in all probability discover her, and give the alarm. On the other hand, might she not regard her having been impelled to seek this shelter, and the fall of the tree, as a special interposition of Providence in her favor, and could she not throw herself upon this manifest protection ? Uncertain what to do, she remained in the tree all night, not answering the calls which were repeated at intervals, in hope the Indians would break up camp and depart before day, as they always did when apprehensive of pursuit. She was found, however, and compelled to accompany them in their northward course, and having crossed the Ohio, gave up in despair the faint hope that had remained in her breast, of being restored to her kindred. With the loss of this hope her trust even in the merciful Father who had preserved her through so many dangers, seemed also to fail. But her extreme sufferings from hunger, cold, and fatigue, were sufficient to overcome greater strength than she possessed.

Fortune seemed to delight in mocking her with opportunities of escape, by which she could not profit. One night when they had encamped, a snow-storm came on, and she was completely covered by a snowdrift. In the morning, as the Indians were preparing to continue their journey, she could be found nowhere, and they concluded she had gone off during the night. Their anger was loudly expressed, and the most terrible tortures threatened, if she should again fall into their power. Hearing all this imperfectly, and only understanding that she was wanted, Mary rose from under her white coverlet in the very midst of the infuriated savages, whose shouts of astonishment and merriment, when they discovered the truth, were absolutely deafening. It was a bitter thought to her, that had she known how securely she was concealed, she might have remained in safety. The morning meal of the Indians was a large black snake, which was roasted and divided. A few inches only fell to the poor girl's share, but the piquant sauce of hunger made it seem delicious food. She was always permitted to share in every thing with her captors.

At one time, when the men were all absent from the camp, a large deer was seen making directly towards it. The old chief's wife ordered Mary to take a gun and shoot the animal, as she was known to be the best shot among all the women. The chief had expressly forbidden firing, on pain of death, in the absence of his men, the discharge of a gun being the appointed signal of the near approach of an enemy, and Mary hesitated

to obey; but being urged, she fired, and shot the deer. In a few moments the Indians came rushing in, expecting to encounter the foe; and, when informed that it was a false alarm, the chief raised his tomahawk to kill the white girl who had dared to disobey his commands. His wife threw herself between him and the intended victim, exclaiming that she herself was the offender; but for a moment, as the uplifted weapon was whirled several times round the Indian's head, Mary expected he would bury it in her own. Perhaps the prospect of plenty of savory venison for supper did something to pacify the angry warrior.

At another time, when, by some means or other, the small-pox was introduced among the party, the captive became desperately ill with that terrible disease. For ten days she was entirely blind, being left alone in a lodge built for her at some distance from the camp, near a spring. Her food was brought and left at the spring, to which she would grope her way once in the twenty-four hours. Her sufferings were somewhat alleviated by an ointment made by simmering prickly pear in bear's grease, which a compassionate squaw prepared for her. During this season of distress, she often wished for death, and sometimes the temptation was strong to rend the ulcers that covered her face; but the thought of home, and the hope of being at some future day delivered from her cruel bondage, would support her to a patient endurance of her protracted trials.

Some of the articles in our heroine's possession, had been taken from her. A knife was left her, which she preserved with the greatest care, and took every opportunity, when she could be unobserved, of cutting her name on the bark of trees, in the hope that the marks might lead to her rescue. She also retained a pair of silver shoe-buckles, of which no one offered to deprive her.

It is supposed that this party of Indians remained about a year in the northwestern part of Tennessee, at the forks of Cumberland and Tennessee rivers, and near the junction of the Ohio with the Mississippi. Passing into what is now Indiana, they spent some time at a place called "French Lick." Several white prisoners were brought in, meanwhile, from Tennessee and Kentucky: amongst them, a man named Riddle and his two daughters, who were occasionally in Miss Nealy's company. At all times, when her health permitted, Mary was engaged in some useful occupation, never caring how laborious it might be, as her mental disquietude was thus relieved. The only employment she ob

jected to, was the moulding of bullets, to which she was often compelled.

As the journey was continued, she became acquainted with a French fur-trader, whom she besought to aid her in effecting her escape. He would not listen to her entreaties, and she left him indignant at his want of humane feeling. A little conscience-stricken, perhaps, for his refusal, he brought a blanket the next day, and offered it to her; but she rejected the gift, saying that she scorned to receive any thing from a heartless wretch, who was too cowardly to give her the aid she required.

After they had passed into Michigan, where their numbers were increased by other captives, one of the females, weak from exhaustion and carrying an infant a few months old, failed to keep up with the rest, though assisted occasionally by the kind-hearted squaws. When they encamped at night, a consultation was held among the men, and it was resolved to kill the child. They had built a large fire, and when the wood had been consumed to a bed of glowing coals, one of the warriors snatched the babe from its mother's breast and threw it into the midst. It was instantly drawn out and thrown back into the arms of its distracted mother; again snatched from her and thrown into the fire, to be again drawn out; and this fiendish pastime was repeated amidst the screams of the agonized parent, and hideous yells from the savages, leaping and dancing the while with frantic gestures, till life was extinct in the little victim; when it was torn to pieces by the murderers. Scenes like this, which were not of uncommon occurrence, inspired Miss Nealy with a feeling of detestation towards the perpetrators of such outrages, which became habitual, and amounted to a vindictive hate, of which she could never wholly divest herself. She would never speak their language unless compelled by circumstances to use it, and used to say, that the only favor she ever asked of them was, that she might be put to death. When, in after life, a favorite granddaughter, who had been born and reared in her house, expressed a desire to wear ear-rings, and was about to purchase a pair, she persuaded her not to do so, speaking with melancholy earnestness on the subject, and saying she should never be able to look at her beloved child without pain, if decorated with ornaments which would so strongly remind her of her savage enemies.

It was Miss Nealy's lot to witness, at one time, the punishment of a young Indian and his paramour, for a crime rarely

committed among the savage tribes. The criminals were bound to separate trees and stoned to death, the white prisoners being compelled to see the execution.

Many more incidents of adventure, pe rils and sufferings, are remembered by the family and descendants of our heroine, of her forest travel and sojourn with her wild companions. But the limits of a brief sketch permit only the record of those necessary to illustrate the experience common to too many in those fearful days of our republic. After a captivity of two years, the prisoners were taken to Detroit, where the Indians expected to receive from the British Government, payment for the scalps they had brought. The savages received much attention from the English, as important allies, while encamped in the neighborhood of the city. Mary was sent every day to the house of a French resident, to procure milk for a sick child of the chief. She saw the mistress of the house frequently, who became interested in her when she had learned her history. One morning, she told her to come on the following day; to drop her milk can outside the gate, enter the house without rapping, and proceed directly to a certain room. The poor girl had been suffering from chills and fever for several weeks. The next morning, when she was ordered to go for milk, it happened that her paroxysm of fever was upon her. In the half delirious state of her brain, she had been forming a plan of and escape, resolving that she would take with her the shoc-buckles which constituted all her wealth; and she was looking for them in a box when the order was repeated. She persisted in her search, being able to find but one, when her angry master struck her, and threatened to kill her at once, if she hesitated to obey. Turning suddenly round, she begged him to do so, and put an end to her sufferings, for the pain and bewilderment of fever had caused her to forget that she might soon be free. However, she set out, but soon returned and dropped the odd buckle into the box, to be again beaten and sent on her errand. By the time she had reached the Frenchman's

gate, her senses were sufficiently restored to remember the directions of the day previous. When the Indians came in search of her, the woman of the house informed them that the girl had come to the gate, apparently in anger, had thrown down the vessel and departed, she did not know whither-up the street. On the following day, men were sent by the city authorities to whom complaint had been made by the Indians, to search the house; but no trace of the fugitive could be found. All this time, Mary lay quietly concealed in a

small dark closet, the door of which, opening into a larger one, could not be easily discovered. It was a place constructed expressly for stowing away plate, money, or other valuables, when a ransacking was threatened.

Miss Nealy occupied that room for a month, hidden from all eyes, and sustained by the kind care of her benefactress. An accident had nearly betrayed and remanded her to captivity. One day when looking carelessly from the window, she was startled by seeing the face of an Indian, whom she knew too well, and by the gleam of his eyes, she saw that he had also recognized her. She hastened to inform her protectress, and implore her aid. There was no time to be lost, for the savages would not be slow in reclaiming their prisoner. She was supplied immediately with boy's apparel, which she put on; her hair was cut off, and she was sent, accompanied by the son of her hostess, half a mile into the city to the house of another kind-hearted Frenchwoman, who gave her shelter, and kept her concealed through several weeks. Work was also procured for her from a tailor, and she was enabled to earn sufficient to clothe herself comfortably. When the fear of pursuit was over, she was removed by night to an island in the river, where she found seventeen other captives whom she had met before, in her travels through Indiana, Ohio, or Michigan; some of them having been purchased by the British authorities, some having escaped through the assistance of the French inhabitants of the city.

Our heroine remained but three weeks in this new asylum. Upon leaving the island, the captives were conveyed down the lakes, stopping some time at Niagara, and down the St. Lawrence river, and were landed upon the shore of Lake Champlain, where they were exchanged as prisoners of war. Before they quitted the vessel, one of the British officers endeavored to exact a promise from the company, which consisted of women, old men and boys, that they would not aid or abet the continentals against the royal government during the continuance of the war. This heroic woman was accustomed to relate, with much dignity and spirit, how she refused to give the pledge, and challenged the officer to go on shore with her into the thicket of bushes, where she "would cut a switch and brush him till he would be glad to promise, on his own part, that he would never again be caught upon provincial ground." She would describe the scene with as much pride at ninety, as she could have acted in it threescore and ten years before. The others

caught a portion of her spirit, and in very truth cut them switches as soon as they were on shore, daring the officer to come on, and giving three cheers for the brave young woman.

Her companions told her also that they were in expectation of seeing one of the American generals in a few days, and that when he came he would provide her with a horse and saddle. She continued her journey with this company for several days; and when the others faltered from fatigue, and were unable to proceed, she went on in the hope of finding employment among the Dutch settlers, her only companions being an old man and two boys. After a day or two of weary travel in the snow, these also gave up, and one morning left her to proceed alone. It was a sad day for her-tramping on through the snow and water in which her feet plunged at every step, and towards evening a heavy rain drenched her garments. Yet her courage did not fail, for she had now before her the hope of eventually reaching her beloved home, and felt that her success depended on herself alone. She could not persuade herself to stop for rest till after dark, when she came up to the door of a small cabin where a cheerful light was glimmering. Very cheering was the aspect of the huge blazing logs in the ample chimney, but other comforts there were none; scarce even a morsel of bread; and not a bed could be furnished on which to lay her wearied limbs. She was, however, accustomed to hardships, and lying down on the floor with her feet to the fire, without stopping to dry her clothes, soon fell into a profound slumber. In the morning she awoke in great distress from oppression at the lungs, and unable to speak except in a whisper. The woman in the cabin, though wretchedly poor, had a kind heart, and made the suffering stranger as comfortable as she could. Miss Nealy, from her acquaintance with Indian life, had acquired a knowledge of diseases and of medicine, which now proved useful in her own case. She happened to have some medicines about her, which she directed the good woman how to prepare and administer. A severe attack of illness finally yielded to the youthful vigor of her constitution, strengthened by endurance of all kinds of hardship, but it was some weeks before she was able to travel.

In the fear of a recurrence of scurvy, from which she had previously suffered, she procured at a little settlement a few days' journey from this cabin, a small quantity of snuff and other simple remedies prescribed by a traveller, spending almost the last penny she possessed for

these and a little japanned snuff-box, which she presented a few days ago to the narrator of these incidents of her history. In this settlement she also learned that a farmer who lived in the vicinity intended to remove with his family in the spring to the southwestern part of Virginia; and that his wife was in want of a "help" to spin, weave, and make up mens' and boys' clothing. This was good news indeed, and she lost no time in making application to be received in that capacity.

During the winter our heroine labored very assiduously, doing the washing of the family and milking the cows, in addition to the other employments for which her services had been engaged; thus leaving herself not a moment of relief from toil till late bedtime, and receiving in return only fifty cents a week, and but a small part of her wages in money.

When the family set out in the spring on their southward journey, she assisted in driving the stock, as well as in cooking and doing all kinds of work necessary in 'camping out;" making almost the entire journey on foot, and being compensated for her laborious services with only food and lodging, and such protection as the company of those she attended, afforded her. Yet, throughout her life, she seemed to remember that family with warm affection, and spoke of them with gratitude; it was her first experience, since her doleful captivity, of human sympathy and home-feeling; and her generous heart overflowed towards those who gave it her labors to serve them being esteemed as nothing in the balance.

When they reached the Susquehanna river-where she was to pay her own ferriage-such having been the agreement -she asked permission of the ferryman to paddle herself across in a small and leaky canoe lying on the shore near by. He consented, warning her, however, that it was unsafe; but she was an excellent swimmer and intent on saving her money, which she did, and crossed in safety. The people in the ferry-boat were less fortunate; when half way across, one of the cows, affrighted, jumped overboard and swam back to shore. The Dutch farmer requested Mary to return with him and bring the animal over; and she did so, getting her on board, holding her by the horn with the left hand, and having the thumb and finger of her right thrust into her nostrils; thus keeping the cow quiet for a distance of nearly a mile. A modern belle would laugh at such an instance of usefulness; but our grandmothers were more practical and would not have felt ashamed of it. Its happy conquences will soon be seen.

When the travellers arrived at their place of destination, Mary obtained employment for a few days in a family. It happened that a farmer by the name of Spears, who lived in the neighborhood, called in, and heard the girl's romantic history. His wife wanted some one to assist her in household duties, and Miss Nealy was recommended to the place; she accepted the proposal to go at once, and mounted behind her future father-in-law, rode to his house, where she remained some time waiting to find some party that might be going to Tennessee, for her fears of being recaptured by the Indians had grown stronger the farther she travelled westward.

the

We will now turn to another scene in this "ower true tale." When her family had ascertained beyond doubt that she had been captured by the Indians, they gave up all hope of ever seeing her again. They grieved as for one dead; but there was one whose sorrow was all too quickly banished; the betrothed lover of Mary, who, judging that the smiles of a new love was the best consolation for his loss, speedily transferred his vows to another comely maiden, and was by this time on the eve of marriage. It happened about this period that Mary's brother went on business into the interior of Kentucky. On the very night of his arrival, at a rustic tavern, he fell in with several travellers, who were relating their different adventures after an excellent supper. One of them had come all the way from Pennsylvania, and described with graphic glee, the scene of the crossing of the Susque hanna by the Dutch emigrant family, escape of the cow, and her recapture and bringing over by the heroic young woman. That girl, he added, had been a captive among the Indians, and had escaped from them. To this account young Nealy listened with aroused attention. "Did you hear the young woman's name?" he eagerly asked. "They called her Polly" -answered the stranger, but I heard no other. "Did you observe that she was left-handed?" again the brother asked, "She certainly was"-was the reply; "I noticed it both in pulling her canoe, and in holding the cow." No farther information could be given; but this was enough. The brother had no doubt that this was indeed his long-lost sister, and that her course had been directed homeward. And now, what was to be done? He was convinced that no family would be likely to emigrate in a southwest direction in that time of peril; she had no chance of an escort to return home; and through the vast wilderness that inter vened, how could an unprotected girl

travel alone? He determined, therefore, himself to set out; go to the ferry on the Susquehanna, where the scene described was said to have taken place, and to trace his sister thence, if possible.

He set off accordingly, taking the precaution to make inquiry at every cabin, and of every person whom he met, lest he should pass her on the way. When in Virginia, he stopped one day to feed his horse, and make the usual inquiries at a farm-house, and was told that a young woman who had been in captivity among the Indians, and had recently come into the country, was living in a family some six miles distant. Nealy lost not a moment; but flinging the saddle on his horse before he had tasted his corn, rode off in the direction pointed out. Before he had reached the house, he met his sister. What pen can describe that meeting!* We shall not attempt it.

Mary made immediate preparations to return home, but suffered many hardships, and was exposed to many dangers on their way through the almost trackless wild. The howling of wolves, the screams of panthers, and the low growl of bears were familiar sounds in her ears; but nothing daunted her save the fearful thought of again falling into the hands of merciless savages. Even after her reunion with her family, this terror so preyed on her mind that she had no peace, and her widowed mother yielded to her entreaties, and removed to a more secure home in Kentucky.

It

The story of Miss Nealy's return to Tennessee, and her strange adventures, was soon noised abroad, and her former lover, repenting his infidelity, came once more to prefer his claim to her favor. may be conceived with what scorn she spurned the addresses of a man who had not only lacked the energy to attempt her rescue from the Indians, and had soon forgotten her, but who was now crowning his perfidy by the basest falsehood towards the other fair one to whom his faith was pledged.

Mary Nealy was united in marriage to George Spears, on the 27th of February, 1785, at her new home in Lincoln County, Kentucky. After her marriage, her mother returned with the rest of her family to Tennessee. Mrs. Spears and her husband continued to reside for two years near Carpenter's Station, in Lincoln Čounty; and during the three succeeding years at or near Grey's Station, in Greene County, Kentucky. While living here, it was her custom to accompany her hus

band to the field, sometimes in the capacity of guard, sometimes to help him hoe the corn; and always carrying her children with her. On one occasion, while thus occupied, they heard a whistle like the note of a wild turkey. One of their neighbors, an old hunter, cautioned them against following the sound, which he knew to be made by an Indian, whom he resolved to ferret out. He accordingly crept noiselessly along the ground, like one hunting the bird, till close to the spot whence the whistle came, when he fired, and an Indian fell.

On one occasion strange sounds were heard close to the dwelling at night, and Mrs. Spears, looking through a "chink" in the cabin, saw the shadow of a man stealthily moving around the house. She awoke her husband; he climbed the ladder to the loft, and putting his gun through an aperture in the roof, fired upon the savage. Five Indians started up and ran off; but he continued firing till the alarm was given at the fort, and aid was sent. A company of soldiers followed the trail for several miles, and judged the number of the savages to have been about fifty. While residing here, Mrs. Spears received intelligence of the murder of one of her brothers by the Indians.

Mr. Spears, who had no fear of them. was in the habit of going to the fort to try his skill in shooting at a target; and when he did not return by dusk, his wife would leave the cabin and betake herself with the child to the woods for safety, for her terror of the lurking enemies, whose cruelty she had so bitterly experienced, was very great. One night, having thus left her home, she was standing with her infant in her arms, under a wide spreading tree, awaiting the return of her husband, when she heard the shrill note of a screech-owl, directly over her head, and fell to the ground as if shot. She often described, in after life, the mortification she felt, on recovering from her fright; but excused herself by pleading that the fears which so overcame her, were for the little helpless child. In times of peculiar danger, she was accustomed to do sewing and washing for two young men at the fort, in return for their coming home every night with her husband, and lodging in the cabin.

On another occasion, when they had reason to believe a large body of Indians. were in the neighborhood, and were warned to leave the cabin without loss of time,. Mrs. Spears hastily buried her dishes, and emptying out part of the feathers from her