I kept my eyes upon the Indians, particularly the one to whom I belonged, watching every motion, every step, and expression of his countenance. As the shades of night began to close upon our gloomy retreat, it seemed to shed a double horror upon the scene. The sad and heart-chilling thought would, in spite of all the efforts I could make to frown it back, intrude itself upon me, that I had been saved from the massacre only to meet a more horrid fate—that the fire they had kindled was perhaps to serve the double purpose of cooking their supper and roasting me to death. Whenever any of the company would take his tomahawk in his hand, the thought would instantly spring up, now I am gone.
This, take it altogether, was among the most trying scenes through which I passed during my imprisonment; not that I was actually in more danger, but taking all the circumstances together—the place, the time, and being separated from my friends in suffering, and being thrown alone, and for the first time to be secluded from all but a few savages whose hands were yet stained with the blood of my countrymen, and not knowing the moment my own might be shed—produced emotions extremely distressing and trying.
After we had eaten, the Indians began to make preparations for lodging, by scraping away the snow and placing bark down upon which to spread their blankets; they suspended a blanket, by means of a few poles, so as to keep the rain out of our faces. After engaging themselves in conversation for some sime, which they seemed to enjoy exceedingly, and which was occasionally accompanied with loud exultations, the proposition was made to retire for the night. My feelings now became indescribable. Strange as it may appear, I was apprehensive that after I fell asleep they would take that opportunity to despatch me; a death of this kind appeared to me the most dreadful of all others. With these feelings, by their direction I lay down, and knowing that they were careful to save all articles of clothing, I tied up my head in my pocket handkerchief, hoping that this might be some protection, believing that they would not tomahawk me without removing it, which I supposed they could not do without awaking me. Thus I lay me down by the side, and under the same blanket, with the Indian who claimed me, with fearful apprehensions that I should never again see the light of the sun. But notwithstanding the cold, the snow and rain, and my perilous condition, such had been the excitement of the day that I was completely overcome, and very soon fell into a sound sleep, and slept sweetly until morning. The light of the morning was hailed with expressions of gratitude to a kind and merciful Providence which had shielded me through such a night. With the return of the day I had a return of hope that I should yet be spared.
Early next morning we started on through the snow, mud and water. We had but little to eat, and no opportunity to warm; my clothing was scant, and not sufficient to protect me against the weather. We fell in with several small companies of Indians, some on foot and others on horseback, none offering any violence or showing any hostility, but all appearing anxious to look at me and make inquiries. Occasionally we heard a gun on the right or left; but when we got into the vicinity of Malden the firing was almost incessant—it seemed that the whole face of the country was covered with Indians, rejoicing over a vanquished enemy. I again began to feel that my condition was exceedingly perilous, and that I was only spared from the tomahawk at Raisin, to be led to the slaughter at Malden. Though I did not at this time fear so much from the Indian that claimed me as his, yet I had much to fear from the enraged and drunken savages which were to be seen in every direction.
A short time before night, as we were passing an old house, a squaw came out crying, and commenced beating me with all her strength. She smote me on my wounded shoulder, and raised my temper. For a short time I cared but little whether I lived or died, I thought if this was to be my treatment whenever I met a squaw, that I might as well give up at once and die. This was, however, my first and last whipping from a female Indian. That night we lodged at the house of a Frenchman, whose family was very kind. We went forward again next morning, and that day we reached the home of this Indian.
But on our way, having to pass the vicinity of Detroit, the Indians called at the house of the old Frenchman who had stained his hands in the blood of young Mr. Blythe, at Stony creek—(I have since learned that this was the name of the young man.) They held a long conversation which I could not understand, because they conversed in Indian. The Frenchman seemed to enter heartily into the spirit of rejoicing. They smoked together, and passed other Indian compliments, all of which I noticed particularly; and not only that, but marked the place, and promised myself that if opportunity should offer, to pay him for it.
From this point we left the main road, leaving Detroit to our right; we soon passed through a large Indian camp; just as we were entering, a company came in who had been at the battle at Raisin, bringing in their wounded in sleighs; the one which I saw appeared to be very badly wounded, and contrary to all Indian custom, or dignity of Indian character, was heard to groan. But notwithstanding his extreme pain, he cast a most savage look at me as the sleigh passed.
In passing this camp many Indians came to the door of their tents to look, particularly the young squaws. Under all the circumstances, passing through just as they were, returning from the bloody scene of Raisin, and also bringing in some badly, perhaps mortally, wounded, I had fearful apprehensions—I knew not what moment an enraged savage would take my life.
After leaving this camp—at which we made no stay—I felt greatly relieved, believing there was some hope that we might pass safely on to our place of destination. As well as I recollect, we passed but very few Indians after this; but about sunset, when within a short distance of our Indian home, in passing over a pond on the ice, which at that time was covered with snow, the horse slipped and fell, but after some difficulty we succeeded in getting him on his feet again, and soon reached the vicinity of camp, which was announced to me by the Indian commencing the war-whoop at the top of his voice, which was responded to by a number of voices as loud and terrible as his own. All seemed to understand it—it was the sound of victory. As soon as we approached near enough to be recognized, every Indian, male and female, were out—all eyes directed towards us—and every man and boy shouted to the extent of their ability.
My feelings by this time—having recently witnessed so many scenes of blood, and having passed through so many hair-breadth escapes myself—had become almost deadened; but upon the approach of this camp, amid the shouts of savages, and not knowing for what purpose I should be brought there, unless to be a victim of sport for them, I felt, and this is all that I can say—for to express what I felt, I find to be impossible.