Follow me along on a road trip to the town of Belvidere, some 70 miles out of Chicago.
No road trip movie – or memory – is complete without a side plot about roadside tourist traps. Mystery spots, giant twine balls, spook caverns… the sort of gimmicks they used to advertise on billboards miles ahead of time, slowly building up the excitement until the kids in the “way back” would throw a tantrum if they didn’t get to see it. Though many have fond memories of such sites, the usual trope in fiction is for them to turn out to be disappointing, if not outright frauds.
Such attractions were everywhere in the mid 20th century, particularly in the early days of highway travel and the golden age of Route 66 and the Lincoln Highway. But naturally, they go back even futher. In the 1830s, Belvidere was a stopping place for stage coaches heading from Chicago to Galena, and changing horses could hold travelers up for an hour or so. With some time to kill, and no pinball machines at Mr. Doty’s stagecoach stop, many travelers went to check out the town’s main tourist attraction: The exposed corpse of Chief Big Thunder, propped up on a chair inside a little stockade.
Big Thunder was said to have been the chief of a tribe that had been driven from the area around 1832. When he died, either at his own request or in keeping with tribal customs, his body had been propped up on a makeshift chair, then surrounded by a wooden stockade, with a window for his face. This stockade was set upon a mound visible to coach riders for miles, in some accounts. Many of these travelers, venturing into “the west” for the first time, wanted to come home with a good story about their trip into “Indian country,” and more than a few wanted a souvenir. Many took a bit of bone – one man even took the head. Eventually so many people had taken bones that locals started adding animal bones into the stockade so that tourists would still have something to take.
When I ran across the story recently, I had to wonder how much of it was true. It mostly survives today in stories of Big Thunder cursing the man who stole his skull, which is not a promising way to encounter a story. Parts of it certainly sounded made up. Was Big Thunder even a real person? Was this an actual burial custom for a northern Illinois tribe? And did people actually see the body, or was it just a fence with some animal bones in it – another tourist attraction that promised more than it delivered? Or could the whole thing have just been a local legend?
And so began one of those rabbit holes, in which I dug up all the first and second hand accounts of what the attraction was like, and what became of it. In the following, I’ve excerpted and annotated the best of them. It should be noted that they contain some dated language. (Many of the pdfs of the sources were posted on our Patreon a couple of weeks ago)
THE STORY
The 1877 book Past and Present in Boone County summarizes the story like this:
In those days Belvidere was on a stage route from Chicago to Galena. The travel was heavy, and here the horses were changed, and sometimes for other causes a delay of from half an hour to an hour would occurr. For many miles in all directions, the indian sarcophagus that surrounded the body of Big Thunder could be distinctly seen. The logs or slabs from which the bark had been peeled had bleached and whitened in the sun until they were almost as white as snow. To travers and land hunters from the East, those who had never seen an Indian or an Indian grave, this “last abode” of Big Thunder was an object of curiosity. And while the stage would be delayed, passengers would betake themselves to the mound… to view his “coop” and perhaps scratch their names and date of their visit on the logs, or maybe, when the flesh had mouldered and fallen from the bones, leaving only a dried skeleton, (to) gather up a bone and carry it home as a trophy of their visit out in the “Indian Country.”
Nearly all retellings of the tale admit that after a couple of years, at least, the bones found in the stockade were just sheep or hog bones left there by local “wags,” and old-timers in Belvidere seem to have spent a lot of time in the late 19th century chuckling as they imagined bits of pig bone displayed in some far-off museum as a genuine piece of Big Thunder’s body. Many old-timers agreed that Rush University co-founder Josiah Goodhue was the man who ended up with the skull, which, in 20th century retellings, was usually said to have burned up in the Great Chicago Fire in 1871.
There are a number of first-hand accounts of what the grave and body looked like, and enough second hand contemporary accounts to indicate that it really did attract considerable attention when it was standing. Though the various accounts disagree about what tribe Big Thunder was chief of, most of the accounts that seem more knowlegeable say he was Winnebago, and there are some references to a Winnebago chief by that name in that era. And there are a few sources out there that indicate that the Winnebago (now known as the Ho-Chunk Nation) used “stockading” or “platform burial” for chiefs in the old days, though the practice had ended by the 20th century. (Although the references are vague enough that it’s not clear how much the stories of “stockading,” or even of Big Thunder himself, might have just come from the stories of this grave. I couldn’t find anything on old burial customs suggesting that the tribe regularly practiced the sort of embalming described here, though newspaper archives have scattered patchy accounts of farmers finding evidence of similar interments).
CONTEMPORARY GOSSIP
The earliest account I could find is a second hand report from 1837 by John Mason, in his book A Gazeteer of Illinois. It’s second hand, but serves as a pretty good example of how the attraction was described, and how the back story was told: (And again, please note, these are 19th century accounts, and will include some dated terms, etc).
Belvidere (is) a village of a dozen families, two stores, a post office, saw and grist mill….On the top of (a) mound is the cemetery of an Indian called Big Thunder. He died about the period of the Sauk War in 1831 or 32, and was placed in a sitting position on a flag mat, wrapped in blankets, his scalping knife by his side to cut the plugs of tobacco that are offered him. Over the body is constructed a covering wood and earth, with an opening in the front, where Big Thunder may be seen sitting with his tobacco lying before him. The Indians still visit the place to replenish his stores of tobacco, whiskey, &c. The citizens are about to erect a College edifice on this spot, in a vault under which the bones of Big Thunder will remain unmolested.
Another 1837 account, written by “GWL” and published in the New York Evening Star, includes more about Big Thunder himself than any other source I’ve seen:
The soft classic Belvidere may well be blended with the feminine qualities of the “Empress Squaw” after whom this beautiful prairie (Squaw Prairie), which is a little world in itself, was named. She held the regal honors jointly with the noble chief Big Thunder, who not only defended but sacrified his wife in the cause of his tribe, and whose tomb now crowns the swelling hill back of Belvidere, in which he was placed (for by his imperative orders he was never buried) wrapped in his full war dress, and his figure has remained wasting slowly away since his death.
Most accounts claim that the body was arranged to face a field where Big Thunder predicted a large battle would occurr between his tribe and the white settlers (or, in some versions, another tribe). In many, it was said that when the battle began, the body would return to life, or give a “war whoop.” There’s some disagreement about exactly what accessories accompanied the body, though all agree that tobacco was involved.
ACCOUNTS OF THE GRAVE
So, we can safely assume that the attraction was real, even if the backstories are questionable. But what was it like, really? Though most of the accounts from when it was still standing are second hand, a number “old timers” in the Rockford area spoke of their memories of it in the late 19th century.
One such old timer was L.S. McDougal. In July of 1902, he told the Belvidere Daily Republican that:
“I remember when Big Thunder, the Indian chief, was buried in Indian fashion on the mound. I will never forget the sight of his immense body, as it made a deep impression on my boyish mind at the time.”
In October of that year, he told the story in more detail:
“In July, 1836, I first saw the old Indian Chief Big Thunder sitting on the mound.. the ground was raised about a foot; around this was a stockade eight feet high and eight across. Inside this was built a rude armchair made by driving puncheon into the ground. The back of the chair had one piece higher than the rest, to which was attached a willow basket that came over his head; that was all there was in the shape of covering for him. A blank was driven into the ground at his feet to keep him from slipping out of his chair. He had on a pair of buckskin pants, a pair of moccasins, wrapped around him was a blue Indian blanket. At his right hand lay a tomahawk and scalping kinfe; at his left was a pipe and tobacco and a number of steel thimbles.
In the stockade in front of his face was a hole cut, about the size of a man’s hand so that he could see the battle that was to be in the grove in front of him as he sat facing the West. At his left was a hole large enough to put man’s hand through and every Indian that came put a fresh supply of tobacco in there. “
That members the tribe continued to show up now and then to leave tobacco at the grave, though they’d been expelled from the area a few years before, seems to have been universally agreed upon. Most late 19th century articles on Big Thunder take a moment to relate a story that Simon P. Doty, who ran the stage coach stop, used to help himself to the tobacco when his supply ran low. Locals made fun of him for it for decades, and he never denied it, though his only personal description of the grave that I know of was recorded in the March 16, 1855 issue of the Illinois Daily State Register:
My informant, S.P. Doty, says that in 1835 – five years after the old chief was placed there – the body was nearly perfect, and the first time he saw him he had his pipes and tobacco in his lap still, and a large rattle snake curled around him. In a short time his tribe were driven away and the palisades were torn down, and his bones and dust were scattered to the wind…. Years after they were gone, they would return and visit the spot where the old warrior sat in place.
One of the best known settlers to reminisce about it was Devillo Hale, who kept hold of some relics (or said he did). In 1905 Hale claimed to still have the “scalping knife” that was placed in the grave, and promised to donate it to the Boone County History society. A reporter from the Belvidere Standard spoke to Hale in 1894, and seems to have gotten a brief description:
Mr Hale played with the Indian children in the early beginnings and learned a considerable use of the WInnebago and Pottawatomie dialects…. The embalmed body of Big Thunder still lay, in a fair state of preservation, within the enclosure of heavy stakes built for it… after the Indians were gone the place was not cared for, (and) the remains went to pieces from exposure, and as the place was an object of interest to people moving west, the bones came into request.
In the 1909 book Encyclopedia of Illinois and Boone County, an author got a more detailed description from Hale:
Devillo Hale stated to the writer that he came to Belvidere in 1836…Mr Hale stated that Big Thunder’s coop was made of split trees about six or eight inches in diameter, driven into the ground; that it was about six feet high with no top, of circular shape and about six feet in diameter. Inside was a chair made of split ash splinters, with a back. In the chair was Big Thunder, looking somewhat like an Egyptian mummy. He was facing Squaw Priarie and a hole was cut in the coop on a level with his head, so that he could see when his tribe had a great battle which was expected, when Big Thunder would come to life and take command again. Mr Hale stated… that the old chief had whiskey and tobacco in his lap and a bow and arrow near by; that Big Thunder was a Winnebago chief and died before 1836, and nobody seemed to know anything about what he was in his life time.
In his 1891 book Reminisces: Sporting and Otherwise, John Thurston described how it looked in 1838:
I first saw (it) in the Summer of 1838. The body sat upon the ground facing south, and was surrounded by palidades about six feet hight, except on the south, where they were lower, that he might see the whites when they came, and whom he predicted would come from that direction. The body was perfect when I saw it, with the exception of the head, which had been taken off by Dr. Josiah Goodhhue (who, by the way, always did do as the impulse prompted) and carried away for some purpose of his own. It was surrounded by fragments of clothing, arms, etc. The ribs, legs and arms were in position, and portions of the flesh had dried, and were of the color of jerked meat.
One particularly early account was published in the Belvidere Republican in 1913, purporting to be an old diary entry by George Williams – undated, but it appears to have been written roughly 1840-42:
About one hundred rods from the river is a handsome mound on the top of which stands the courthouse, not quite yet finished, and within some thirty feet on the same mound is a very singular Indian monument. it is a square of six feet by four, made by split cedar posts, driven into the ground and standing seven feet fight, with a rude chair inside, made by shorter posts driven into the ground. In this enclosure was placed in a sitting posture the dead body of Big Thunder, a chief of the Menomonees. He gave directions to be entombed in this manner, and to be continually supplied with tobacco, saying at at some future time, there would be a great fight between the white and red man near this mound, and that in the midst of battle, he would rise up and yell, and then the victory would be gained by the red men. About eight years ago, when this village was first settled, his bones and much of his flesh, which appeared to have been embalmed in some way, were still entire. His bones have been carried off, piece after piece, by travelers, but that there might be no lack of relics, the michievous boys have kept a good supply of various animals’ bones within the enclosure ever since.
If the grave was in fact erected around 1830, as accounts seem to indicate, it apparently lasted over a decade, and the fencing, at least, was still visible in 1845. A writer listed only as “R.S.” covered it in his “Enjoyments of Travel” series in the July 5, 1845 issue of the Albany Religious Spectator. After repeating the backstory, he wrote:
Here he has wasted away, bones, flesh, garments and all; I could find nothing in the enclosure but a small bit of bone and the blue binding of his blanket, which I sacriligiously perhaps brought away. This grave is still regarded with the deepest reverence by his tribe, now beyond the Mississippi, one of whom had been on a Pilgrimage to it but the day before, and left his offering of tobacco to the shade of his beloved chief. There is something morally sublime in this conception of the Indian chief, absurd as it seems to us to be.
The relics R.S. took were surely phony by 1845. Indeed, according to McDougal’s 1902 interviews, it should have been gone completely by then:
In March of 1843, I saw a lot of Indians come to where the stockade used to be, talk together a while, then walk aroudn the mound in single file, stop at the place where they usually left tobacco, leave a people and each one a small piece of tobacco and walk away.
THE MISSING HEAD
Everyone seems to agree that the skull disappeared first. There are some differing details in stories about what, exactly, had happened to it, though in various retellings a lot of the same names come up, most particularly Josiah Goodhue, a Chicago alderman and co-founder of Rush University – as in Thurston’s account above. (Much later, stories went around that Goodhue’s death was a result of “The Curse of Big Thunder.”)
McDougal gave more details:
In the month of August, 1836, his head dropped into his lap; and it lay there but a short time when it was taken away by Dr. Goodhue who kept it for a while. Then Dr. (Phineas) Crosby carried it to Chicago where it was put into a museum and afterward taken to New York City.
In the 1909 encyclopedia, the writer quoted a man namedd Mr Jenner:
Mr. Jenner stated to the writer that Pearson B. Crosby had taken Big Thunder’s head before he (Jenner) came to Belvidere in 1838, and that Mr. Crosby gave it to Dr. Goodhue…afterwards the skull came into possession of a Phrenologist, Tew.
Phrenology was the belief that you could tell a lot about a person by the bumps and ridges on their skull. There was indeed a man named George C. Tew in Chicago in the 1830s who set up a phrenology shop on Lake Street; you could come in and have your skull analyzed for a fee. This “individual reading” is one of more innocuous uses of phrenology, something akin to palm reading. Far more often, though, it was just used to enable racism.
Though early 20th century retellings in newspapers often said that the skull was burned up in the Great Chicago Fire, earlier accounts usually say it was taken to a New York museum, and this seems to have been the case. Just up the road from the New York Stock Exchange, a pair known as Fowler and Wells operated a “phrenological cabinet” on Nassau Street in the late 1800s. In addition to offering readings, the “cabinet”featured a handful of skulls, dozens of “casts” of notable heads (Shakespeare, Caesar, etc) to use as examples, and also housed their publishing company.
One of their employees, Nelson Sizer, wrote a book in 1888 entitled Forty Years in Phrenology. In it, he spoke about travels with the company in the early 1870s:
At Brattleboro we bought the skull of the celebrated Winnebago chief, “Big Thunder,” who died in 1824, about eighteen miles from where Chicago now stands. The skull was offered us for examination, and was described so nearly to life that Dr. Spaulding was willing to exchange it for Phrenological works, and it is now one of the most remarkable phrenological specimins in the phrenological cabinet at New York.
Fowler and Wells referred to the skull in their magazine several times, and even included a few diagrams. (the diagram is included with the post, but their analysis of it is better left unquoted). It seems to have been one of the highlights of their collection.
Phrenology remained popular long after people should have known better, and Chicagoan L. Hamilton McCormick even wrote books on “Characterology” in the 1920s, which expanded on the concept to include not just head shape, but things like skin color, to make the pseudoscience even more racist (the remains of his mansion housed the Lawry’s steak house until just recently, and I have to imagine his spirit was whispering in their management’s ear when they cited Black Lives Matter protests as the major cause behind their closing down). Interest in phrenology had died out enough by then, though, that the Fowler and Wells “cabinet” was long gone, and the collection was said to have been “dispersed or destroyed.” A couple of relics known to have been part of their collection are still extant, but most likely the “Big Thunder” skull was destroyed.
Of course, one has to consider that the skull in New York may not have been the real Big Thunder skull at all, or even truly a skull that had ever been in the enclosure in Belvidere. Sizer was told that it was, and believed it.
There’s a bit of a similar quality to the whole story – despite enough first hand accounts that I’m willing to believe that it was a real thing, not just something the stage coach stop dreamed up and built to amuse travelers, it’s hard to know just how much of the backstory was true. Did Big Thunder really prophesize a great battle, or was that just early white settlers filling in the blanks and embellishing the story?
By almost all accounts, by the early 1840s there was nothing left of the body or the fencing around it, and in 1935, at the time of Belvidere’s 100th anniversary, a boulder with a plaque marking the spot was put in place. The town had been talking about doing so for nearly 100 years.