By Eileen Pearl
From Potawatomi Trail of Death – 1838 Removal from Indiana to Kansas, written and edited by Shirley Willard and Susan Campbell, Fulton County Historical Society, 2003.
Copies of this book are still available from the Fulton County Historical Society.
Introduction: In September 1838 nearly a thousand Potawatomi Indians were forcefully removed from their homes in Northern Indiana. Many were converts to Catholicism and were accompanied on their march to Kansas Territory by a priest, Fr Benjamin Petit. Fr Petit kept a diary and from that we know the stops and also a report of the deaths which occurred during the two and one-half month trek to Kansas.
Soldiers chained three Potawatomi chiefs in wagons so that the people would follow. Soldiers on horseback and with wagons of supplies then forced the Indian men, women, and children to walk the more than six hundred miles to Kansas Territory. As many as 40 people died on the route due to the harsh conditions, lack of clean drinking water, and disease. Father Petit also became very ill before they reached Kansas and died a few months later at the age of 27 years.
Due to the many deaths, this forced removal has been named the “Trail of Death.” In 1988, 1993 and 1998 a commemorative caravan has re-enacted the trail by visiting each known campsite of 1838. Memorials have been placed at most sites where the trail passes through Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, and Kansas. Led by historian and organizer Shirley Willard and husband Bill, the caravan consisted mostly of descendants of those forced to walk on the “Trail of Death.”
As the wife of a great-grandson of a young girl on the trail these were my visions as I accompanied my husband and two of his family members on the 1998 canvas.
A group of 900 to 1,000 Native American men, women and children are trying to find a place for each family group to settle in for the night. This is taking place near a stream so water will be available. Unfortunately, this Fall of 1838 water is scarce and what they can find is sometimes contaminated. Many are becoming sick since leaving their homes along the Tippecanoe River. Many are dying, including children. Small, unmarked graves line the trail where families are forced to leave their little ones behind forever.
As I stood at the campsites in Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, and Kansas my mind’s eye could see the activities of 160 years ago. Small fires burning here and there. The old huddled in blankets against the evening chill, their feet sore and swollen. The healthy children playing together, squealing with delight as they chase one another across the grassy field. The little sick ones being carried or held. Mothers with looks of despair on their faces.
Little Equa-Ke-Sec, possibly six years old, is helping with the babies. There she is, carrying a chubby brown baby on her hip and leading a black-haired toddler by the hand. She must keep them away from the fire and the horses’ hooves. She stands watching as the soldiers unload a few provisions from the wagons and toss them into the campsites. Is it enough to feed that family? The soldiers seem uncaring, anxious to finish the job.
The horses stomp their feet and switch their tails, fighting flies. The children brush the flies from their eyes and mouths. The mothers realize that at this campsite, again, there is not water for bathing or washing clothes. The tiny trickle barely supplies their needs for cooking and drinking. Tomorrow they will move on, farther and farther away from their homes, their stores, farms and mills in Indiana and Michigan. Forced by order of the government to relocate west of the Mississippi they walk 15 to 20 miles a day, always with the soldiers leading, pushing, shouting orders.
I see the faces of the young men. Stoic, sullen, with downcast eyes as the soldiers bark orders. These are the soldiers who chained their chiefs. They must follow their chiefs. They have been promised homes when they arrive in Kansas territory. It seems they will never arrive. Day after day they trudge on. Moccasins are wearing thing. Yesterday one of their mothers died, tonight a baby is dying and there is no medicine, no time for gathering herbs to ease the pain. Tomorrow, they have been promised a day to hunt. They welcome the chance to bring fresh meat into camp and a respite from the daily trudging. Their wives will spend the day mending the moccasins and nursing the sick.
In Jacksonville, Illinois I see the excitement in the camp as all are groomed and best garments are pulled from bags and stretched out on the grass to remove wrinkles. The young men’s turbans are twisted over their dark hair. The young women put on beads and earrings. Their shiny black hair is pulled back and knotted stylishly. Little Equa-Ke-Sec has been bathed and her hair is brushed straight back from her face. Her eyes dance with anticipation. They have been promised extra rations if they make a good impression on the people of Jacksonville. As they enter the town square the city band is playing. Their red and white uniforms make them look grand. Townspeople gather to watch the march of Indians on foot, soldiers on horseback and wagons carrying supplies. Dogs are barking, flags flying. The kind people offer Tobacco and sweets. Equa-Ke-Sec can hardly believe her eyes.ers
I see Equa-Ke-Sec when they reach their “Promised Land” in Kansas. There are no homes as promised and for that inter of 1838 she huddles with the others ina makeshift shelter between two stone walls. But Equa-Ke-Sec is a sturdy little girl and unlike many of her playmates she survives.
For a time an elderly little nun named Rose Phillipine Duschene lived among her people. Theresa as a young child heard her as she prayed. Her people called Sister Rose “the woman who prays always” because she was praying when they awoke and still praying when they went to sleep.
My vision skips to 1849 and I see Equa-Ke-Sec as a young woman. She has taken the Christian name, Theresa. The kind sisters, Madames of the Sacred Heart, have taught her to sew and cook. They have taught her what young ladies needed to know to start a home. The Jesuit Fathers have helped Theresa’s family and nurtured their faith. In this year they are again making a move, this time north of the Kansas River to what is to become the St. Mary’s Mission. Here a church and a school are built as are houses for the Potawatomi.
Here at last her journeys have ended and I see a young woman being married in the log church to a young Irishman named James Slavin. He has come to the mission as a driver for Bishop Meige. Theresa and James Slavin have chosen to join the Citizen Band of the Potawatomi and have been allotted land in Pottawatomie County, west of what Is now Bellevue, Kansas. I see them as they build their house and work the land, happy in the knowledge that they will always call this land their home. Memories of the forced march when she was a small girl still linger with Theresa and she passes on the stories to her daughter, Mary.
Theresa Slavin was the great-grandmother of my husband, Jim Pearl. Her daughter Mary Slavin Doyle was his grandmother. Jim and I are fortunate to have been able to join others on a commemorative caravan to visit the campsites and relive this history of his family.
We did indeed walk in her footsteps.