Piasata, The Indian Maiden
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THE STORY OF PIASATA, THE INDIAN MAIDEN
And the Legend of the Piasa Bird
As told by James R. Wilson, resident of Jersey County, Illinois,
1818 – abt. 1836
The following newspaper article was found in the Daily Democrat,
Jerseyville, Jersey County, Illinois, and contains lengthy letters
from Mr. James R. Wilson, of McComb City, Mississippi. These letters
from Mr. Wilson detail his story as a youth in 1828, living near
where Delhi now stands, Jersey County, Illinois, where he, along
with two other lads (Joe and Sam), met a Native American family at
the mouth of the Piasa Creek (where it empties into the Mississippi
River near Lockhaven). The three youths fell in love with the
Chief's daughter, Piasata.
Source: The Daily Democrat, 1900
Introductory Letter from Mr. James R. Wilson:
Dear Sir,
The story of "Piasata," which I have written and mailed to you for
publication and in which is given a partial history of three Jersey
county boys during the early settlement of your State, is more full
and complete, and therefore longer than I intended making it. I was
led to commence this sketch by reading in some paper an item in
regard to the legend of the "Piasa Bird;" and as I am perhaps the
only man living who knows anything of the true history of this bird,
at what period of time it lived, and how it was destroyed, I felt it
a duty I owed to posterity to give to the public all the information
I possess, and state how I came into possession of it. In attempting
to do this, youthful memories have crowded so upon me, that I have
described many incidents not connected with the bird, but which I
believe will interest your readers, especially the younger portion
of them.
I go to New Orleans shortly and do not know when I shall return, but
if my story interests you and you should desire further information
on any subject with which I am acquainted and able to give, if you
address me, care of Dr. J. H. Plunkett, McComb City, Mississippi, I
will get your letter.
Yours truly, James R. Wilson
PIASATA AND THE LEGEND OF THE GREAT PIASA BIRD
Chapter I
I am an old man now; more than four score [80] years have passed
over my head, yet, thanks to my early training and a vigorous
constitution, I am still quite active and appear to be many years
younger. The incidents I am going to relate took place nearly three
quarters of a century ago, yet they were so indelibly stamped on my
mind, that they are as plain and vivid today, as though occurring
only a few months ago. At that time (1828), I lived in Illinois, in
what was afterwards Jersey county (it may have been so then, I do
not remember), about two miles from where the village of Delhi now
stands, but there was not a house there then, nothing but hazel
patches, scrub bushes and prairie. My parents located there in 1818,
the year that Illinois was made a State, and when I was three years
old. Near our place, two other families had taken up homes, and each
had a boy about my own age (thirteen); one was Joe, the other, Sam,
and I was Jim. Our outdoor labors in building, fencing and clearing
up new ground made us strong, active, healthy lads, and we being the
only boys in the neighborhood, soon formed an attachment for each
other that grew into a friendship which was only broken by the death
of the other two - many years afterward.
Our parents were quite indulgent to us in one respect at least; if
we worked well during the week they allowed us every Saturday
afternoon as a half holiday to enjoy or spend as we pleased. These
holidays, during spring, summer and autumn, if the weather would
permit, we invariably spent along the banks of a stream called Piasa
Creek, which was a mile or more distant from our homes. This creek
was much larger then than it is now, in fact there were then many
little creeks and lakes in that portion of the state that have since
entirely disappeared. The clearing up of the hazel patches and scrub
timber, and the cultivation of the soil destroyed the drainage and
the loosened earth washed in and filled them up. All these creeks
were then literally alive with fish, and should I tell the number of
sun perch, bream (or goggle eyes) and other varieties that we boys
often caught in a few hours with our rude hooks and lines, this
generation would not believe it. We knew every crook and bend of
this Piasa Creek for miles up towards its source and down towards
its mouth, and had fished and bathed along the entire distance.
This much of an introduction has been necessary to make the story I
am telling intelligible. There were no Indians in that portion of
the State then, and neither of us boys had ever seen one. All we
knew of them was from what we had gleaned out of the few books owned
by our different families, and from stories we had heard told by our
parents. I know that our belief was, that an Indian was always on
the war path, with rifle or bow and tomahawk, seeking to kill a
white man or women and children.
One Saturday in the first week of June, we boys having a full
holiday, got to the creek early in the forenoon and decided that we
would go down the stream farther than we had ever been before.
Therefore, without stopping any place to fish, we walked briskly
along, following the old "buffalo trail" until we concluded that we
were at least two miles beyond our regular stopping place, when, on
suddenly turning a bend of the creek, we saw before us an Indian
wigwam, and were confronted by an Indian dog, which made no attempt
to bite us, but certainly made noise enough for half a dozen dogs of
its size. To say that we were frightened but poorly expresses the
situation. We expected every second to hear the crack of rifles and
feel bullets tearing through our bodies; but just as I had said
"Indians, boys, let's run for our lives," and we had turned about to
do so, we beheld a tall, dignified looking Indian quietly standing
in the path before us. Talk about teeth chattering, knees trembling,
eyes bulging, and all the other symptoms of fright - I am satisfied
we had all those and the balance of them, if there are any more. I
know that I expected to see him draw his tomahawk and scalping
knife, as I thought every Indian must have them, and I am certain
that the hairs on our heads stood up as straight as ever a porcupine
raised its quills. But just then, when we believed all was over with
us and our lives were not worth the fishing poles we carried, the
Indian raised his hand and motioning us backward, said in broken
English, "kaw, kaw," (no, no) "white boy no run, heap good Indian,
no hurt white boy." I have wandered over many states since then and
have been charmed with sweet strains of music and song, but I think
that the rough guttural tones of that Indian's voice were sweeter
far to me then than any note I have ever heard since. Seeing that
our fears were subsiding, the Indian again motioned us backward,
saying, "no run, me no hurt. See wigwam. See squaw. See Piasata."
Now,
I knew what was meant by wigwam and squaw, but as to Piasata I had
grave doubts. I thought it was some animal he had captured and as we
walked towards the wigwam, he in the rear, (he was not going to give
us a chance to run), I kept a sharp look out for danger, but to our
amazement, as we neared the opening in the wigwam, and Indian girl
of about our own age stepped out, and at sight of her and her nod of
welcome, all our fears at once vanished, for she was certainly not a
creature to be afraid of. She had on buckskin moccasins and leggings
and a buckskin skirt, but there was no bead trimming and tassels as
we had seen represented in pictures. Her hair was very black and
hung loose about her shoulders, reaching nearly to her waist. Her
eyes were also black and much larger than Indians usually have,
while her features were regular and without the high cheek bones
that belong to the Indian, of whatever tribe or people. Her
complexion was much lighter than that of either her father or
mother, but this was due, as we afterwards learned, to the fact that
her mother, who was her father's second wife, was of a mixed race -
Indian and Spanish. She wore around her body a garment reaching from
her shoulders to her waist, made out of figured cloth which was only
a straight piece with holes cut for the arms (which were bare) and
looped together in front with buckskin strings or thongs. Beneath
her skirts she wore short pants, reaching from leggings to waist,
which were fastened around her body with a buckskin cord made of
several narrow strips braided together. These pants were made of
cloth and were certainly of a peculiar pattern. They were cut in two
pieces or halves, and were neatly laced together with long buckskin
strings. There was not a button, hook and eye or a pin about her
clothes. Of course, many of these things we learned afterwards. She
was not robust or large limbed, but rather spare, yet like her
father, she appeared to be quite muscular and stood as straight as
the proverbial arrow.
It does not take young people long to get acquainted and in an
hour's time we were all talking to her and listening to her replies
in broken English. She was certainly very pretty, but she did not
have those extremely small feet and hands that many writers give to
their Indian heroines or sweethearts, and she was certainly ours
from that day onward; and for months afterward there was a great
rivalry between us boys as to which of us should command the
greatest share of her attention.
Chapter II
She showed us many things of her making (moccasins, leggings and
other fancy articles), together with her father's war bow and quiver
of arrows, and a flint lock rifle, which she said was to "heap kill
buffalo and Indians." She also showed us a smaller bow and arrows,
which she said was to "heap shoot mark." During all our conversation
with her, the old Indian, though seeming very much interested, did
not speak to us, only muttering an occasional "ugh" or "kaw" (yes or
no), but when she showed us the smaller bow and arrows, he said,
"white boy shoot bow?" We nodded assent and he then took them and
saying, "Piasata heap shoot mark," started off up the road we had
come, motioning us to follow him. We did so, understanding that he
was challenging us to shoot against her. Now, we boys all had bows,
though crude in comparison to this one, but we thought we could do
some pretty fair shooting and were perfectly willing to have a trial
with her. Stopping where there was a straight stretch of road for a
hundred yards or more, he took his knife and cut off the outer bark
of a tree, making a mark about six inches in diameter; then,
motioning us to follow him, he walked off fully seventy-five yards
from the tree, then turned and commenced to string up the bow.
Piasata stood by, seeming perfectly satisfied, but we boys made him
understand that we could not shoot so far and wanted to go much
nearer to the mark. He gave us a look of disgust and muttered, "ugh,
white boy shan-go-da-ya," (which we afterwards learned meant
coward). He walked back to the place we indicated, about forty yards
from the mark; then handing me the bow and arrow; he said "shoot
heap straight." Well, I took a good long aim, shot, and missed the
tree (about a foot in diameter); Sam then shot and did the same; Joe
followed suit, hitting the tree, but his arrow was sticking about
two feet under the mark. It was now Piasata's turn to shoot and I
hoped that she would miss the tree also. There were six arrows left
in the quiver. She selected three and handing her father two to hold
for her, she stepped on the spot we had shot from and almost
instantly let fly an arrow, followed by another as quick as her
father could hand it to her and both struck the mark, one in the
edge, the other near the center. But without giving us time to
praise or congratulate her, she took the last arrow and walked up
the road until fully one hundred yards from the tree, then turned
and shot nearly as quickly as before, the arrow striking within
three inches of the mark. The Indian offered us boys another arrow,
but we were discouraged and disgusted and would not shoot again. We
complimented Piasata on her skill and told her we were glad she beat
us, which was just one of our little lies. She tried to console us
by saying, "never mind, white boy shoot heap good someday." But I
made up my mind to break my bow and arrow as soon as I got home, and
never shoot again. The old Indian made no comments, but his face
showed that he was very much pleased at our defeat and with her
shooting, though, of course, he knew how it would end before the
trial.
As we wanted to take home some fish to show for our day's outing, we
now prepared our lines and, in an hour, had caught all that we
wished to carry; then telling our newly made friends good bye, and
with this rather doubtful invitation from the old Indian to renew
our visit, "ugh, white boys heap come more some time," we started
homeward.
On the way, we decided on two things; first, not to say anything to
our parents for the present about our Indian friends, and second,
that we were all three desperately in love with Piasata.
The next day, Sunday, was ours, and we agreed to meet as early as
possible at the old ford (the road leading from Delhi to Alton
crosses the creek at the place) and each to bring something for
ourselves and Indian friends to eat. We met about nine o'clock and
upon making an inventory of the victuals we had secured, we found
the result to be as follows: Sam had his pockets full of biscuits
and the leg and wing of a chicken; Joe had half of a "Johnny cake"
and a chunk of boiled venison. He had split open the cake of corn
bread and had put in a big lot of butter, then had wrapped it up in
about a yard of calico. The heat of the sun and the warmth of is
body had caused the butter to melt and run out and one side of his
tow-linen coat looked as if he had fallen into a kettle of soap
grease to which the calico had added sundry red and green spots. As
to myself, I had hooked a dewberry pie, a small piece of ham and a
chunk of "corn pone." I had tied them up in my father's many-colored
handkerchief, and which for convenience in carrying I had swung over
my shoulder. The juice had run out of the pie and trickled over my
tow-linen coat until, with stains added from the handkerchief, it
had about as many colors as the famous coat worn by Joseph. We were
in a pickle, and how on our return home to account for the condition
of our clothes without giving up our secret or telling a plain lie,
bothered us. But it is hard to dampen the spirit of a frolicsome boy
and we were soon laughing over our mishaps while trudging briskly
along the trail that led to the Indian's camp. On our arrival, the
old Indian and his wife merely nodded and said "ugh," while Piasata
shook hands with us, but it was plain to be seen from their faces
that we were welcome.
We presented our motley lot of provisions to the squaw, who was
certainly much pleased to receive them. She was a good looking
half-breed, about thirty-five years old and a little inclined to
corpulency [stoutness], but I felt certain that the use of a little
soap and water would improve matters with herself as well as her
husband. They both dressed very much the same as I have described
Piasata, but with this difference, she was always neat and clean,
while they looked the opposite.
Chapter III
We spent the time very pleasantly for
an hour or so talking with them as best we could and each trying to
gain the largest share of Piasata's attention. I thought Joe had
gotten ahead of us by giving her his piece of greasy calico and I at
once donated my father's large cotton handkerchief, which certainly
put me in the lead, and I felt quite elated over my victory. But
now, the old Indian, who had thus far made no remarks except his
usual "ugh, ugh" or "kaw, kaw," said to us, "white boy heap run
fast." We knew this was a challenge for a foot race with Piasata and
at once nodded assent. We were really glad he made it, because
wrestling and foot racing were our principle amusements and we
considered ourselves experts at both, Sam and myself especially so.
She had beaten us with bow and arrows and we felt sure that we could
even up matters in the foot race. We made ready by removing our
shoes (we had no socks) and tying our "galluses" [suspenders] tight
around our waists, while Piasata said she was "heap ready" just as
she was. We went up the road to where we had held our shooting
tournament, the old Indian stopping at least two hundred yards from
the tree we had shot at, indicating by a sign that it was to be the
end of the race. We were again compelled to make a kick, the
distance was too great. We knew that one hundred yards was our limit
for best speed and insisted on running this distance. He reluctantly
gave in to us, muttering "ugh esa kaw mahugo tayse," (shame upon
you, no brave heart). As we did not then know the meaning of his
expression, we were satisfied with gaining our point and I felt sure
that Sam or myself would show Miss Piasata our heels.
The old Indian took his stand about one hundred yards from the tree
and signed for Piasata and myself to clasp hands ten paces back of
him, then start and "break hands" when we reached him, and "scoot."
We did so, and I being quicker than she, gained several yards on her
in the first twenty-five and began to feel a little sorry about
beating her so badly and was thinking of slowing up a little, when
phew! she moved up even with and passed me in spite of my utmost
exertions to keep up with her and reached the tree fully six yards
ahead of me. I was both worried and astonished, because I had
thought myself a pretty swift runner, but I shook hands with her
over my defeat and we went back to the starting place, she telling
me "heap short race, run faster long race." Without resting a
minute, she took Sam’s hand and they were off on their trial, she
beating him worse than myself, which so discouraged Joe that he
refused to run at all. The old Indian showed by his countenance that
he was highly pleased at our being so badly beaten and said "kaw,
white boy no heap run," and we were willing to admit that he told
the truth about it. He then, to show us the speed and wind of
Piasata, placed Joe about seventy-five yards from the tree, myself
about one hundred yards from Joe, and Sam equally as far beyond me,
thus arranging for her to beat all three of us at once, she having
to run three times as far as either of us. Well, she and Sam started
and before I could get a good ready and my lungs well inflated she
was right upon me, Sam eight or ten yards behind her, and to be
certain that I got a good start, I lit out ten or fifteen feet ahead
of her, but it was no "go." She passed me within fifty yards,
running like a deer, but she looked at me as she passed and said
"shango da ya," (coward). I called to Joe to start right then, that
it made no difference, she would beat him out anyhow. He did so and
ran his best, but she passed him before he reached the tree,
apparently running faster than at the commencement of the race. The
old Indian was mad at our unfair way of starting. I knew I had done
wrong, but I managed to make him believe that I knew Piasata would
beat us and I wanted to see how fast she really could run, which
pleased and pacified him. We laughed over our defeat, complimented
Piasata on her fleetness and told her we were glad that she had
beaten us, which was another of our little lies, as we felt bad over
it and would have beaten her if we could. She told us her real name
was We-ish-a-wa-she (running fawn). I know we all thought the name
very appropriate, only we felt sure that she could outrun a fawn.
Why she was named Piasata and could shoot so well and run so fast
will be explained hereafter.
Chapter IV
After our race, we returned to the wigwam, where we found the squaw
broiling fish over some coals, and though they did not appear to be
overly clean, we boys, upon invitation, pitched in and helped eat
them, besides a good portion of the victuals which we had brought,
gaining from the old Indian a muttered expression "that we could
heap eat better than we could run," which was true. All healthy boys
can do the same. Dinner over, which we ate from bark plates, the old
Indian filled his pipe with some villainous stuff (certainly not the
famous kinikinnick) [smoking material typically made of mixture of
various leaves or barks with other plant materials], lighted it, and
after taking a few puffs, handed it to us to do the same. We boys
did not use tobacco, but felt that we must smoke the "peace pipe"
with him and after many coughs and spits, much to his delight, we
succeeded in taking several whiffs apiece and our friendship was
cemented from that day.
After finishing his pipe, he asked us boys if we could "heap swim."
We knew what was coming and not caring to be humbled again we told
him "heap little." Fronting the wigwam, not ten yards distant, was a
"deep hole" as we called it and a pretty place to swim. but how
could we go in swimming? We could not strip off before them and we
had no extra clothes or bathing suits. The squaw, from our looks of
dismay, comprehended our difficulty and told us to take off our
shirts and moccasins (brogans), keep on our pants and we would be
"heap fixed" and that Piasata swim too. We were telling her that we
could not undress before women, when the old Indian pointed to our
shoes and shirts and said "take off," this settled it; we were
afraid to disobey him and we at once went behind the wigwam and got
out of them in a hurry. When we returned, covered with blushes
instead of shirts, we were confounded at sight of Piasata. She stood
before us draped like ourselves. She had removed moccasins, leggings
and body cloth. She wore a pair of pants only, made and fastened
around her waist and as I have before described, and this is how I
learned the manner of their making and fastening. Mothers have the
instinct of motherhood the world over, and noticing our surprise at
her appearance, she told us Indian people bathed that way and all
together. This I afterwards found to be true, I have seen scores of
both sexes, little and big, bathing together, the men wearing
breech-clouts only and the women a single skirt or short pants.
Piasata smiled at us and pointing to Sam, who was very dark skinned,
said he would make "heap good Indian," and to Joe, who was very
fair, she said he was "heap white girl boy." About myself she made
no comments and I was very much mortified over it, but was eased a
little when the old Indian said that I would make "heap strong man
someday." Though we bathed together this time, and often afterwards,
I never saw her give a sign or look that would indicate that she
felt she was acting unwomanly. She was modest in her immodesty. We
had the greatest respect for her and soon thought nothing of her
undressing to go in bathing with us (which we always did in front of
the wigwam). The old Indian and his squaw took a seat on the bank,
which was several feet above the water, and motioned for us to go
in. Piasata took the lead, diving down head foremost, we following
after her. We bathed for an hour at least, swimming and diving, each
trying to show off to the best advantage, but our principle fun and
annoyance and that which gave the greatest delight to her mother and
father, was Piasata's ducking us. We were her equals in swimming,
but she could beat us badly in diving. I believe she could see under
water, equal to a fish. She would dive down and the first thing we
knew, she would have one of us by the ankles and down we would go
also. She half drowned us, and yet she was so expert in diving away
from us, that we never succeeded in ducking her a single time.
Whenever we saw her go under water we at once made a break for the
bank, but seldom reached it in safety. Sam was her special favorite
in this sport, and I think she made him swallow enough water during
that summer to start a mill pond.
After leaving the water, we dressed ourselves, Piasata doing the
same, emerging from the tent in a fresh suit, looking more
interesting than ever. As it was time for us to start homeward, we
told them goodbye, and with an invitation to "heap come more," we
left with the incidents of a day's sport engraved upon our minds
that time never effaced. Now, the problem confronted us as to how to
account for the condition of our clothes, Joe’s and Sam’s coats were
stained and greasy, while mine looked still worse from berry and
handkerchief stains; and our pants were streaked all over with mud.
We talked the matter over as we hurried along and finally a bright
idea struck one of us, that we would fall into the creek
(accidentally of course) and get wet and stained all over alike. We
soon came to a clay bank suitable for our purpose where a small
drift log had lodged, and after removing our shoes we carefully
walked out on it and of course fell off. After several attempts to
climb back up the bank, slipping and rolling over each time, we
finally got out again, but what a sight we were, all grease and
berry stains were certainly hidden with mud. Our parents had often
seen us come from the creek wet and somewhat drabbled, but never in
our present condition; so we decided not to say anything about our
Indian friends, but to tell them how we walked out on a small log,
of its turning and our shoes slipping and we falling into the water
and climbing out up a clay bank. We felt sure from our appearance
that this little lie would be swallowed whole without hesitation or
comment. It being but little out of their way, Sam and Joe went home
with me and as it happened, their parents had spent the day with
mine and all were present when we entered the house and made our
agreed statement as to the cause of our appearance. Sam’s father
asked him some question about the locality of the log, but before he
could answer my father pointed to our shoes and asked how we managed
to fall into the water by our shoes slipping and get our clothes so
wet and muddy, yet keep our shoes dry. This settled it, we were
caught "red handed," and we then truthfully told them the whole
story about the victuals, our Indian friends and of our swimming
with Piasata. After scolding us for telling a story and reminding us
that boys were never as smart as they thought themselves to be, they
laughed at our miserable appearance until we felt disgusted over our
experiment and decided that it was best to tell the truth at all
times.
Our fathers then told us that it was not uncommon for one of two
Indian families to come up the Piasa a few miles from the
Mississippi in the early fall to fish and hunt. They would salt down
the fish, jerk (sun dry) the deer meat, then decamp before the
coming of winter. They supposed this one had come from somewhere
over in Missouri, but could not account for his appearance before
the commencement of the hunting season. They commented a little on
our choice of company, but said they had no objection to our
visiting them. This settled it, each of us was now sure that someday
Piasata would be his wife and that we could never, no never, be
happy if we failed to get her.
Chapter V
The incidents related in the foregoing chapters fitly describe our
amusements during the entire summer and early fall. We seldom failed
to visit our Indian friends on Saturday afternoons and Sundays and
always met with a nod of welcome from the old Indian with his "ugh,
ugh," and with a warm reception from Piasata, who soon learned from
us to speak very good English, while she in turn taught us her
language so that we could, and often did, carry on our conversations
in her own tongue, which I afterwards found out was the Algonquin.
The old Indian was of the Piasa tribe, a branch of the Algonquins,
and had been a noted chief among them after leaving the Piasa and
was a hereditary chief in his own tribe. He was born near where his
wigwam then stood, as were his father and grandfather before him.
After we boys learned to talk with him in his own language, he
became much more communicative. He told us of his tribe, their
history as he knew it, and the history of the great Piasa bird and
how they destroyed it. The events I am speaking of were in 1828, or
72 years ago. The Indian was then, as he counted by "moons," 67
years old and must have been born about 1760. His father, he said,
was 25 years older than himself and must therefore have been born
about 1735. He told us of things that took place along the Piasa
(told him by his father) as far back as 1745, and of events that
happened in that portion of the state (told him by his grandfather)
as far back as 1720, and by his great grandfather as far back as
1690. I could tell many of them, but it would make this story too
long. They were not traditions, as his father, grandfather and
great-grandfather had taken part in them, and had told him of them
in person. I am only the third person removed, yet I can relate
things that took place in Jersey County over two hundred years ago.
I remember this old Indian's (I will call him Chief hereafter)
description of their tribal wars and battles with the Okaws, Illinis
and other tribes now forgotten. Their last big battle was fought
against these tribes combined, and took place near where Delhi now
stands, between there and the Little Piasa, about a mile distant
from the village. Though only a boy of twelve, he took part in this
engagement (which must have been about 1772), fighting by the side
of his father. According to his statement, he did bravely, killing
several of the enemy with his arrows. The old chief took us over the
battleground and showed us where they had lain in ambush in the long
grass, and how the enemy had marched right up to them, without
suspecting their presence. They, thinking their march unknown,
intended to go down to the Little Piasa and cross it at what was
afterwards called Gardiner's ford, then take the "buffalo trail"
down by the "deer lick" and "buffalo wallow" to the Big Piasa and
attack them in the rear. But the Piasas, having gained information
of their coming, sprung a great surprise on them by ambushing them
on the route they knew they would take and completely defeating
them.
According to his account, great numbers were killed and many
wounded. I doubt the number killed, as I never knew any tribe to
face an enemy until their loss was very heavy. They will fight while
yelling, as only Indians can, but when a dozen or so are killed and
as many wounded, if one side does not run the other will. There are
only two ways that suit an Indian to fight, unless there are big
odds in his favor, that is from ambush, or on a run, either after
you, or from you. But, to return to my story - we boys often visited
the battlefield and where rain had washed little gullies, we would
often find a pocket full of stone arrow heads and judged that there
must have been a sure enough big fight there. He also told us of
another big battle, in which they were the victors, fought several
years before this (about 1767) near where the town of Jerseyville
now stands. The road from Jerseyville to Grafton passes over the
battlefield (or did), perhaps not over a mile distant from the
former place. I suspect boys have often found arrowheads there and
wondered how they come to be there in such quantities.
Growing weary of continual warfare over hunting grounds, his branch
of the Piasa tribe moved across and up the Mississippi (I have
forgotten at what date), joining a tribe of Algonquins, and made
their home in what is now Dakota. There he married, in after years,
his second wife, a half-blood, and when a girl was born he named her
Piasata (meaning crooked water) in remembrance of his tribe and
their former home on the Piasa. Piasata's success in shooting,
running and swimming is easily accounted for. Two villages stood
near each other, only a small stream separated them; the only
amusements the children had were swimming, running, or shooting with
bow and arrows and they grew up in daily practice of all three (when
weather permitted), the children on one village trying to outdo
those of the other; and Piasata became very expert in all three
amusements, as we boys afterwards found out. But it seems natural
for an Indian to be expert with bow and arrow. I have seen Indian
boys six or eight years old, who would knock a quarter out of the
end of a split stick, three times out of five, at ten or twelve
yards distance. It does not take one very long to get tired of
putting up quarters for them to shoot at, they getting the quarter
if they hit it first shot.
Chapter VI
This visit on which we met the old chief and his family was the
first time he had been to his boyhood's home since leaving it, which
was, I think, about 1780. They had come down the Mississippi and up
the Piasa in a large birch canoe, and had camped where their village
once stood, and he had erected his wigwam where his father's stood
when he was a boy. On a little hill nearby he showed us the graves
of his ancestors and told us that he wanted to see the old place
again before he went to the "Happy hunting grounds." Of course, he
told us this and many other things I have mentioned, after we
learned to speak his language. He told us also, as I have before
mentioned, about the "great Piasa bird;" how for a long time it
destroyed their children and even half-grown youths, and how, at
length, after a hard fight, they had succeeded in killing it. They
afterwards painted a picture of it on the bluff rocks on the
Mississippi at or near the mouth of the Piasa, where he said there
was a cave in which it lived. I never saw this picture, but have
often heard that it really existed, in fact have talked with persons
who said they had actually seen it. If painted there as he
described, and still visible, they must have used colors remarkable
for durability, as the work was done about 1690, over two hundred
years ago. This was in 1828, the old chief was then 67 years old,
and was born therefore about 1760, his father about 1735, his
grandfather about 1710 and his great-grandfather about 1680. It was
when his great-grandfather was a boy of ten or twelve that they
killed this great bird, and therefore about 1690. The way Indians
count by moons and seasons, they lose a year or over in every
twenty-five, and his great-grandfather was probably born about 1675,
and other dates given should be moved back accordingly.
I have heard traditions of this bird from other sources, both from
Indians and white people, but never believed that any such sized
bird as these traditions affirmed and he described, ever existed,
except in pre-historic ages. I am satisfied that a large, voracious
bird actually destroyed these youths or children, and was killed as
the old chief described. But from knowledge gained in after years
and from his description of its habits, its lofty flight a mere
speck in the sky and of its rapid descent on its prey and how it
could disable and even kill with the stroke of its wing or bill, I
believe that it was a huge Condor from the Andes mountains, which
had from some cause wandered that far from home and on account of
its solitary life, it became more daring and savage than usual and
attacked human beings instead of sheep or calves, there were none
there and in preference to eating carrion. Instances are not rare
where birds, large as well as small, have wandered thousands of
miles from home and never seemed to know how to return. But from
other descriptions he gave, I am satisfied that the "great Piasa
bird" was a lost or wandering Condor from some part of South
America.
It
seems that they at first regarded the coming of this bird as a curse
sent upon them, for one of their tribal wars by Gitche Manito (the
great spirit), whom they tried in many ways to appease, making no
effort to destroy it. But its forays became so destructive that they
concluded that it was sent by Mitche Manito (the spirit of evil) and
determined to kill it. Their first attempts were failures, several
warriors having arms broken by strokes of its wings and their faces
and bodies badly torn by its bill. They only succeeded in wounding
it so that it disappeared for a few days, then it was back again,
more savage than ever. They then decided on another plan of attack,
which according to his description, was as follows: On the top of a
hill, the one on the right hand on the road going from Delhi to
Alton, that you descend to ford the Piasa or the one you ascend
after crossing the creek, I have forgotten which, they dug a hole
early in the morning, several feet deep, and covered it over with
branches of hazel bushes; then they fixed up hiding places for a
number of warriors and were ready for the battle. The old chief's
great-grandfather was the boy selected to stand by the hole to
attract the attention of the bird. It was soon seen rapidly
descending and as it came near the earth, the boy parted the bushes
and jumped into the hole, spreading them back again and thus
disappearing from its sight. It had no sooner lit, then they
commenced shooting at it with their arrows, many of which were
driven in its body. Though badly wounded and unable to see the
warriors behind their screens, it would not retreat, but ran around
in a circle looking for them. Finally, one wing was pinned to its
side by several arrows, and they thought that it was safe to attack
it in a hand to hand fight, and rushed out with tomahawks and clubs
to finish it. but they made a mistake. No vital part had been
touched and though wounded in many places, it made a ferocious
fight, breaking an arm of one warrior with its sound wing, knocking
out an eye of another, while it tore the flesh on the bodies and
face of others with its bill, making wounds that left their marks
through life. Finally, the boy crept out of the hole and running up
behind the bird, caught it by one foot, and pulling back with all
his strength, threw it on its side, when a warrior jumped on its
head holding it down, while several others chopped away at its neck
with tomahawks, until they cut its head off. They then held a feast
for several days, all the neighboring villages joining in as all had
lost children by it. They removed the flesh and broke up bones to
make charms or medicine bags, one of which he showed us, asserting
that it contained some of the bones of this great Piasa bird.
Such is the legend of the bird and of its killing as told us by the
old chief on the banks of the Piasa in 1828.
Chapter VII
Strange as it may seem, the incidents which I have related refer to
things which are said to have happened on the Piasa 210 years ago
(1690), and yet the tale, tradition, or story, has passed through
but one person to me. The old Chief's great-grandfather lived to be
upwards of ninety, dying about 1772. When he was a boy of twelve, he
had often heard him relate the history of the bird, of its coming,
how it destroyed their children, and of its killing, and the part he
took in it, and as he (the old Chief) told these tales to me, they
have passed through but one person, though happening 210 years ago.
Time, and an Indian's imagination, no doubt added much to the size
of this bird, if not to its destructiveness. He pictured it as
twenty-five feet from tip to tip of wings, with a body as big as a
pony, and, when standing erect, seven or eight feet high. If, as I
believe, it was a large condor, its actual size was sufficient for
their imagination in after years to build up into the huge bird he
described. A large male condor will measure from fifteen to sixteen
feet from tip to tip of wings, having a body from three and a half
to four feet in length. The ferocity of the condor when hungry is
not equaled by any other bird. Though belonging to the vulture
class, it is also a bird of prey, and Woods, in his history of
birds, affirms that two of them have been known to kill full grown
sheep, lambs and even the savage puma, literally tearing them to
pieces with their terrible bills. In like manner, they have been
known to kill full grown cattle and to maim and cripple persons who
attempted to drive them away.
But, I must bring this story of early life in Jersey county to a
close, omitting much that I would like to tell, because the tale is
getting too long and I am tired of writing it. I pass over,
therefore, a description of the exhibitions the old Chief gave us of
his skill in the use of his war-bow and long arrows, as well as the
many strange Indian legends he told us and the history of his people
in the sha-shah (long ago). The month of November came on, and the
old Chief, his Indian name was Soan-ge-ta-ha (strong hearted), told
us that at the next new moon he would leave there and go back to his
people in the northwest. As this would occur in a few days, we boys
knew that we had but one more visit to make, and on that Sunday, I
shall never forget how each of us wore his best clothes and tried to
look his prettiest in order to charm the "running fawn," knowing it
was his last chance. But, somehow, before we arrived at their camp
we seemed to have a foreboding of evil. We talked it over, thinking
perhaps we would find that they were gone, or that Piasata was sick,
or anyhow that something strange had happened. When we got within a
half mile of the camp, we found Piasata's dog sitting in the road
awaiting our coming, something he had never done before, and he
looked cowed and downcast, as if he were in trouble. He trotted
along in front of us, straight up to the wigwam, and, to our
consternation, there lay our little Indian maiden as though she were
asleep, but she was dead.
I have often wondered if that dog could reason; he knew how we all
played together, as he was always with us and he knew that she was
dead. He had met us a long way from camp, seeming to know that it
was the day and hour that we made our regular visit, and he had led
us straight to the tent, looking first at her and then at us, as
though begging us to do something for her - to bring her to life
again. Tears were plentiful that morning, but the old Chief (stoic
all of them) shed not a single one. Yet his face and the twitching
of his muscles showed plainly his suffering. Her mother wept as
freely as ourselves, as she told us how she had been killed. She had
evidently climbed a tree to catch a bird she had wounded, when a
limb gave way and she fell to the ground, breaking her neck in the
fall. The dog came back without her and by his actions, got them to
follow him, when he led them to where she lay, but she was dead; her
neck was broken and she had evidently died without suffering, as
there was no trace of pain on features. Her mother had dressed her
in her best and brightest clothes, and she looked so natural that we
boys could hardly realize that our little We-ish-a-wa-sha had gone
from us forever. Her father, with tomahawk and other rude
implements, had dug a grave scarcely two feet deep, by those of his
ancestors, and there we boys, two at her head and one at her feet,
carried her on a dressed deer skin and gently lowered her body down
into it. Her mother then placed all of her trinkets and playthings
beside her, including all the gifts we had made to her, and then
folded the deer skin over her and she was hid from our sight
forever. With canoe paddles and hands, we boys filled up the grave
and shaped it as best we could, for our eyes were blinded with
tears. We thought it best to leave them alone in their sorrow, and
soon told them goodbye; her mother was weeping as freely as
ourselves, but the old Chief, in his own tongue without a quiver in
his voice, told each of us goodbye. Holding our hands in his, he
said that he would soon join Piasata in the happy hunting grounds
"beyond the sunset;" then exclaiming, "showain, showan, nemeshin (I
sorrow, I suffer, pity me), he turned and entered the tent and we
never saw him again.
On the following Sunday, we boys visited Piasata's grave and we saw
that it had been opened since we left. Wondering for what purpose
this had been done, we dug down a piece to make an examination, and
found her dog buried above her. Whether he had died from grief, or
whether the old Chief had killed him in order that he might go with
her to the "land of the Great Spirit," we, of course, could not
know, but from our knowledge of their belief, we judged that he had
not died a natural death.
Chapter VIII
Piasata, though only an ignorant Indian girl, managed and controlled
us boys equal to an experienced woman. An entire summer had passed,
and there had been no quarrels or contention between us, nor had we
been jealous of each other, because she made us believe that she
loved us all just the same. Only the week before her death, she drew
a circle in the dust, a heart inside of it, with three arrows just
touching the edge of the circle. The arrows represented us boys, and
in the Indian sign language, the figure meant that we were all equal
in her love or friendship.
Those unacquainted with the Indian sign language would be astonished
at the amount of information that can be conveyed through the medium
of a few little figures. We learned to write and read this language
from the old Chief and Piasata, and it afterwards proved to be of
great benefit to all of us, and especially to me, when on duty as a
scout. I have often read messages written on rocks, banks of clay,
or hard ground, intended for Indians only; thereby enabling me to
circumvent them. All Indian sign language is about the same; some
tribes use a few different figures to represent the same thing, but
in most cases, if you can read the sign figures of one tribe, you
can read those of another. I will mention one or two figures as used
by the Algonquins or Dakotas as a sample. A little tent or wigwam,
with a moccasin pointing towards it means, "Come to see me, you are
welcome." With the moccasin pointing from it, means "Keep away, I do
not want to see you." Strike a half circle two or three inches in
diameter, with the ends resting on a base line; the circle
represents the heavens, the base line the earth, the left-hand
corner represents sunrise, the center of circle - noon, and the
right-hand corner - sunset. If a wet day, a few little strokes or
lines extending downward from circle a half inch or more in length,
indicates it. If the forenoon is rainy, the lines are made between
center of circle (noon) and sunrise; or if the afternoon is wet
between the center and sunset. If you wanted to represent night, a
few little crossed lines are made for stars, while the same straight
lines are used to show whether raining or clear weather. If it is
desired to represent moonlight, the moon is shown whether full, old
or new, and the hour of night by its location on the circle. A full
moon is represented by a small circle, with two short lines crossing
in the center; an old one, by a half moon standing on end, and a new
one by same figure lying down, sharp ends pointing upwards. Indians
count time nearly invariably by the moon, from full to new moon and
from new to full moon. Thus, if a party writes a message at
midnight, ten days after full moon, the represent a full moon below
the base line of circle, then ten small dots or lines, with an old
moon in center of circle. If they should pass at nine o'clock a.m.,
they would show the sun half way between the sunrise and noon
points, with the age of the moon below base line, in the manner
already described. If the message is written by a war party, every
figure of a moccasin represents a warrior, and the course it points,
the direction they were traveling; while a figure of a pony with
dots after it indicates the number of ponies they had with them.
Thus, through this little figure, with a few short lines, small
crosses and circles, a party of Indians will leave a long and
accurate message to those who come after them.
Once, while in pursuit of a band of cut-throat Indians who had
committed some fiendish murders, our captain was about to give up
the chase, as I could not tell how far we were behind them. We knew
if we were then two days behind them, that they would gain the
mountains and make their escape, and we would have a long wearisome
ride for nothing. As we did not think that there were any Indians to
follow after them, we did not expect to find messages left for them
along the way. But just then, I discovered one written on a bank of
clay, and on deciphering it, found that there were eleven in the
party; that they passed there at about nine o'clock that day; that
the party had divided, five going to the right, the others to the
left, separating at an angle of about thirty degrees. We knew at
once that we had them. I knew the country as well as they did, and
knew that their separating and taking different routes was to
mislead us; as they were making for a certain pass and would meet
there again. By their angling route, they would lose many miles, and
we pushed straight ahead, taking a near cut and actually reached the
pass ahead of them. As it was dusk when they rode into it, they
could not see our trail, and we had them hemmed in before they
suspected our presence. We gave them a chance to surrender, but they
tried to break through our ranks and we just had to kill them. By
the message, we knew that another party was coming after them and we
got them also.
But to return to my story; forty years after the events I have
narrated took place, I was on business for a while in Dakota. There
were many Indians scattered about the place where I was located, and
I noticed one old squaw frequently stood and took a good long look
at me. One day I spoke to her kindly, asking her what she wanted.
She then came close to me and after another long look, she took my
hand and said: "Jim, Piasata," and I knew that she was her mother.
Indians sometimes forget a kindness, but never a feature or an
injury. She was old, wrinkled and ugly, but her heart was still warm
and tender in feeling, for the "running fawn" sleeping on the banks
of the distant Piasa. She told me that the Chief had been dead for
many years; that after Piasata's death, he "heap done nothing but
think," meaning that he had grieved his life away, thinking of the
loss of his child. We talked of the "olden times," and she was
greatly pleased to learn that I had a few years before made a
pilgrimage to Piasata's grave. I gave her a fine blanket and some
money, in remembrance of my little Indian sweetheart; and as I left
the next day, I never saw her again.
Chapter IX
Strange as it may seem, our meeting with the old Indian Chief and
his family marked out the destiny of us boys. We imagined that all
Indian girls were like Piasata and we talked "Algonquin" until our
parents wished that we had never seen an Indian. We covered nearly
everything we could write on, with figures of the sign language, in
fact, we used it when writing messages to each other. Upon one
occasion when my father was going over to Sam’s home, while I
pretended to dust off his coat, I shyly chalked a few figures on his
back for Sam’s eyes, and Sam actually succeeded in chalking an
answer on his coat tail. We talked of Indians and the great west
until we grew discontented, and at eighteen (1833), with our
parents' consent, we left home to seek our fortunes elsewhere.
Joe wandered all over the northwest as hunter, trader, scout or
trapper, as the occasion suited. He finally bought ten acres of
ground very cheap near the then small city of Chicago. The city grew
until finally it spread all around him and he sold out at a price
that made him rich. He died a few years ago at the age of 77. Sam
wandered over the west and southwest scouting, hunting and trading,
sometimes rich, sometimes poor, but finally settled down in
California in 1850. He died at the age of 79, leaving a fine estate
for his family.
As for myself, I had no thought when learning the Indian tongue and
to write and read the sign language of how useful it would be to me
in a few years afterwards. Thus, ends the history of three Jersey
county boys, We-ish-a-wa-sha, and the "great Piasa bird."
Post Script by the editor of The Daily Democrat:
In the letter which Mr. Wilson sent with his story was the following
account of his visit to Piasata's grave while on his visit to Jersey
County, which we did not publish in the introduction of the story
because of reference made to the grave of the "running fawn," and
other things not understood until after reading the chapters which
make up this interesting history of an Indian Chief and his family:
Chapter X
I got a horse and rode from Delhi over the old battle ground, and
down to Gardiner's Ford on the Little Piasa; then followed the old
"buffalo trail" (still traceable) to the "deer lick" and "buffalo
wallow." I afterwards visited the Big Piasa, but the roads had been
changed so much, that I secured a guide to pilot me there and back
again. We struck the stream at one of our favorite fishing places
and there found the ruins of a sawmill, old and about rotted away.
The guide said that it was called "Van Horne’s Mill" and it was
built perhaps by a relative of the Van Hornes I have mentioned. We
went down to where the old Chief had camped, but the open space
where the wigwam stood had grown up so thick with bushes and briars
that we could scarcely get through them. After considerable hunting,
I felt certain that I had located the grave of Piasata, the more so,
from some large pebble stones, which I remember the old Chief had
taken from the bed of the creek and placed around it. However, I
wanted to be certain about it and got the guide to go to a farm
house and get a spade. We then dug down a piece and soon turned up
the skull of a dog, and I knew her bones were resting beneath it. We
replaced the skull and fixed up the grave, and I gathered up a large
bunch of wild Sweet Williams and placed them on it, in memory of the
Indian girl we boys loved so well.
However, living among them cured our infatuation; we failed to find
any more Piasatas, and eventually married among our own people.
*******
EDITOR’S NOTES:
In the following information are details regarding the article
above, that will give further explanation to items mentioned in the
story:
The Piasa Creek referred to in this article, is the "Big Piasa
Creek,” which empties into the Mississippi near Lockhaven and the
Piasa Boat Harbor. Maps show the Piasa Creek runs throughout Jersey
(just south and east of Delhi) and Madison County, with many
branches. Some of these branches run through Madison County into
Alton, Illinois. "Little Piasa" Creek runs through Macoupin County
into Madison County.
According to James Wilson's statement above, he was born about 1815.
According to Civil War records, there was a James R. Wilson enlisted
in the Confederate Army, 45th Mississippi Infantry, Company E,
"McNair Rifles," as a Second Lieutenant. He enlisted at Natchez, and
resigned in March/April 1862. At the time of his enlistment in 1861,
he was age 32 (according to their records), and would have been born
approximately 1829. The McNair Rifles Unit was raised in Pike
County, Mississippi. The city of McComb, in which the James Wilson
who wrote this story lives, is in Pike County, Mississippi. However,
it is unproven if these two James Wilson’s are one of the same.
The Indian Maiden in this article, Piasata, was supposedly named
after Piasa Creek, which means "Crooked Water." Maps show the Piasa
Creek is indeed very crooked and winds throughout Jersey and Madison
Counties.