Eyewitness to America: 500 Years of American History in the Words of Those Who Saw it Happen
Edited by David Colbert. 1998.
“The Trail of Tears Begins: August 28, 1838”
William Shorey Coodey (pps. 177-178)
In 1824, about seventy-seven thousand Indians were living east of the Mississippi River, according to estimates given to the secretary of war. By 1840, almost all the tribes had been “removed,” pushed westward to make room for new settlers. In the series of forced marches that has become known as the Trail of Tears, fourteen thousand Cherokees were driven out of Georgia and Tennessee into Oklahoma. Almost four thousand died on the way. Coodey, who witnessed the first of the thirteen drives, described the scene in this letter to a friend.
The entire Cherokee population were captured by the U.S. troops under General [Winfield] Scott in 1838 and marched to, principally, the border of Tennessee where they were encamped in large bodies until the time of their final removal west. At one of these encampments, twelve miles south of the Agency and Headquarters of Genl. Scott, was organized the first detachment for marching under the arrangement committing the whole management of the emigration into the hands of the Cherokees themselves.
The first of September was fixed as the time for a part to be in motion on the route. Much anxiety was felt, and great exertions made by the Cherokee to comply with everything reasonable to be expected of them, and it was determined that the first detachment would move in the last days of August.
I left the Agency on the 27th, after night, and watched the encampment above alluded to, early the following morning for the purpose of aiding in the arrangements necessary to get a portion in motion on that day – the remainder to follow the next day and come up while the first were crossing the Tennessee River, about twelve miles distant.
At noon all was in readiness for moving; the teams were stretched out in a line along the road through a heavy forest, groups of persons formed about each wagon, others shaking the hand of some sick friend or relative who would be left behind. The temporary camp covered with boards and some of bark that for three summer months had been their only shelter and home, were crackling and falling under a blazing flame; the day was bright and beautiful, but a gloomy thoughtfulness was depicted in the lineaments of every face. In all the bustle of preparation there was a silence and stillness of the voice that betrayed the sadness of the heart.
At length the word was given to “move on.” I glanced along the line and the form of Going Snake, an aged and respected chief whose head eighty winters had whitened, mounted on his favorite pony passed before me and led the way in advance, followed by a number of young men on horseback.
At this very moment a low sound of distant thunder fell on my ear. In almost an exact western direction a dark spiral cloud was rising above the horizon and sent forth a murmur I almost fancied a voice of divine indignation for the wrongs of my poor and unhappy countrymen, driven by brutal power from all they loved and cherished in the land of their fathers, to gratify the cravings of avarice. The sun was unclouded – no rain fell – the thunder rolled away and sounds hushed in the distance. The scene around and before me, and in the elements above, were peculiarly impressive and singular. It was at once spoken of by several persons near me, and looked upon as omens of some future event in the west.
Eyewitness to the Old West: Firsthand Accounts of Exploration, Adventure, and Peril.
Edited by Richard Scott. 2002.
“A Gift for a Gift, c. Summer 1849”
Hermann B. Scharmann, Sr. (pps. 106-107)
In 1904, Scharmann’s son, Hermann B. Scharmann, Jr., found a copy of the New Yorker Staats Zeitung issued during the year 1852. He was surprised to find a story describing his family’s 1849 journey to California. Hermann Scharmann, Sr., had taken his wife, three-year-old daughter, and two sons on the overland adventure across the United States to satisfy his “wanderlust and by a desire for gold.” Scharmann Jr. had his father’s account published in 1918.
About 115 miles from Fort Laramie we met a band of Indians which, counting women and children, numbered 230 persons. The chief handed us a document, signed by the commander of the fort, which stated that the Indians of this branch of Sioux were not hostile, but most friendly, and that therefore every traveler should avoid insulting them. We soon learned that they had come in order to get some of our provisions, but our company was not very abundantly provided and could give them very little. I camped about fifty yards away from the general camp, with my wagon of provisions. Soon I counted thirty-six Indians around my wagon. Among them was the chief, his squaw and three children. Naturally I was curious to learn something of their customs. So I gave orders that the wash-kettle should be filled with tea and all other available vessels with coffee; also I had three large pancakes baked. My cows still gave quite a bit of milk, and so a supper was prepared for the Indians. The chief thought that he had more rights than the others, so he and his family sat close to the wagon. The others lay around the fire in a circle.
When the other Indians saw that these were being feasted, they all came running up. I indicated to the chief that this was unwelcome to me, whereupon he immediately arose, held up his hand and cried aloud: “Womeski!” As though struck by lightning, the approaching Indians stopped short and then turned back.
After the meal my guests left with many expressions of gratitude; only the chief and his family remained. I was very much drawn to this man, because of his unusual physiognomy and behavior. We sat together some time and smoked. Our conversation consisted of silence and signs. Meanwhile his wife brought my wife a pair of deerskin shoes, finely embroidered in pearls. I made them a few presents in return.
The following morning, before we resumed our journey, I visited their camp. My youngest son drove the wagon and my oldest son accompanied me. Here I verified the truth that all good deeds are rewarded, for these savages strive earnestly to repay everything that they had received at my hands. Their huts are round, narrowing toward the top and covered with large skins; the camp is circular and in the midst of it is the chief’s dwelling. As soon as the chief caught sight of me he shook hands and then took me into his tent and presented to me some dried buffalo meat. All the women that I saw were busily making shoes and embroidering dresses with pearls. The chief’s daughter, who was about nineteen years old, threw a rope of pearls around my son’s neck while I gazed at her long and admiringly. My son was fifteen years old, of a strong, manly stature, yet he did not seem to guess at the thought which one might surmise were running through the girl’s head. I experienced real regret at having to leave these savages who appeared to me to be more civilized than many so-called civilized men.
From: Scharmann’s Overland Journey to California (Freeport, NY: Books for Library Press, 1918)
Eyewitness to the Old West: Firsthand Accounts of Exploration, Adventure, and Peril.
Edited by Richard Scott. 2002.
“Fighting Comanches on the Sante Fe Trail, May 21, 1853”
James M. Fugate (pps. 120-122)
Little is known of James M. Fugate but his home region of LaFayette County, Missouri, had been a principle outfitting point for wagon trains bound for New Mexico and using the Old Santa Fe Trail. Later in life, Fugate wrote his memories of his early adventures and first printed in a small volume carrying the title, The Heart of the New Kansas. In the narrative that follows, Fugate describes a desperate battle between him and his traveling companions and a larger force of Comanche warriors.
In April 1853, young, vigorous, and never having seen as much of the world as generally fills the ambition of fellows in their early days of manhood, I engaged as teamster to drive through with a train of ox-wagons loaded with merchandise for the Santa Fe trade. We left LaFayette county, Missouri, the 24th day of April; our company comprised 45 men, armed with the old-fashioned long-range rifles, each a Colt’s navy revolver and bowie knife. Our teams numbered 210 head of cattle, in all.
Kansas was one vast wild plain, over which roving bands of hostile Indians were constantly cutting off emigrant and freight trains on their way to New Mexico and the Californias.
After leaving the settlement some distance, we overtook twelve men with three wagons, who had discovered there was danger ahead and were awaiting reinforcements before venturing farther. This increased our fighting force to 57 robust, well-armed men.
Our first serious trouble began after reaching the Arkansas Valley, at a point near where Hutchinson now stands, and were we had gone into camp about noon of May 21st. While at dinner we were suddenly startled by the alarm cry, “Indians!”
Before we had got our teams and wagons fairly in corral, they were charging around us on their horses, yelling and firing like demons. Taken at such a dangerous disadvantage and surprise, we were just in that position which makes men fight with desperation, and instantaneously our rifles were pealing forth their notes of defiance and death tot the dusky murderous foe.
We were completely encircled by the savages, who proved to be Comanches, swinging upon the opposite side of their ponies exposing but little of themselves to our aim by firing under their horses’ necks. Their deadly missiles were soon playing havoc among our cattle. The poor creatures were madly surging and bellowing around, endangering us to a death beneath their feet, worse to be feared within the enclosure than the foe without. This new danger soon drove us outside the enclosures of wagons in full view of the Indians.
We had now fairly got our hands in, and were tumbling their ponies at a rapid rate. Few Indians after their ponies fell, escaped a rifle bullet. The Indians were narrowing their circle until twenty-five yards scarcely intervened between us. But the motion of their steeds unsteadied their aim until it was but random, while the closer they pressed us the more destructive became every shot we fired.
Such fighting could not last long. After the first few rounds the savages mostly substituted the gun with bow and arrows. Finding themselves getting most terribly worsted in the combat they made a dash to ride down and tomahawk us all in one death struggle. I tell you, then, we had no child’s play. Outnumbered four or five to one in hand-to-hand fight to the death is a serious thing. We were soon mingling together, but driven against the wagons, we could dodge or parry their blows with the tomahawk, while the rapid flashes from the celebrated “navy” in each man’s hand, was not so easily avoided by the savage warriors. We mad the ground too hot for them, and with yells of baffled rage, they broke and fled, carrying off all their killed and wounded but three, which they had to leave.
….
After the excitement consequent upon the fight began to subside, we had much to talk over about our chances of fighting our way with such a small force through the entire boundless plains before us to New Mexico. The future looked hopeless indeed, but J.W. Jones who commanded the outfit, swore he would go to Sante Fe, or go to ______. We dare not show the white feather then.
Reprinted from On the Sante Fe Trail edited by Marc Simmons by permission of the University of Kansas.
Eyewitness to the Old West: Firsthand Accounts of Exploration, Adventure, and Peril.
Edited by Richard Scott. 2002.
“Testimony on the Sand Creek Massacre, March 14, 1865”
John S. Smith (pps. 191-193)
On November 29, 1864, about five hundred men of the 1st Colorado Cavalry under the command of Colonel John M. Chivington attacked a camp of Cheyenne and Arapaho Indians in southeastern Colorado on the Big Sandy Creek (also known as Sand Creek). The result of this attack was one of the largest massacres of Indians, especially of women and children, in the history of the Old West. The attack was made at sunrise, without warning, and about five or six hundred Indians were killed with a loss to the cavalry of seven killed, forty-seven wounded, with one missing. Virtually all of the Cheyenne chiefs were killed, including Black Kettle, White Antelope, Little Robe, Left Hand, Knock Knee and One Eye. The person giving testimony in the following narrative, John S. Smith, was a United States Indian interpreter and special Indian Agent.
Q: How many Indians were there?
A: There were 100 families of Cheyennes, and some six or eight lodges of Arapahos.
Q: How many persons in all, should you say?
A: About 500 we estimate them at five to a lodge.
Q: 500 men, women, and children?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Had there been, to your knowledge, any hostile act or demonstration on the part of these Indians or any of them?
A: Not in this band. But in the northern band known by the name of Dog soldiers of Cheyennes, had committed many depredations on the Platte.
Q: Do you know whether or not Colonel Chivington knew the friendly character of these Indians before he made the attack upon them?
A: It is my opinion that he did.
Q: Did you tell Colonel Chivington the character and disposition of these Indians at any time during you interviews on this day?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What did he say in reply?
A: He said he could not help it; that his orders were positive to attack the Indians.