|MARY JEMISON: CAPTIVE OF THE IROQUOIS CIRCA 1750 b. 1743 d.1834|
|Mary Jemison's story is one of the most interesting of all captivity stories, perhaps because we have a more complete record. At the age of 80 years she told her memories in detail to Doctor James Everett Seaver and the book was first published in 1824 in New York. The last edition was issued 1932. Her story is remarkable in that it gives us a picture of Senca Indian life from the inside, told in sympathy and simplicity. She married twice.|
|When she died in 1833 she was buried in the Seneca churchyard in South Buffalo, and later re-buried at Letchworth Park in Genesee Valley. She was loved and respected by both red men and whte and many of her descendants still live on the Indian reservations in western N. Y. Her capture presents and interesting topic, the conflict beetween Indian and white life. The setting is the time of the French and Indian war...
|thanks to friends of the library in Berkeley for their sales of donated books - this like many others cost a quarter dollar - and makes my education a little more colorful. The book is Indian Captive: The story of Mary Jemison by Lois Lenski, 1941|
|After being taken captive by the French, as a debt to the Iroquois, Mary (Molly).."all day long traveled without food, never stopping once to rest. WEstward they moved, through brooks and streams..." then "There, before her, on the point of land between the arms of two great rivers, the Allegheny and the Monongahela, lay fort Duquesne. This , she knew, was thefot which the French had bult only a few years before, when they claimed for their own the whole vast territory drained by the Ohio River. "-
|The women walked toed-in, bent forward, with suffling gait. No white woman ever did that. They wore buckskin leggings like men and embroidered moccasins on their feet. They seemed to be pleased, but the thing that pelased them most was MOlly's hair-her pale, yellow, shining hair, the color of ripened corn. Then she was out on the river banks and she saw two bark canoes drawn up close to the shore. The paddles made soft, gentle sounds as they were lifted up and down. Behind, the gray, cold stockade walls of Fort Duquesne grew smaller and smaller. Ahead lay the wide expanse of shining water, the great River Ohio, the River Beautiful. Dimmed by flickering shadows, the tall straight trunks of hickory, oak and walnut rose to touch the sky, topped by a canopy of twisting vine and pointed leaf- the wild fox grape. Over all lay a heavy solitude, untouched by signs of human life. Sometimes a slippery muskrat swam out of the hole in a floating log and sat up to look at the passers-by.
After a time, Molly raised her eyes and looked at the Indian women. They wre both young and sturdy, and were dressed in deerskin garments, richly embroidered.
Molly saw smoke rising from beyond the low bushes and she wondered if they had come to an Indian village. An Indian village! A white girl captive in an Indian village! would she have to live as the Indians lived? The two women slipped a tunic over her head, with patterns of porcupine quills and embroidery around the neck. Ankle-length leggings and a pair of new moccasins completed teh outfit. Her blue jeans gown, whole and good when she had started on her long journey, was torn now to rags. ..... When the water was warm, they threw in a handful of herbs and stirred well. They undressed her and gave her a good scrubbing. It was good to be clean again. They took her clothes, and trotted off towards the river. She made up her mind she would never let them take her last memory of home, but when she reached the shore, the little pile of ragged clothing was floating down the stream. She had nothing to wear but Indian clothing. She fell down upon the ground and sobbed as if her heart would break. The two women stood at a distance and watched, but did not try to stop the girl's wild crying. Waiting till the sobs came fainter, they picked her up and washed her face again. They combed her yellow hair, braiding it in two long braids, then beckoned her ot come.
|They came to the Indian village, Seneca Town. The women entered a long house and she followed close behind. time passed. Then suddenly she was aware that the room was filled with women, Indian women, young and old, fat and thin, sour-looking and pleasant- and all were looking at her. They crowded close, pointing with their fingers, patting her on the back and making queer sounds. Then they trned away from her and began to wring their hands and weep. One woman recited chanting words at length, half-speaking, half-singing- whatever she was saying, her words brought forth tears of sadness and gestures of deepes grief. The women waved their arms omre wildly, made stranger and more queer sounds. Molly sank down close to the floor, praying each moment for strength, awaiting the blows that never came. Shortly, she learned that they were mourning the loss of a young Indian, their son and brother, who had been killed on the Pennsylvania frontier.|