OHIO STATEWIDE FILES - HISTORY: Chapter 28 (Abbott, John S. C., 1875)
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			  Chapter XXVIII
		  The Character of the Savages

   In this history I have had constant occasion to refer to the Indians, in
their primeval home in the wilderness, to their character, their customs, 
the wrongs inflicted upon them, and the terrible wars into which they were
thus provoked. The Indians are fast passing away, and all the memorials of
their transitory life upon this continent will soon disappear. Their memory
is fast sinking into oblivion. A friend of mine, William E. Goodyear, Esq., 
of Fair Haven, Conn., passed eight or ten years of his early manhood in the
midst of the tribes occupying the heart of our continent. In kind response 
to my earnest request he has furnished me with a few pages, describing the
scenes he has witnessed in the great Wilderness of the West and of the
character and customs of the Indians, whose lodges he has so often visited, 
and of whose hospitality he has often partaken. Mr. Goodyear writes:
   "Agreeably to my promise I will give you my ideas of the Indians of twenty
years ago, or more, while I was among them, and with whom I spent nearly ten
years of my young manhood. The greater part of that time, as I now look upon
it, is a source of sadness to me. Many events occurred which I could wish
had never transpired; and yet, upon the whole, I cannot but think that I have
learded a lesson which but few persons ever have a chance to learn. As I look
back upon my many hair-breadth escapes, and the many sufferings I have 
endured, I hardly think that any one would be willing to pass through the same
experiences for all the knowledge he would thus obtain.
   The Indians generally consist of as many different kinds of people as are 
to be found among the whites. They vary in character like all races of men.
Some persons, I have been led to think, consider it impossible for an Indian
to laugh, to make fun, and to have a jolly time, as white people do. This is
not true. When in their villages they have sports and frolics like other
people.
   I recall an instance which occurred in 1852. A party of Indians caught a
white man from an emigrant train. It was called the wheelbarrow train, as
they were all men, and each man had a barrow, or a small hand-cart, in which
was his entire stock in trade. They were all bound to the new Eldorado. Most
of them were Irishmen. As I have said, one of them got separated from the
rest, and was captured by a small band of very good-natured Indians. They 
wanted to have some fun.
   I chanced to be with those Indians, and was painted and dressed like them.
They took the man, barrow and all, and brought him into camp. A very solemn
mock council was held. The doom was announced by signs to Pat of death by 
burning. He was tied to a tree. The dry sticks were piled up around him. The
Indians then all collected in a circle around. Not the movement of a muscle
of their countenances was perceptible. At the same time we were all nearly
dying with internal laughter as we listened to Pat's moans and cries. They
were something as follows:
   "O, holy St. Patrick, O Mother of Moses, let me out of this."
   "By the Blessed Virgin, Mr. Injine, if you let me out of this, be jabbers
you will not catch me again. O, is it yourself, Pat, that has come across the
mountains, among the bloody hathen, to be murdered, to be burned to death, 
to be scalped. O, plase, Mr. Injine, let me out."
   At a nod from one of the Indians, I approached him and said to him in 
English, "You have been caught on our huntinggrounds, but if you will promise
that you will clear out immediately, I will cut your thongs, and let you go."
   Never before did I see such an expression as came upon the countenance of
poor Pat. "Come to my arms," he cried out, "By the pipers that played before
Moses you are a jintleman. May the blessing of St. Patrick rest upon you. And
its myself that can go now. May the Holy Mother bless you. Hold your ear here
a bit. Are you an Injine?"
   I nodded my head with a whoop, hurrah, and away he went as if all the 
fiends were after him. All the Indians broke out into a laugh, and it seemed
as though some of them would go into convulsions as they rolled upon the 
ground in uncontrolled merriment. Thus you see that Indians can enjoy fun
and frolic as well as white men.
   It is also said by some writers that the Indian is treacherous to every
one; that he never forms a friendship for the whites; that he is ever liable, 
at any moment, to prove false. This is not so.
   My uncle, who resides in California, had two Indians, Joe, a Piute, and
Jack, a Ute. Either of these boys would at any time have died for him. After
a while they became attached to me. I recollect that, in the Summer of 1853,
I was surveying in what is called the Montezuma Hills, some seventy-five
miles in a northerly direction from Benicia. Previous to my leaving on my
survey, I had heard that a white man, with whom I had previously exchanged
a few words of not a very friendly nature, had expressed himself as determined
to take revenge for some wrong which he unjustly thought that I had done him.
   Jack, the Ute Indian, heard him say that he would shoot me at sight, at 
the same time expressing his determination to go out to the place where I
was surveying to hunt me up. Jack said nothing, but immediately mounting his
horse, rode out to find me and warn me of my danger. He at once began to 
tell me what the man, whose name was Bill Burns, had said.
   This man was a thorough desparado, and the very worst man I ever knew. The
only redeeming traits in his character were reckless courage and a certain
kind of veracity, which made you sure that if he threatened to shoot a man
he would certainly do it. I must either flee from the country or watch my
opportunity and shoot him first, or be shot the moment he caught sight of me,
or contrive, in some way, to get access to him so as to explain to him his
error.
   I made up my mind to try to hunt up Burns and, if possible, to undeceive
him in regard to what he had heard. It was necessary for me to go prepared
instantly to shoot him down if I saw that he was drawing his pistol upon me.
I started at once for Benicia by a roundabout way. I did not wish to meet him
on the road. When I arrived at Benicia he had gone to San Francisco. I immediately
followed, having for my companion State Senator Wambeau.
   Upon arriving we both went to the hotel in from of the plaza. My friend
went in and found Burns asleep on a sofa between the bar and the billiard-room.
I at once entered, stepped up to his side and awoke him. As he awoke he looked
towards me, and saw me bending over him with my bowie-knife in my hand. He
was entirely at my mercy. "Don't kill me," he cried out. I then said, "Burns,
if you stir or move a step till I get through, I will kill you like a dog."
I was about to explain to him, when he said, "I know all about it. You are not
to blame. I should have shot you, however, if I had met you, for had I not
done so you have killed me."
   I added, "You are satisfied then?" "Perfectly," he replied. "Well, then,"
I rejoined, "good-bye at once and forever. Never speak to me or recognize
me. From this time we are strangers. I never harmed you, neither do I wish
to."
   I immediately turned to leave him, and behold my Indian boy Jack stood
directly behind me, pistol in hand. He had followed me, coming down in the
boat without my knowing it.
   "What would you have done," said I to Jack. "if Burns had got a shot at
me."
   "I kill him quick," said he.
   If the Indians were not capable of the strongest attachment, Jack would
not have done as well as he did.
   At another time I had some trouble with an official of the state, in which
I got cut up a little. On Jack's finding it out, in order to prevent him from
killing the man, we had to tie his arms and legs with our lariats until the
man was beyond his reach.
   No attachment can be stronger; no truer friend can be found than an Indian
whom you have always treated well. But some one may say that this Indian was
to a great extent civilized; he had been among the whites so long that he had
learned anything good from the white man? No! a thousand times no. The Indian
has been cheated, victimized, robbed in every conceivable way. The fire-water
of the whites had carried desolation all through their vast regions. It has 
been the cause of more murders, more bloodshed, more poverty among the Indians,
then all other influences. It has created that disease of the internal
organs which is more dreadful than small-pox or cholera.
   Forty years ago a white man who traded fairly, who always told the truth 
to the poor Indian, and who did as he agreed to, was safe, comparatively
speaking, in any of their lodges. He could go defenseless wherever he would, 
without fear of harm. If a white man chanced to be lost, and came upon a 
tribe suddenly, even if the tribe had been provoked to hostilities, the Indians
would scorn to take advantage of his misfortune; they would feed him. Then, 
showing him the way of escape, they would chivalrously point to the sun and
give him the start of several hours before they would overtake to pursue him
as an enemy. Then, should they overtake him, he would be deemed a lawful
captive.
   But look at the Indians now, after years of acquaintance with the white 
men, and see how changed; but few are left. They have nearly all fallen
beneath the white man's treachery. Whisky and diseases, introduced by the
whites, have depopulated their hunting-grounds as never could have been done
by force of arms. The diminished and broken tribes, driven from the graves
of their fathers, disheartened by their calamities, are slowly becoming
exterminated.
   Still there will be, probably, for a century to come, fragments of these
tribes lingering amidst the vast ravines of the Rocky Mountains. The question
of their civilization presents a very difficult problem. Scarcely any 
consideration can induce the male Indian to engage in any of the employments
of useful industry. The women do all the work. If a camp is to be moved, Mr.
Indian takes his rifle or his bows and arrows, and starts off ahead. The squaw
takes down the lodge, packs up all the movables, takes the heavy load upon
her shoulders, and trudges along in the footsteps of her husband, who would
scorn to relieve her of her burden in the slightest degree.
   If the Indian goes a hunting, his squaw follows after him to skin the
game and to bring into the camp upon her bending back, perhaps, the heavy
four quarters of a deer. If the tribe chance to have horses, Mr. Indian 
mounts instead of going afoot. His squaw, however, saddles and bridles the
horse, and brings him to the door of the lodge. When the Indian returns from
any horseback excursion at the close of the day, he jumps from his horse before
the lodge, and his wife take off his soiled moccasins and puts upon his feet
a fresh pair. He then enters the lodge, throws himself down upon his soft 
couch of fur robes, while his wife takes care of the horse and serves to him
his supper.
   Such is life among the Indians. As a general thing the Indians have great
regard for their chiefs, who rule them with an iron hand. I was acquainted
with an old chief at Los Angelos, who was almost fiend-like in his tyranny
and cruelty. He was almost a giant in stature, being nearly seven feet high, 
and possessed of herculean strength. He was perfectly fearless, and all the
Indians stood in awe of him. A conspiracy was formed for his deposition.
They had a great carousal, and got him helplessly drunk. Then they seized
and bound him hand and foot, so that he could scarcely move a muscle. Then
they heated some needles red hot and pricked both his eyes until vision was
entirely extinguished. They then released him, as utterly helpless and powerless
as a new born babe.
   He wandered to Los Angelos, where he got a living by begging. Here I often
saw him. He got so that he knew my voice, and seemed to love to have me talk
to him. I have not the least doubt that, could he have caught in his powerful
grasp any one of his tribe, he would instantly have strangled him.
   But, as I have said, the Indians are generally very loyal to their chiefs.
They also regard with profound reverence their medicine men. It is believed 
that they hold immediate converse with the Great Spirit, and that they have
the power of prophecy and of working miracles. They can, the Indian thinks, 
by a wish destroy their enemies and bring prosperity to their friends.
   The medicine men spend their time in collecting roots, stones, bones and
other things to use in case of sickness, or to make into charms to be worn
by the braves. These charms, it is supposed, will save them from the arrows
or bullets of their enemies. They are always dressed in the most fantastic
garb. Their faces are literally covered with streaks of paint. They howl and
twist themselves into the most hideous contortions.
   But the untutored Indians regard every thing that is strange or wonderful, 
or that they have never seen before, as "Big Medicine." I have often been 
asked if I have not seen Indians, in my many hostile encounters with them, 
who would rush upon their foes, headlong as it were, without paying any regard
to numbers or position. In other words, are there not Indians so brave and 
impetuous that they apparently think nothing of their own lives, but rush
recklessly into the battle.
   I answer no! I never saw an Indian yet who did not practice the utmost
caution before he would expose any part of his person to be struck by a bullet.
I have seen them dodge from tree to tree, eagerly seeking covert behind logs
and stones and sandhills, when in large and overpowering numbers they were
endeavoring to surround a small party. But I never have seen a party of 
Indians make an open charge upon a band of white men who had rifles and
ammunition. We were not accustomed to fear any number of them in open battle.
It was only necessary to guard against ambush and midnight surprises. I have
often been without water and without food. But I never allowed myself to be
without ammunition.
   If the Indians would rush into danger, as the white man will, since they
often vastly outnumbered us, we might easily have been overwhelmed, with
comparatively small loss to themselves. But in such a charge it was certain
that some of them would fall before our unerring rifles. Each warrior thought
that he might be of that number. As no one was willing to purchase victory
at that price. But when they fought from behind trees and rocks, there was a
good chance that none of them might be hit. Thus they might gain the victory
without any loss.
   Inured to every hardship, as the Indians had been from childhood, every
muscle being tough as iron, accustomed to the use of the tomahawk and the
scalping-knife, dodging almost as swift as the lightening's flash from covert
to covert, unencumbered with clothing, and their skin, as a general thing, 
oiled to prevent any one from retaining a hold upon them, many of them 
superior to the whites in physical strength; when we consider these things
it must be admitted that the Indians were formidable foes to encounter.
   For my own part I should not wish again to take the chances which I have 
often taken, when our party consisted of but sixty-five men, while the Indians
numbered fifteen hundred. On one such occasion we were two hundred miles from
Fort Tejon, the nearest place to which we could look for any succor. As I 
now reflect upon those days, and think of my old friends, Kit Carson, Joe
Walker, Aleck Cody, Peg Leg Smith, and hosts of others, around whose camp-fires
I have had the pleasure of sitting, and who have often been with me around 
my own camp-fires, and with some of whom I have month after month penetrated
these wilds, all of whom are now dead, excepting perhaps Aleck Cody, I cannot
but wish that I could again visit those places, even if there were a few 
Indians around hunting for one's scalp.
   Such was the experience of Mr. Goodyear among these natives of the forest
and the prairie. The warfare with the savages was very different from the
warfare of the present day. There were often the most desparate hand-to-hand
fights, the combatants grappling with frenzied energies in the death struggle, 
where the victory was entirely dependent upon superior agility and strength 
of muscle. We are indebted, in the main, to that very valuable work, "Doddridge's
Notes", for the following narrative of one of these most terrible encounters:
   In the Summer of 1782 seven Wyandot Indians entered the cabin of an aged
man residing alone a short distance from Fort Pitt, and some distance back 
from the Ohio River. They tomahawked the old settler, and, plundering the
cabin of everything they wished, took their departure. The circumstances soon
became known, and a small party was organized to go in pursuit of the savages.
Among the men were two brothers, Adam and Andrew Poe, who were both famed for
their size and courage.
   The party determined, if possible, to capture or destroy these Indians. they
traveled all night, and in the morning came upon the trail. This led down to
the Ohio River. Andrew Poe, fearing an ambuscade, crept cautiously along the
bank, hiding among the reeds and bushes, intending to fall upon the rear of
the Indians. Soon he discovered some rafts near the shore. With his gun
cocked he stole along the edge of the bank, and espied two Indians of the 
Wyandot tribe; one a man of herculean frame, a chief, the other rather
diminutive in size. They were but a few feet from him, but were earnestly
looking in the opposite direction, their attention being arrested by the
discovery of some white men farther along on the bank.
   Adam Poe aimed at the giant and fired, but his gun flashed in the pan.
The click of the gun-lock caught the ear of the savage and he instantly turned.
Poe, being unarmed and too near to retreat, sprang down the bank and clutched
the chief with one hand, holding him by a cloth fastened around his breast.
The smaller one escaped from his grasp, and seizing a tomahawk aimed a blow
at the head of his assailant. The chief, unable to rise, held Poe fast. But 
his feet, which were at liberty, he used vigorously, knocking the tomahawk
from the hand of the savage, and, for the moment, disabling him.
   But, recovering himself, the Indian caught up his weapon and approached
Poe very cautiously, aiming again at his head. He, however, averted the blow,
taking it upon his wrist. The blow was severe, but he did not by it lose the
use of his hand. By a violent effort he freed himself from the grasp of the
Indian. Seizing a gun he shot the smaller Indian through the breast. Instantly
he was again in the brawny arms of the chief, and was thrown upon the ground.
Rising to his feet he was again grappled, and the shore being slippery, both
fell into the water. Each endeavored to drown the other. Poe, seizing the
scalp-lock of the savage, held him under water until he presumed him to be
dead. But to his consternation, on releasing his hold, Poe found his antagonist
ready for another fight.
   In the deadly struggle which ensued they were both swept by the current
into water beyond their depth. This compelled them to lose their hold of each
other. The contest then was to see who could first gain the shore by swimming,
and then seize a gun and shoot his antagonist. The Indian proved the best
swimmer and grasped a rifle. Fortunately it was one which has just been 
discharged. Poe immediately turned back, swimming out into the stream, hoping
to dodge the bullet by diving. Just then Andrew Poe came up. His gun had also
just been discharged. The burly savage and the white man faced each other
at the distance of but a few yards. The question of life or death depended
upon who could most quickly load his gun.
   The Indian, in his eagerness, drew the ramrod from its thimbles with
such violence that it slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. This
gave Adam Poe the advantage of two or three seconds. He shot the Indian
through the heart, and the savage rolled down the steep and slippery bank into
the river, to be swept by the current to some unknown grave. As Andrew Poe
was struggling towards the shore, one of his own party caught sight of him, 
and mistaking him for an Indian, shot at him, inflicting a serious but not
fatal wound in the shoulder.
   While these bloody scenes were transpiring, their comrades attacked the
remaining six Indians and killed five of them. Thus ended this desparate
conflict. All the Indian party but one were slain. The white men lost three
killed and one severely wounded. The gigantic Indian, of whom we have spoken,
was one of the most renown chiefs of the Wyandot nation. He was one of the
bravest and most magnanimous of Indian warriors. He appears to have been a 
man of high moral principle, was noted for his kindness to all the captives
taken by his tribe. He would never allow a prisoner to be ill-treated or killed.
   Mr. Hutchins has given a very graphic account of the surrender of the 
Indians upon the banks of the Muskingum, of two hundred and six prisoners, 
men, women and children, early in the period of the Indian wars:
   "Language indeed can but weakly describe the scene, one to which the poet
or painter might have repaired, to enrich the highest colorings of the variety
of the human passions; the philosopher, to find ample subject for the most
serious reflection; and the man to exercise all the tender and sympathetic
feelings of the soul. There were to be seen fathers and mothers recognizing 
and clasping their once lost babes; husbands hanging round the necks of their
newly recovered wives; sisters and brothers unexpectedly meeting together
after a long separation, scarcely able to speak the same language, or for
some time to be sure they were the children of the same parents. In all these
interviews joy and rapture inexpressible were seen, while feelings of a very
different nature were painted in the lookds of others, flying from place to
place, in eager inquiries after relatives not found, trembling to receive
an answer to questions, distracted with doubts, hopes and fears on obtaining
no account of those they sought for, or stiffened into living monuments of
woe and horror on learning their unhappy fate.
   "The Indians, too, as if wholly forgetting their usual savageness, bore a
capital part in heightening this most affecting scene. They delivered up
their beloved captives with the utmost reluctance - shed tears over them - 
recommending them to the care and protection of the commanding officer. Their
regard for them continued all the while they remained in the camp. They 
visited them from day to day, brought them what corn, skins, horses, and other
matters had been bestowed upon them while in their families, accompanied by
other presents, and all the marks of the most sincere and tender affection.
Nay, they didn't stop here, but when the army marched, some of the Indians
solicited and obtained permission to accompany their former captives to Fort
Pitt, and employed themselves in hunting and bringing provisions for them on
the way. A young Mingo carried this still further, and gave an instance of
love which would make a figure in romance. A young woman of Virginia was 
among the captives, to whom he had formed so strong an attachment as to call
her his wife. Against all the remonstrances of the imminent danger to which
he exposed himself by approaching the frontier, he persisted in following her
at the risk of being killed by the surviving relatives of many unfortunate
persons who had been taken captive, or scalped by those of his nation.
   "A few days afterwards a number of other persons were brought in, among
whom were several children. The woman was sent for and one supposed to be 
her's was protected. At first sight she was not certain, but viewing the child
with great earnestness, she soon recollected its features, and was so overcome
with joy that, forgetting her nursing babe, she dropped it from her arms, 
and catching up the new-found child, in ecstasy pressed it to her breast and,
bursting into tears, carried it off, unable to speak for joy. The father, 
rising up with the babe which she had let fall, followed her in no less
transport and affection.
   "But it must not be denied that there were some, even grown persons, who
showed an unwillingness to return. The Shawanese were obliged to bind some
of their prisoners and force them along to the camp; and some women who had
been delivered up, afterwards found means to escape, clung to their savage
acquaintances at parting, and continued many days in bitter lamentations, 
even refusing sustenance."
   J. W. Van Cleve, of Dayton, says that he was with a surveying party above
the site of Columbus, in the year 1797. The party were nearly starved, 
having been reduced to three scanty meals in four days. In this condition
they chanced to come upon the camp of a single Wyandot Indian with his family.
The hospitable savage immediately gave them all the provisions he had, which
consisted only of two rabbits and a small piece of venison; and still the
father of this Wyandot had been murdered by vagabond white men in the name of
peace.