As the doctor returnd from the grave, great numbers of Indians were observd gathering about the station, but an ox had been killd, and was being dressd, and was supposd to be the cause, as the Indians on such occasions, always collect in great numbers, and often from a distance.
Joseph Stanfield had brought in the ox from the plains,—which had been shot by Francis. Messrs. Kimble, Camfield, and Hoffman, were dressing the beef between the two houses. Mr. Saunders was in the school which he had just calld in for the afternoon. Mr. Marsh was grinding at the mill. Mr. Gillan was upon his tutor’s bench, in the large adobie house, calld the mansion, a short distance from the dwelling of the doctor,—Mr. Hull was at work, laying a floor to a room adjoining the doctor’s house. Mr. Rogers was in the garden. Mr. Osborn and family were in the Indian room adjoining the doctors seting room. Young Mr. Sails was sick in the family of Mr. Camfield, who were living in the blacksmith’s shop. Young Mr. Bewley was sick in the doctor’s house. John Sager was sitting in the kitchen, but partially recoverd from the measles.—The doctor and his lady, with their three sick children and a sick child of Mr. Osborn, and Mrs. Osborn, were sitting in the dining or sitting room. Several Indians came to the middle door, and requested the Doctor to come into the kitchen. He did so, shutting the door after him, and taking the Bible in which he was reading, and which I believe is now in the hands of one who escapd, and having upon it the marks of blood.—Edward sat down by his side, and was earnestly soliciting medicines, while Tamahas, an Indian calld the murderer, came behind him, and drawing a pipe-tomahawk from under his blanket, struck the doctor in the back of the head. The first blow only stunnd him, and his head fell upon his breast, but a second, which followd instantly upon the top of his head, brought him senseless but not lifeless upon the floor. John, rising up, attempted to draw a pistol. The Indians before him, rushd to the door, crying out, “he will shoot us,” but those behind, seizd his arm, and he was thrown upon the floor. At the same instant, he receivd several shots from every direction, while a number with tomahawks and knives, rushd upon him, and cut him terribly to pieces. His throat was cut, and a woollen tippet stuck into it. Still he lingerd. In the struggle, two Indians were wounded, one in the foot, and one in the hand, by each other.
As soon as the tumult commencd, Mrs. Whitman, overhearing, and judging the cause, commencd in agony, to stamp upon the floor, and wring her hands crying out, “oh the Indians! the Indians! that Jo has done it all!”
Mrs. Osborn stepd into her room with her child, and in a short time, Mr. Osborn and family were secreted under the floor.
Without coming into the other rooms, the Indians left the kitchen, doubtless to aid in the dreadful work without. At this moment, Mrs. Hayse ran in from the Mansion, and with her assistance, Mrs. Whitman drew her dying husband into the dining room, and placing his mangled, bleeding head upon a pillow, and did all her frightful situation would allow, to stay the blood, and revive her husband, but to no purpose—the dreadful work was done. To every question that was put to him, he would simply reply “no,” in a low whisper.
Probably after he receivd the first blow, he was not sensible of his situation. About this time, Mr. Kimble, from the beef, ran into the room through the kitchen, and rushd up stairs with a broken arm hanging by his side. He was followd immediately by Mr. Rogers, who in addition to a broken arm, was tomahawkd in the side of the head, and coverd with blood. He assisted Mrs. Whitman, in making fast all the doors, and in removing the sick children up stairs. Jo Lewis was seen several times approaching one of the windows with a gun, but when Mrs. W. would ask, “Jo, what do you want?” he would flee away.
By this time, the scene without had reachd the summit of its fury. The screams of the fleeing, fainting women and children—the groans and struggles of the failing, dying victims—the roar of the musketry—the clash of war clubs,—the whistling of balls—the clouds of burning powder,—the furious riding and rushing of naked, painted Indians,—the unearthly yells of infuriated savages, self-maddend, like tigers, by the smell of human blood,—all, all, require other language, and other ears than those of civilized beings! My blood chills as I write. But I am amazd at the self possession of dear Mrs. Whitman. In the midst of the terrible scene, she leaves not the room of her pale, gasping husband. Two Americans were overpowerd by crowds of savages, and hewd down by her window. It attractted her attention but for a moment—but this afforded an opportunity for a young Indian, who had always been particularly favord by Mrs. Whitman, to level his gun. His victim receivd the ball through the window in her right breast, and fell, uttering a single groan. In a few moments, she revivd, rose and went to the settee, kneeld in prayer. She was heard to pray for her dear children, now to be left orphans a second time, and that her aged father and mother might be sustaind under the terrible shock, which the news of her fate must occasion.
Soon after this, faint and bleeding, she was helpd into the chamber, where were now collected Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Kimble, Mr. Rogers, all wounded and fainting with the loss of blood—Mr. Hayse, Mrs. Bewley, Catharine Sager, 13 years of age, and the three sick children.
They had scarcely gaind this temporary retreat, when the crash of the windows and doors, the deafening war whoop took the last hope from their fainting bosoms.
The under rooms were plunderd of all their property, the furniture dashd to pieces, and cast out. Jo Lewis was seen among the foremost to dash in the windows and bring out the goods. Here a deed was perpetrated, that exhibits the deep treachery and malignity of the Indian character—