; which made them a full meal. We were each allowed a share of their venison, and some bread, so that we made a good meal also.

Having spent three nights and two days at that place, and the storm having ceased, early in the morning the whole company, consisting of twelve Indians, four Frenchmen, the young man, the little boy, and myself, moved on at a moderate pace, without taking the previously-adopted precautions to obliterate or hide our trail.

In the afternoon we came in sight of Fort Du Quesne, (since Fort Pitt, now Pittsburg,) where we halted, while the Indians performed some ceremonies in conformity to their customs on such occasions. That fort was then occupied by the French and Indians. It stood at the junction of the Monongahela, (Falling-in-Banks,) and Alleghany rivers, where the Ohio River begins to take its name. The word O-hi-o signifies bloody.2

At the place where we halted, the Indians combed the hair of the young man, the boy, and myself, and then painted our faces and hair red, in the finest Indian style. We were then conducted into the fort, where we received a little bread, and were then shut up in an uninhabited house, and left to tarry alone through the night.

11 As Mary was born in the year 1742 or 1743, and was taken captive in 1755 she was at this time about thirteen years of age.— [ED.

22O-heé-yo, the radix of the word Ohio, signifies the “Beautiful River;” and the Iroquois, by conferring it upon the Alleghany, or head branch of the Ohio, have not only fixed a name from their language upon one of the great rivers of the Continent, but indirectly upon one of the noblest states of our Confederacy.—[LEAGUE OF THE IROQUOIS, p. 436

CHAPTER III

Mary is given to two Seneca women—They descend the Ohio— Arrival at She-nan-jee—She is dressed in Indian costume— Adopted as a Seneca—Ceremony of Adoption—Is named Deh-he-wä-mis—Nearly regains her liberty—Removal to Wi-ish-to— She is married to She-nin-jee, a Delaware—Birth and death of a child—Birth of another child.

Thenight was spent in gloomy forebodings. What the result of our captivity would be, it was out of our power to determine, or even imagine. At times, we could almost realize the approach of our masters to butcher and scalp us; again, we could nearly see the pile of wood kindled on which we were to be roasted; and then we would imagine ourselves at liberty, alone and defenseless in the forest, surrounded by wild beasts that were ready to devour us. The anxiety of our minds drove sleep from our eyelids; and it was with a dreadful hope and painful impatience that we waited for the morning to determine our fate.

The morning at length arrived, and our masters came early and let us out of the house, and gave the young man and boy to the French, who immediately took them away. Their fate I never learned, as I have not seen nor heard of them since.

SENECA MAIDEN