The Story of Piasata - Indian Maiden
Madison County ILGenWeb Coordinator - Beverly Bauser
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
an Indian 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
I will here digress long enough to make a few general remarks
about Indians and their character as a race. Since the time I
speak of, I have lived with them, have fished and hunted with
them, and have fought with them in their tribal wars, and
against them with U. S. soldiers (as a scout) from Dakota to
California. As a general thing, the Indian is a coward, always
seeking to overcome you by numbers, ambush, or treachery. There
are some exceptions to this - now and then you find one who is
recklessly brave, who will face death in any form and fight as
long as he has life or strength to resist. They are almost
universally dirty in their habits, but from the nature of the
life they lead, they could not well be otherwise. Their famed
fleetness of foot, their noble appearance in paint and feathers,
and the beauty of Indian maidens that story writers tell us
about is, as a general thing, all bosh. I have seen a few
warriors who had pride enough to keep themselves clean and were
really fine looking; and a few runners, who perhaps, in even a
short race, could equal or surpass the speed of our fleetest
Anglo-Saxon; and a few Indian girls (full-bloods) who were
really good looking, but they were exceptions. Indian girls,
from their manner of living, fade quickly; they usually look old
at thirty and at fifty are ugly hags. I have seen Indian girls
who were beautiful in face and figure and who had small feet and
hands, but they were the half-breed Chickasaws and Choctaws in
the Indian Territory. I have seen the same along the Alapata
flats and Kissimmee River in Florida, but they were half-breed
Seminoles. To the half-breed Indian girls, I will pay this
compliment, they are as a rule modest and strictly virtuous;
while the full-bloods - well, they have had a poor chance and we
will not discuss the matter. The men bear their age much better
than the women, but not in comparison with the white man.
Indians are nearly always clumsy and are very seldom equal in
quickness or suppleness to an active American. Their training,
however, hardens their muscles and their wind, or endurance, is
marvelous. With anything like equal strength, an Indian will
wrestle a white man out of breath and finally handle him at
will. In a melee with one where life is at stake, I would advise
the white man to kill him first and do his wrestling afterwards.
As a runner, there are a few as I have said, very fleet in a
short race, but their forte is in distance. They will run at a
moderate pace for ten or twelve hours, stopping only a few
minutes now and then to eat a little dried venison or take a
drink of water, and they are off again. They will rest and sleep
perhaps not over two hours (if the case is urgent) in
twenty-four, and cover in that time the remarkable distance of
over one hundred miles. The love and undying friendship of an
Indian is always to be doubted. I have known such, but as a rule
in dealing with them, trust with one hand and keep the other
ready for defense. In love they are stoics; in hatred,
implacable; in vengeance, fiends incarnate. Such is the Indian
as I know him, with but few exceptions.
But returning to
our friends, 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 named after Piasa Creek, which means "Crooked
Water." Maps show the Piasa Creek is indeed very crooked and
winds throughout Jersey and Madison Counties.
In 1673,
Father Jacques Marquette saw the “Piasa Bird” (as it was later
called) painting on a limestone bluff overlooking the
Mississippi River while exploring the area. Mr. Wilson states he
thought the bird was killed in 1690, and the image painted on
the bluff afterwards. This is a 17-year difference. Could the
bird actually have been painted before its demise, as a warning
to other Indians of potential danger? We may never know.