As soon as the tumult commencd, Mrs. Whitman, overhearing, and judging the cause, commencd in agony, to stamp upon the floor, and wring her hands crying out, “oh the Indians! the Indians! that Jo has done it all!”
Mrs. Osborn stepd into her room with her child, and in a short time, Mr. Osborn and family were secreted under the floor.
Without coming into the other rooms, the Indians left the kitchen, doubtless to aid in the dreadful work without. At this moment, Mrs. Hayse ran in from the Mansion, and with her assistance, Mrs. Whitman drew her dying husband into the dining room, and placing his mangled, bleeding head upon a pillow, and did all her frightful situation would allow, to stay the blood, and revive her husband, but to no purpose—the dreadful work was done. To every question that was put to him, he would simply reply “no,” in a low whisper.
Probably after he receivd the first blow, he was not sensible of his situation. About this time, Mr. Kimble, from the beef, ran into the room through the kitchen, and rushd up stairs with a broken arm hanging by his side. He was followd immediately by Mr. Rogers, who in addition to a broken arm, was tomahawkd in the side of the head, and coverd with blood. He assisted Mrs. Whitman, in making fast all the doors, and in removing the sick children up stairs. Jo Lewis was seen several times approaching one of the windows with a gun, but when Mrs. W. would ask, “Jo, what do you want?” he would flee away.
By this time, the scene without had reachd the summit of its fury. The screams of the fleeing, fainting women and children—the groans and struggles of the failing, dying victims—the roar of the musketry—the clash of war clubs,—the whistling of balls—the clouds of burning powder,—the furious riding and rushing of naked, painted Indians,—the unearthly yells of infuriated savages, self-maddend, like tigers, by the smell of human blood,—all, all, require other language, and other ears than those of civilized beings! My blood chills as I write. But I am amazd at the self possession of dear Mrs. Whitman. In the midst of the terrible scene, she leaves not the room of her pale, gasping husband. Two Americans were overpowerd by crowds of savages, and hewd down by her window. It attractted her attention but for a moment—but this afforded an opportunity for a young Indian, who had always been particularly favord by Mrs. Whitman, to level his gun. His victim receivd the ball through the window in her right breast, and fell, uttering a single groan. In a few moments, she revivd, rose and went to the settee, kneeld in prayer. She was heard to pray for her dear children, now to be left orphans a second time, and that her aged father and mother might be sustaind under the terrible shock, which the news of her fate must occasion.