The Story of Old Fort Dearborn

by J. Seymour Currey

Arrived at the entrance of a chief's wigwam, the wife of the chief, inspired by a sentiment of pity for her, an exhibition of feeling rare among Indian women, seeing her exhausted condition, took a kettle and, dipping up some water from the small creek near by, threw in a quantity of maple sugar, and, stirring it with her hand, gave the mixture to her to drink. She was greatly refreshed by the draught. This act of kindness touched the poor young woman deeply, occurring as it did in the midst of so many horrors.

In the meantime the men in the ranks fell rapidly under the withering fire of their savage foes, who were now on all sides of them in overwhelming numbers. Still they continued the struggle bravely, and the prairie was soon thickly scattered with dead and wounded. Captain Heald himself received a wound in his hip, from which he suffered for the remainder of his life, and which caused his death some years later. It may be stated in passing that the bodies of those who were killed in this bloody combat lay exposed to the elements and wild beasts for four years, until eventually their remains were gathered up and buried by United States soldiers arriving to rebuild the fort.

The troops behaved most gallantly while the battle lasted and seemed determined to make as brave a defence as possible. They were soon reduced to about one-half of their original number. After the action had continued about a quarter of an hour Captain Heald drew off the few men still remaining and took possession of a small elevation in the open prairie, beyond the range of the shots coming from the sand-hills which the Indians now held, thus having reversed the positions which the opposing forces occupied at the beginning of the battle.

There was nothing now to prevent the savages from attacking the wagons containing the women and children. The troops were isolated on the prairie and could not even defend themselves, much less could they do anything to protect the helpless people in the wagons.

Meantime Captain Wells was fighting, Indian fashion, and doing more execution than any other man on the field. Mounted on horseback, he freely exposed himself wherever the combat was most furious. He was armed with a rifle and carried two pistols. His powder and bullets were carried in belts slung over his shoulders, convenient for instant use. He usually had the bullet needed for the next load ready in his mouth. "He would pour in the powder," said an eye-witness, "wad it down, blow in the bullet, prime, and fire, more rapidly than one can tell the facts."

The savages had a wholesome fear of Wells, and they fled from his aim in all directions. They broke from him right and left. In the effort to protect the women and children he closely watched the movements of the Indians toward the wagons, and presently saw a young savage come up and enter one of them in which twelve of the children had been collected. Before he could prevent him, the savage ruthlessly tomahawked the entire group; and when Wells caught sight of this horrid deed, he shouted in rage: "Is that their game—butchering women and children?"

But his own end was near. He received a shot which passed through his lungs, and realizing that it was a mortal wound, he rode up to his niece, Mrs. Heald, still maintaining his position upon his horse. Seizing her hand, he exclaimed, "Farewell, my child." Mrs. Heald, who, though thus addressed, was nearly as old as her uncle, replied, "Why, uncle, I hope you will get over this." "No, my child," he said, "I cannot." She then saw that blood was coming from his nose and mouth, and he said that he could not last five minutes longer. He then gave his niece his last message in these words: "Tell my wife, if you live to get there,—but I think it doubtful if a single one gets there,—tell her I died at my post doing the best I could. There are seven red devils over there that I have killed."

Wells's horse had already been shot through the body, and at that moment fell exhausted, with his rider pinioned beneath him. Wells then saw several Indians coming toward him, bent on taking advantage of his apparent helplessness. He summoned his failing strength and from his prostrate position took aim and killed one of them on the spot. The others approached closer to the wounded lion, determined to strike a blow or fire a shot that would instantly end his life. Mrs. Heald saw the movement and cried out, "Uncle, there is an Indian pointing right at the back of your head." He put his hand back and held up his head, in spite of his failing strength, so that better aim might be taken, and then exclaimed, "Shoot away!"

The Indian fired and Captain Wells fell dead. Thus perished the man to whom in a greater degree than to any other person those who still remained alive upon the scene looked for help and guidance in this awful extremity. Without him, the thickening perils of the hour seemed the climax of despair.

Some time later the news of the death of Captain Wells reached his widow (the daughter of the chief Little Turtle), long before Mrs. Heald, who survived the massacre, was able to convey the message entrusted to her. One of the Indians present who witnessed the scene, though he took no part in the perpetration of that dark deed, was a friend of Wells, whom he had known in former years and whom he regarded as a brother. It was this Indian who went to Fort Wayne after the battle was over and gave Mrs. Wells the first intimation of her husband's death. After doing so he disappeared, and it was supposed that he returned to his tribe, as he was not seen again.