_ CHAPTER XI. MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY
I had intended to relate the experiences of my wife in such a manner that they might serve as a sequel to my narrative; but on reflection, the better plan seemed to be to portray, as graphically as possible, the events that influenced her life, in separate chapters, so arranged that the account should be distinct, yet in point of time, contemporaneous.
The scene of her captivity, and the treatment she received at the hands of her captors, have made such a vivid and lasting impression on my mind, that in speaking of them, I seem almost to have undergone the torture in my own person. In writing her story therefore, I shall speak in the first person. The reader will, I think, see the superiority of this plan at a glance.
Who has not felt his pulse quicken, and his heart go out in warmest sympathy at the recital of some tale of flood or field, as told by an eye-witness, when the same events related by a third party will only awaken a mild interest in the minds of his hearers. I crave the sympathetic attention of my readers, and this is my explanation for the plan I have adopted.
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After the assault on our party had culminated in the death of my poor father and brother, the Indians surrounded our wagon, and lifting the canvas flaps, discovered my mother and myself ensconced behind our bulwark of blankets and boxes. They bade us come out by gestures so menacing, and scowls so terrifying, that it had a contrary effect on us than the one they wished to produce; for instead of obeying the command, we only shrank back into corners more remote, vainly thinking that the bales and robes, with which loving hands had surrounded us, would form a sufficient protection against the dreaded savage. At this critical juncture, my poor mother swooned back into my arms, overcome by fright. Seeing that their commands were not obeyed, the foremost Indian climbed into the wagon, and rushing on us with uplifted knife, grasped me by the hair and dragged me over the obstructions and out onto the ground. I cried aloud in my anguish, which only seemed to afford them the more amusement; the savage who had performed the manly deed, displaying for the edification of his comrades, a quantity of my hair, which he still held in his clenched hand. The wagon and the plunder it contained seemed to be the center of attraction. A dozen had entered in as many seconds, and although the canvas top hid them from view, they could be heard quarreling over the division of the spoils.
During these fearful scenes, the events of years seemed crowding into minutes. Never have I suffered such mental or bodily torture before or since. My faculties succumbed to the severe strain, and I found myself falling into a kind of stupor, in which, though perfectly conscious of all that was transpiring, I seemed not to have been one of the principal actors, but an observer merely. Suddenly I was made aware that something unusual was taking place; the Indians crowded about the wagon, all the time gesticulating wildly, and yelling in a blood-curdling manner. I heard voices raised as if in altercation within the wagon. Rising above the din I distinguished the loved tones of my mother's voice, as if crying for help, and entreating for mercy. The noise grows apace; wild with terror, nerved with the resolution of despair, I rushed towards the wagon; reaching it a sight meets my eyes that petrifies me with horror; I try to move, speak, act; my limbs and tongue refuse to obey my will; this is what I see: A couple of brawny savages, maddened by strong drink, stand over the kneeling figure of my mother, their eyes inflamed with satanic passion. Holding together her torn garments with one hand, she parries with feeble and fast declining strength their revolting advances. With a mighty effort she reaches up and snatches a knife from the belt of the savage nearest her, and with the rapidity of thought plunges it into his body. He reels and falls against his companion. It is her last act on earth. With a yell of rage the tomahawk is lifted above her murderer's head, and descending is buried in her brain with a dull thud. A mist passes over my eyes; my brain reels, and the last thing of which I am conscious is the white tresses of my saintly mother, held high in air by this monster in human guise. God grant that it may never be my fate to pass through such scenes again.
During the next twenty-four hours, my existence is that of an automaton merely. I know I am being conducted away from the spot where this awful tragedy was enacted. I am mounted behind my guard, to whose waist I am firmly bound by raw hide thongs. We encamp in a belt of cotton woods, near a small stream. Fires are lighted, food prepared; some is offered me, but I turn away from it in disgust; the hand that proffers the smoking meat seems covered with blood.
I am taken from my couch of skins at the foot of a tall tree, and led through the underbrush into an open space, where the main party are assembled. Emerging into this clearing, my eyes fall upon my husband, who is approaching me from the other side of the encampment. It was as if I saw one who had arisen from the dead; with an effort I free myself, rush past the guard, and am in my husband's arms. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I give expression to my feelings in tears; they are the first I have shed, and seem to break the spell which has encircled me like an iron band. I am not long permitted to remain in my husband's embrace, as the Indian with an ugh! expressive of displeasure, grasps Edwin by the arm, and rudely separates us; we are led to opposite corners of the enclosure, there to await our departure, preparations for which are being rapidly completed. The lariats are coiled, blankets adjusted, and at a signal from the chief we mount, and defiling through the wood, emerge on the open prairie, pursuing our journey in Indian file. Before starting, one of our mules is brought up, on which I am mounted, a warrior riding by my side and holding in his hand a hair rope that passes through the bit ring that is attached to my animal. All day we keep up the march. Look in any direction and the eye meets one vast expanse of living verdure, the vision only interrupted by the horizon. North, south, east, and west stretches the prairie meadow, green as the sea, and in many respects not unlike the calm surface of the ocean. As the wind sweeps across its bosom, the silken blades bend in gentle undulations, and they are dappled into lighter and darker shades, like the shadows of summer clouds flitting across the sun. It was a scene of pure enjoyment, and I only realized, on being awakened from my day dreams how miserable was my lot.
With slight interruptions, notably when my husband was lost in the buffalo hunt, and his recapture, we progressed steadily towards the village. On arriving I was taken at once to the temple, where I found myself among some eight or ten more female captives, who had but recently arrived. They were Mexican women, and, not understanding their language, I felt somewhat constrained. I was attracted to one fragile looking girl, whose age could not have been more than fifteen. She appeared utterly heartbroken and cast down by her misfortunes. I suffered enough, God knows; but my heart yearned towards this little stranger with tender sympathy; and in comforting her I seemed to lessen my own burdens. Although the others were kind to her to a degree, yet she seemed to evince a fondness for my society that was very flattering. The others addressed her as "Zoe," and in this way I learned her name. Henceforth we became inseparable; and as she accompanied me in my captivity, the reader will learn more of the sad history of this heroic girl, whose impulses, both of head and heart, added to her splendid courage, were the salient points in a character of surpassing sweetness.
We were not allowed to leave the temple, although we were free to wander from terrace to terrace. Food and water was supplied us by the Indian women, who seemed to have us under their sole control.
How can I describe the scenes of the next few days; the games, festivities, and most horrible of all, the torture; when we were compelled to stand on the lower terrace, and witness the agonies and death struggles of fathers, husbands and lovers; not even the poor consolation of indulging our grief undisturbed was permitted us; the Indian women who surrounded us seemed lost to all feelings of pity and humanity, and when one of our number was suffering tortures of mind, little inferior to the physical pain undergone by the object of her devotion, the fiends would give vent to derisive cries and jeers that were maddening to the poor creature.
One of the Mexicans, whose father and lover were burned to death before her eyes, suffered such poignant anguish that her reason gave way, and she was borne inside the temple a raving maniac.
After the events just related, nothing of moment occurred to break the monotony of our captivity. We were confined to our quarters under a surveillance that did not relax for a moment. It was understood that we were awaiting the announcement that was to decide what our future lot should be.
The Mexicans learned from our attendants that the chiefs had decided to share the female captives with their Apache visitors; the selection to be made by lot.
I had not seen my husband but once since we entered the village, and that sight was fraught with the most painful emotions. I knew, however, that for the present he was safe; the future I confided to Him whose loving care would protect and aid us in our trials. During this time my mind was in a state of complete despondency; no bright visions of future liberty and happiness came to relieve the dreary forebodings that oppressed me. In my wildest imaginings of the suffering that might be my portion, I did not approach the realities of my future existence. Those dark days of toil and degradation which succeeded each other in unvarying monotony, with blows for a welcome, and kicks as an incentive to labor. Even at this remote period I cannot recall the experiences of those times without a shudder; when the horizon of hope was environed by the dull blank of despair; and as each year dragged its weary length along, it almost seemed as if I was,
"The world forgetting,
And by the world forgot." _