Wau-bun, the Early Day in the Northwest - Chapters 22-27



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CHAPTER XXII.
THE CAPTIVES.

It is well known that previous to the war of the Revolution the whole of
the western portion of Pennsylvania was inhabited by different Indian
tribes. Of these, the Delawares were the friends of the whites, and, after
the commencement of the great struggle, took part with the United States.
The Iroquois, on the contrary, were the friends and allies of the mother-
country.

Very few white settlers had ventured beyond the Susquehanna. The numerous
roving bands of Shawanoes, Nanticokes, etc., although at times professing
friendship with the Americans and acting in concert with the Delawares or
Lenape as allies, at others suffered themselves to be seduced by their
neighbors, the Iroquois, to show a most sanguinary spirit of hostility.

For this reason, the life of the inhabitants of the frontier was one of
constant peril and alarm. Many a scene of dismal barbarity was enacted, as
the history of the times testifies, and even those who felt themselves in
some measure protected by their immediate neighbors, the Delawares, never
lost sight of the caution required by their exposed situation.

The vicinity of the military garrison at Pittsburg--or Fort Pitt, as it
was then called--gave additional security to those who had pushed farther
west, among the fertile valleys of the Alleghany and Monongahela. Among
these were the family of Mr. Lytle, who, some years previous to the
opening of our story, had removed from Baltimore

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to Path Valley, near Carlisle, and subsequently settled himself on the
banks of Plum River, a tributary of the Alleghany. Here, with his wife and
five children, he had continued to live in comfort and security,
undisturbed by any hostile visit, and only annoyed by occasional false
alarms from his more timorous neighbors, who, having had more experience
in frontier life, were prone to anticipate evil, as well as to magnify
every appearance of danger.

On a bright afternoon in the autumn of 1779, two children of Mr. Lytle, a
girl of nine, and her brother, two years younger, were playing in a little
dingle or hollow in the rear of their father's house. Some large trees,
which had been recently felled, were lying here and there, still untrimmed
of their branches, and many logs, prepared for fuel, were scattered
around. Upon one of these the children, wearied with their sports, seated
themselves, and to beguile the time they fell into conversation upon a
subject that greatly perplexed them.

While playing in the same place a few hours previous, they had imagined
they saw an Indian lurking behind one of the fallen trees. The Indians of
the neighborhood were in the habit of making occasional visits to the
family, and they had become familiar and even affectionate with many of
them, but this seemed a stranger, and after the first hasty glance they
fled in alarm to the house.

Their mother child them for the report they brought, which she endeavored
to convince them was without foundation. "You know," said she, "You are
always alarming us unnecessarily: the neighbors' children have frightened
you to death. Go back to your play, and learn to be more courageous."

So the children returned to their sports, hardly persuaded

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by their mother's arguments. While they were thus seated upon the trunk of
the tree, their discourse was interrupted by the note, apparently, of a
quail not far off.

"Listen," said the boy, as a second note answered the first; "do you hear
that?"

"Yes," was the reply, and, after a few moments' silence, "do you not hear
a rustling among the branches of the tree yonder?"

"Perhaps it is a squirrel--but look! what is that? Surely I saw something
red among the branches. It looked like a fawn popping up its head."

At this moment, the children, who had been gazing so intently in the
direction of the fallen tree that all other objects were forgotten, felt
themselves seized from behind and pinioned in an iron grasp. What were
their horror and dismay to find themselves in the arms of savages, whose
terrific countenances and gestures plainly showed them to be enemies!

They made signs to the children to be silent, on pain of death, and
hurried them off, half dead with terror, in a direction leading from their
father's habitation. After travelling some distance in profound silence,
the severity of their captors somewhat relaxed, and as night approached
the party halted, after adopting the usual precautions to secure
themselves against a surprise.

In an agony of uncertainty and terror, torn from their beloved home and
parents, and anticipating all the horrors with which the rumors of the
times had invested a captivity among the Indians--perhaps even a torturing
death--the poor children could no longer restrain their grief, but gave
vent to sobs and lamentations.

Their distress appeared to excite the compassion of one of the party, a
man of mild aspect, who approached and

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endeavored to soothe them. He spread them a couch of the long grass which
grew near the encamping-place, offered them a portion of his own stock of
dried meat and parched corn, and gave them to understand by signs that no
further evil was intended them.

These kindly demonstrations were interrupted by the arrival of another
party of the enemy, bringing with them the mother of the little prisoners,
with her youngest child, an infant of three months old.

It had so happened that the father of the family, with his serving-men,
had gone early in the day to a raising at a few miles' distance, and the
house had thus been left without a defender. The long period of
tranquillity which they had enjoyed, free from all molestation or alarm
from the savages, had thrown the settlers quite off their guard, and they
had recently laid aside some of the caution they had formerly deemed
necessary.

These Indians, by lying in wait, had found the favorable moment for
seizing the defenceless family and making them prisoners. Judging from
their paint, and other marks by which the early settlers learned to
distinguish the various tribes, Mrs. Lytle conjectured that those into
whose hands she and her children had fallen were Senecas. Nor was she
mistaken. It was a party of that tribe who had descended from their
village with the intention of falling upon some isolated hand of their
enemies, the Delawares, but failing in this, had made themselves amends by
capturing a few white settlers.

It is to be attributed to the generally mild disposition of this tribe,
together with the magnanimous character of the chief who accompanied the
party, that their prisoners in the present instance escaped the fate of
most of the Americans who were so unhappy as to fall into the hands of the
Iroquois.

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The children learned from their mother that she was profoundly ignorant of
the fate of their remaining brother and sister, a boy of six and a little
girl of four years of age, but she was in hopes they had made good their
escape with the servant-girl, who had likewise disappeared from the
commencement.

After remaining a few hours to recruit the exhausted frames of the
prisoners, the savages again started on their march, one of the older
Indians offering to relieve the mother from the burden of her infant,
which she had hitherto carried in her arms. Pleased with the unexpected
kindness, she resigned to him her tender charge.

Thus they pursued their way, the savage who carried the infant lingering
somewhat behind the rest of the party, until, finding a spot convenient
for his purpose, he grasped his innocent victim by the feet, and, with one
whirl, to add strength to the blow, dashed out its brains against a tree.
Leaving the body upon the spot, he rejoined the party.

The mother, unsuspicious of what had passed, regarded him earnestly as he
reappeared without the child--then gazed wildly around on the rest of the
group. Her beloved little one was not there. Its absence spoke its fate;
but, suppressing the shriek of agony, for she knew that the lives of the
remaining ones depended upon her firmness in that trying hour, she drew
them yet closer to her and pursued her melancholy way without a word
spoken or a question asked.

From the depths of her heart she cried unto Him who is able to save, and
He comforted her with hopes of deliverance for the surviving ones, for she
saw that if blood had been their sole object the scalps of herself and her
children would have been taken upon the spot where they were made
prisoners.

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She read too in the eyes of one who was evidently the commander of the
party an expression more merciful than she had even dared to hope.
Particularly had she observed his soothing manner and manifest partiality
towards her eldest child, the little girl of whom we have spoken, and she
built many a bright hope of escape or ransom upon these slender
foundations.

After a toilsome and painful march of many days, the party reached the
Seneca village, upon the head-waters of the Alleghany, near what is now
called Olean Point. On their arrival the chief, their conductor who was
distinguished by the name of the Big White Man,(*) led his prisoners to
the principal lodge. This was occupied by his mother, the widow of the
head-chief of that band, and who was called by them the Old Queen.

On entering her presence, her son presented her the little girl, saying,--

"My mother, I bring you a child to supply the place of my brother, who was
killed by the Lenape six moons ago. She shall dwell in my lodge, and be to
me a sister. Take the white woman and her children and treat them kindly--
our father will give us many horses and guns to buy them back again."

He referred to the British Indian Agent of his tribe, Colonel Johnson, an
excellent and benevolent gentleman, who resided at Fort Niagara, on the
British side of the river of that name.

The old queen fulfilled the injunctions of her son. She received the
prisoners, and every comfort was provided

(* Although this is the name our mother preserved of her benefactor, it
seems evident that this chief was in fact Corn-Planter, a personage well
known in the history of the times. There could hardly have been two such
prominent chiefs in the same village.)

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them that her simple and primitive mode of life rendered possible.

We must now return to the place and period at which our story commences.

Late in the evening of that day the father returned to his dwelling. All
within and around was silent and desolate. No trace of a living creature
was to be found throughout the house or grounds. His nearest neighbors
lived at a considerable distance, but to them he hastened, frantically
demanding tidings of his family.

As he aroused them from their slumbers, one and another joined him in the
search, and at length, at the house of one of them, was found the servant-
maid who had effected her escape. Her first place of refuge, she said, had
been a large brewing-tub in an outer kitchen, under which she had, at the
first alarm, secreted herself until the departure of the Indians, who were
evidently in haste, gave her an opportunity of fleeing to a place of
safety. She could give no tidings of her mistress and the children, except
that they had not been murdered in her sight or hearing.

At length, having scoured the neighborhood without success, Mr. Lytle
remembered an old settler who lived alone, far up the valley. Thither he
and his friends immediately repaired, and from him they learned that,
being at work in his field just before sunset, he had seen a party of
strange Indians passing at a short distance from his cabin. As they wound
along the brow of the hill, he could perceive that they had prisoners with
them--a woman and child. The woman he knew to be a white, as she carried
her infant in her arms, instead of upon her back, after the manner of the
savages.

Day had now begun to break, for the night had been

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passed in fruitless searches, and the agonized father, after a
consultation with his kind friends and neighbors, accepted their offer to
accompany him to Fort Pitt to ask advice and assistance of the commandant
and Indian Agent at that place.

Proceeding down the valley, as they approached a hut which the night
before they had found apparently deserted, they were startled by observing
two children standing upon the high bank in front of it. The delighted
father recognized two of his missing flock, but no tidings could they give
him of their mother and the other lost ones. Their story was simple and
touching.

They were playing in the garden, when they were alarmed by seeing the
Indians enter the yard near the house. Unperceived by them, the brother,
who was but six years of age, helped his little sister over the fence into
a field overrun with bushes of the blackberry and wild raspberry. They
concealed themselves among these for awhile, and then, finding all quiet,
they attempted to force their way to the side of the field farthest from
the house. Unfortunately, the little girl in her play in the garden had
pulled off her shoes and stockings, and the briers tearing and wounding
her tender feet, she with difficulty could refrain from crying out. Her
brother took off his stockings and put them on her feet. He attempted,
too, to protect them with his shoes, but they were too large, and kept
slipping off, so that she could not wear them. For a time, they persevered
in making what they considered their escape from certain death, for, as I
have said, the children had been taught, by the tales they had heard, to
regard all strange Indians as ministers of torture, and of horrors worse
than death. Exhausted with pain and fatigue, the poor little girl at
length declared she could go no farther.

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"Then, Maggie," said her brother, "I must kill you, for I cannot let you
be killed by the Indians."

"Oh, no, Thomas!" pleaded she, "do not, pray do not kill me! I do not
think the Indians will find us."

"Oh, yes, they will, Maggie, and I could kill you so much easier than they
would!"

For a long time he endeavored to persuade her, and even looked about for a
stick sufficiently large for his purpose; but despair gave the little
creature strength, and she promised her brother that she would neither
complain nor falter, if he would assist her in making her way out of the
field.

The idea of the little boy that he could save his sister from savage
barbarity by taking her life himself, shows what tales of horror the
children of the early settlers were familiar with.

After a few more efforts, they made their way out of the field, into an
uninclosed pasture-ground, where, to their great delight, they saw some
cows feeding. They recognized them as belonging to Granny Myers, an old
woman who lived at some little distance, but in what direction from the
place they then were, they were utterly ignorant.

With a sagacity beyond his years, the boy said,--

"Let us hide ourselves till sunset, when the cows will go home, and we
will follow them."

They did so, but, to their dismay, when they reached Granny Myers's they
found the house deserted. The old woman had been called by some business
down the valley, and did not return that night.

Tired and hungry, they could go no farther, but, after an almost fruitless
endeavor to get some milk from the cows, they laid themselves down to
sleep under an old bedstead that stood behind the house. Their father and
his party had caused them additional terror in the night. The

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shouts and calls which had been designed to arouse the inmates of the
house, they had mistaken for the whoop of the Indians, and, not being able
to distinguish friends from foes, they had crept close to one another, as
far out of sight as possible. When found the following morning, they were
debating what course to take next, for safety.

The commandant at Fort Pitt entered warmly into the affairs of Mr. Lytle,
and readily furnished him with a detachment of soldiers, to aid him and
his friends in the pursuit of the marauders. Some circumstances having
occurred to throw suspicion upon the Senecas, the party soon directed
their search among the villages of that tribe.

Their inquiries were prosecuted in various directions, and always with
great caution, for all the tribes of the Iroquois, or, as they pompously
called themselves, the Five Nations, being allies of Great Britain, were
inveterate in their hostility to the Americans. Thus, some time elapsed
before the father with his attendants reached the village of the Big White
Man.

A treaty was immediately entered into for the ransom of the captives,
which was easily accomplished in regard to Mrs. Lytle and the younger
child. But no offers, no entreaties, no promises, could procure the
release of the little Eleanor, the adopted child of the tribe. "No," the
chief said, "she was his sister; he had taken her to supply the place of
his brother who was killed by the enemy--she was dear to him, and he would
not part with her."

Finding every effort unavailing to shake this resolution, the father was
compelled to take his sorrowful departure with such of his beloved ones as
he had had the good fortune to recover.

We will not attempt to depict the grief of parents compelled thus to give
up a darling child, and to leave her in

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the hands of savages, whom until now they had too much reason to regard as
merciless. But there was no alternative. Commending her to the care of
their heavenly Father, and cheered by the manifest tenderness with which
she had thus far been treated, they set out on their melancholy journey
homeward, trusting that some future effort would be more effectual for the
recovery of their little girl.

Having placed his family in safety at Pittsburg, Mr. Lytle, still assisted
by the commandant and the Indian Agent, undertook an expedition to the
frontier to the residence of the British Agent, Colonel Johnson. His
representation of the case warmly interested the feelings of that
benevolent officer, who promised him to spare no exertions in his behalf.
This promise he religiously performed. He went in person to the village of
the Big White Man, as soon as the opening of the spring permitted, and
offered him many splendid presents of guns and horses, but the chief was
inexorable.

Time rolled on, and every year the hope of recovering the little captive
became more faint. She, in the mean time, continued to wind herself more
and more closely around the heart of her Indian brother. Nothing could
exceed the consideration and affection with which she was treated, not
only by himself, but by his mother, the Old Queen. All their stock of
brooches and wampum was employed in the decoration of her person. The
principal seat and the most delicate viands were invariably reserved for
her, and no efforts were spared to promote her happiness, and to render
her forgetful of her former home and kindred.

Thus, though she had beheld, with a feeling almost amounting to despair,
the departure of her parents and dear little brother, and had for a long
time resisted every

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attempt at consolation, preferring even death to a life of separation from
all she loved, yet time, as it ever does, brought its soothing balm, and
she at length grew contented and happy.

From her activity and the energy of her character, qualities for which she
was remarkable to the latest period of her life, the name was given her of
The Ship under full sail.

The only drawback to the happiness of the little prisoner, aside from her
longings after her own dear home, was the enmity she encountered from the
wife of the Big White Man. This woman, from the day of her arrival at the
village, and adoption into the family as a sister, had conceived for her
the greatest animosity, which, at first, she had the prudence to conceal
from the observation of her husband.

It was perhaps natural that a wife should give way to some feelings of
jealousy at seeing her own place in the heart of her husband usurped by
the child of their enemy, the American. But these feelings were aggravated
by a bad and vindictive temper, and by the indifference with which her
husband listened to her complaints and murmurings.

As she had no children of her own to engage her attention, her mind was
the more engrossed and inflamed with her fancied wrongs, and with devising
means for their redress. An opportunity of attempting the latter was not
long wanting.

During the absence of the Big White Man upon some war-party or hunting-
excursion, his little sister was taken ill with fever and ague. She was
nursed with the utmost tenderness by the Old Queen; and the wife of the
chief, to

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lull suspicion, and thereby accomplish her purpose, was likewise unwearied
in her assiduities to the little favorite.

One afternoon, during the temporary absence of the Old Queen, her daughter-
in-law entered the lodge with a bowl of something she had prepared, and,
stooping down to the mat on which the child lay, said, in an affectionate
accent,--

"Drink, my sister, I have brought you that which will drive this fever far
from you."

On raising her head to reply, the little girl perceived a pair of eyes
peeping through a crevice in the lodge, and fixed upon her with a very
peculiar and significant expression. With the quick perception acquired
partly from nature and partly from her intercourse with this people, she
replied, faintly,--

"Set it down, my sister. When this fit of the fever has passed, I will
drink your medicine."

The squaw, too cautious to use importunity, busied herself about in the
lodge for a short time, then withdrew to another, near at hand. Meantime,
the bright eyes continued peering through the opening, until they had
watched their object fairly out of sight; then a low voice, the voice of a
young friend and playfellow, spoke:

"Do not drink that which your brother's wife has brought you. She hates
you, and is only waiting an opportunity to rid herself of you. I have
watched her all the morning, and have seen her gathering the most deadly
roots and herbs. I knew for whom they were intended, and came hither to
warn you."

"Take the bowl," said the little invalid, "and carry it to my mother's
lodge."

This was accordingly done. The contents of the bowl were found to consist
principally of a decoction of the root of the May-apple, the most deadly
poison known among the Indians.

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It is not in the power of language to describe the indignation that
pervaded the little community when this discovery was made known. The
squaws ran to and fro, as is their custom when excited, each vying with
the other in heaping invectives upon the culprit. No further punishment
was, however, for the present inflicted upon her, but, the first burst of
rage over, she was treated with silent abhorrence.

The little patient was removed to the lodge of the Old Queen, and strictly
guarded, while her enemy was left to wander in silence and solitude about
the fields and woods, until the return of her husband should determine her
punishment.

In a few days, the excursion being over, the Big White Man and his party
returned to the village. Contrary to the usual custom of savages, he did
not, in his first transport at learning the attempt on the life of his
little sister, take summary vengeance on the offender. He contented
himself with banishing her from his lodge, never to return, and condemning
her to hoe corn in a distant part of the large field or inclosure which
served the whole community for a garden.

Although she would still show her vindictive disposition whenever, by
chance, the little girl with her companions wandered into that vicinity,
by striking at her with her hoe, or by some other spiteful manifestation,
yet she was either too well watched, or stood too much in awe of her
former husband, to repeat the attempt upon his sister's life.

Four years had now elapsed since the capture of little Nelly. Her heart
was by nature warm and affectionate, so that the unbounded tenderness of
those she dwelt among had called forth a corresponding feeling in her
heart. She

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regarded the chief and his mother with love and reverence, and had so
completely learned their language and customs as almost to have forgotten
her own.

So identified had she become with the tribe, that the remembrance of her
home and family had nearly faded from her memory; all but her mother--her
mother, whom she had loved with a strength of affection natural to her
warm and ardent character, and to whom her heart still clung with a
fondness that no time or change could destroy.

The peace of 1783 between Great Britain and the United States now took
place. A general pacification of the Indian tribes was the consequence,
and fresh hopes were renewed in the bosoms of Mr. and Mrs. Lytle.

They removed with their family to Fort Niagara, near which, on the
American side, was the Great Council-Fire of the Senecas. Colonel Johnson
readily undertook a fresh negotiation with the chief, but, in order to
make sure every chance of success, he again proceeded in person to the
village of the Big White Man.

His visit was most opportune. It was the "Feast of the Green Corn," when
he arrived among them. This observance, which corresponds so strikingly
with the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles that, together with other customs, it
has led many to believe the Indian nations the descendants of the lost ten
tribes of Israel, made it a season of general joy and festivity. All other
occupations were suspended to give place to social enjoyment in the open
air or in arbors formed of the green branches of the trees. Every one
appeared in his gala-dress. That of the little adopted child consisted of
a petticoat of blue broadcloth, bordered with gay-colored ribbons; a sack
or upper garment of black silk, ornamented with three rows of silver
brooches, the centre ones from the throat to the hem being of large size,
and those from the shoulders down being no

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larger than a shilling-piece, and set as closely as possible. Around her
neck were innumerable strings of white and purple wampum--an Indian
ornament manufactured from the inner surface of the muscle-shell. Her hair
was clubbed behind and loaded with beads of various colors. Leggings of
scarlet cloth, and moccasins of deer-skin embroidered with porcupine-
quills, completed her costume.

Colonel Johnson was received with all the consideration due to his
position, and to the long friendship that had subsisted between him and
the tribe.

Observing that the hilarity of the festival had warmed and opened all
hearts, he took occasion in an interview with the chief to expatiate upon
the parental affection which had led the father and mother of his little
sister to give up their friends and home, and come hundreds of miles away,
in the single hope of sometimes looking upon and embracing her. The heart
of the chief softened as he listened to this representation, and he was
induced to promise that at the Grand Council soon to be held at Fort
Niagara, on the British side of the river, he would attend, bringing his
little sister with him.

He exacted a promise, however, from Colonel Johnson, that not only no
effort should be made to reclaim the child, but that even no proposition
to part with her should be offered him.

The time at length arrived when, her heart bounding with joy, little Nelly
was placed on horseback to accompany her Indian brother to the Great
Council of the Senecas. She had promised him that she would never leave
him without his permission, and he relied confidently on her word thus
given.

As the chiefs and warriors arrived in successive bands to meet their
Father, the agent, at the council-fire, how did the anxious hearts of the
parents beat with alternate hope

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and fear! The officers of the fort had kindly given them quarters for the
time being, and the ladies, whose sympathies were strongly excited, had
accompanied the mother to the place of council, and joined in her longing
watch for the first appearance of the band from the Alleghany River.

At length they were discerned, emerging from the forest on the opposite or
American side. Boats were sent across by the commanding officer, to bring
the chief and his party. The father and mother, attended by all the
officers and ladies, stood upon the grassy bank awaiting their approach.
They had seen at a glance that the little captive was with them.

When about to enter the boat, the chief said to some of his young men,
"Stand here with the horses, and wait until I return."

He was told that the horses should be ferried across and taken care of.

"No," said he; "let them wait."

He held his darling by the hand until the river was passed--until the boat
touched the bank--until the child sprang forward into the arms of the
mother from whom she had been so long separated.

When the chief witnessed that outburst of affection, he could withstand no
longer.

"She shall go," said he. "The mother must have her child again. I will go
back alone."

With one silent gesture of farewell he turned and stepped on board the
boat. No arguments or entreaties could induce him to remain at the
council, but, having gained the other side of the Niagara, he mounted his
horse, and with his young men was soon lost in the depths of the forest.

After a sojourn of a few weeks at Niagara, Mr. Lytle, dreading lest the
resolution of the Big White Man should

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give way, and measures be taken to deprive him once more of his child,
came to the determination of again changing his place of abode. He
therefore took the first opportunity of crossing Lake Erie with his
family, and settled himself in the neighborhood of Detroit, where he
continued afterwards to reside.

Little Nelly saw her friend the chief no more, but she never forgot him.
To the day of her death she remembered with tenderness and gratitude her
brother the Big White Man, and her friends and playfellows among the
Senecas.



CHAPTER XXIII.
SECOND-SIGHT--HICKORY CREEK.

At the age of fourteen the heroine of the foregoing story married Colonel
McKillip, a British officer. This gentleman was killed near Fort Defiance,
as it was afterwards called, at the Miami Rapids, in 1794. A detachment of
British troops had been sent down from Detroit, to take possession of this
post. General Wayne was then on a campaign against the Indians, and the
British Government thought proper to make a few demonstrations in behalf
of their allies. Having gone out with a party to reconnoitre, Colonel
McKillip was returning to his post after dark, when he was fired upon and
killed by one of his own sentinels. Mrs. Helm was the daughter of this
marriage.

During the widowhood of Mrs. McKillip, she resided with her parents, at
Grosse Pointe, eight miles above Detroit, and it was during this period
that an event occurred which, from the melancholy and mysterious
circumstances

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attending it, was always dwelt upon by her with peculiar interest.

Her second brother, Thomas Lytle, was, from his amiable and affectionate
character, the most dearly beloved by her of all the numerous family
circle. He was paying his addresses to a young lady who resided at the
river Trench,(*) as it was then called, now the river Thames, a stream
emptying into Lake St. Clair about twenty miles above Detroit. In visiting
this young lady, it was his custom to cross the Detroit River by the ferry
with his horse, and then proceed by land to the river Trench, which was,
at some seasons of the year, a fordable stream.

On a fine forenoon, late in the spring, he had taken leave of his mother
and sister for one of these periodical visits, which were usually of two
or three days' duration.

After dinner, as his sister was sitting at work by an open window which
looked upon a little side inclosure filled with fruit-trees, she was
startled by observing some object opposite the window, between her and the
light. She raised her eyes and saw her brother Thomas. He was without his
horse, and carried his saddle upon his shoulders.

Surprised that she had not heard the gate opening for his entrance, and
also at his singular appearance, laden in that manner, she addressed him,
and inquired what had happened, and why he had returned so soon. He made
her no reply, but looked earnestly in her face, as he moved slowly along
the paved walk that led to the stables.

She waited a few moments, expecting he would reappear to give an account
of himself and his adventures, but at length, growing impatient at his
delay, she put down her work and went towards the rear of the house to
find him.

(* From the French--Tranche, a deep cut.)

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The first person she met was her mother. "Have you seen Thomas?" she
inquired.

"Thomas! He has gone to the river Trench."

"No, he has returned--I saw him pass the window not fifteen minutes since."

"Then he will be in presently."

His sister, however, could not wait. She proceeded to the stables, she
searched in all directions. No Thomas--no horse--no saddle. She made
inquiry of the domestics. No one had seen him. She then returned and told
her mother what had happened.

"You must have fallen asleep and dreamed it," said her mother.

"No, indeed! I was wide awake--I spoke to him, and he gave me no answer,
but such a look!"

All the afternoon she felt an uneasiness she could not reason herself out
of.

The next morning came a messenger from the river Trench with dismal
tidings.

The bodies of the young man and his horse had been found drowned a short
distance below the ford of the river.

It appeared that, on arriving at the bank of the river, he found it
swollen beyond its usual depth by the recent rains. It being necessary to
swim the stream with his horse, he had taken off his clothes and made them
into a packet which he fastened upon his shoulders. It was supposed that
the strength of the rapid torrent displaced the bundle, which thus served
to draw his head under water and keep it there, without the power of
raising it. All this was gathered from the position and appearance of the
bodies when found.

From the time at which he had been seen passing a house which stood near
the stream, on his way to the

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ford, it was evident that he must have met his fate at the very moment his
sister saw, or thought she saw him, passing before her.

I could not but suggest the inquiry, when these sad particulars were
narrated to me,--

"Mother, is it not possible this might have been a dream?""A dream? No,
indeed, my child. I was perfectly wide awake--as much so as I am at this
moment. I am not superstitious. I have never believed in ghosts or
witches, but nothing can ever persuade me that this was not a warning sent
from God, to prepare me for my brother's death."

And those who knew her rational good sense--her freedom from fancies or
fears, and the calm self-possession that never deserted her under the most
trying circumstances--would almost be won to view the matter in the light
she did.

The order for the evacuation of Fort Dearborn, and the removal of the
troops to Fort Howard (Green Bay), had now been received. The family
circle was to be broken up. Our mother, our sister Mrs. Helm, and her
little son, were to return with us to Fort Winnebago; the other members of
the family, except Robert, were to move with the command to Green Bay.

The schooner Napoleon was to be sent from Detroit to convey the troops
with their goods and chattels to their destined post. Our immediate party
was to make the journey by land--we were to choose, however, a shorter and
pleasanter route than the one we had taken in coming hither. My husband,
with his Frenchmen, Petaille Grignon and Simon Lecuyer, had arrived, and
all hands were now

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busily occupied with the necessary preparations for breaking up and
removal.

I should be doing injustice to the hospitable settlers of Hickory Creek
were I to pass by without notice an entertainment with which they honored
our Chicago beaux about this time. The merry-making was to be a ball, and
the five single gentlemen of Chicago were invited. Mr. Dole, who was a new-
comer, declined; Lieutenant Foster was on duty, but he did what was still
better than accepting the invitation, he loaned his beautiful horse to
Medard Beaubien, who with Robert Kinzie and Gholson Kercheval promised
himself much fun in eclipsing the beaux and creating a sensation among the
belles of Hickory Creek.

Chicago was then, as now, looked upon as the City par excellence. Its few
inhabitants were supposed to have seen something of the world, and it is
to be inferred that the arrival of the smart and dashing young men was an
event looked forward to with more satisfaction by the fair of the little
settlement than by the swains whose rivals they might become.

The day arrived, and the gentlemen set off in high spirits. They took care
to be in good season, for the dancing was to commence at two o'clock in
the afternoon. They were well mounted, each priding himself upon the
animal he rode, and they wore their best suits, as became city gallants
who were bent on cutting out their less fashionable neighbors and breaking
the hearts of the admiring country damsels.

When they arrived at the place appointed, they were received with great
politeness--their steeds were taken care of, and a dinner was provided
them, after which they were ushered into the dancing-hall.

All the beauty of the neighboring precincts was assembled.

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The ladies were for the most part white, or what passed for such, with an
occasional dash of copper color. There was no lack of bombazet gowns and
large white pocket-handkerchiefs, perfumed with oil of cinnamon; and as
they took their places in long rows on the puncheon floor, they were a
merry and a happy company.

But the city gentlemen grew more and more gallant--the girls more and more
delighted with their attentions--the country swains, alas! more and more
scowling and jealous. In vain they pigeon-winged and double-shuffled--in
vain they nearly dislocated hips and shoulders at "hoe corn and dig
potatoes"--they had the mortification to perceive that the smart young
sprigs from Chicago had their "pick and choose" among their very
sweethearts, and that they themselves were fairly danced off the ground.

The revelry lasted until daylight, and it was now time to think of
returning. There was no one ready with obliging politeness to bring them
their horses from the stable.

"Poor fellows!" said one of the party, with a compassionate sort of laugh,
"they could not stand it. They have gone home to bed!"

"Serves them right," said another; "they'd better not ask us down among
their girls again!"

They groped their way to the stable and went in. There were some animals
standing at the manger, but evidently not their horses. What could they
be? Had the rogues been trying to cheat them, by putting these strange
nondescripts into their place?

They led them forth into the gray of the morning, and then--such a trio as
met their gaze!

There were the original bodies, it is true, but where were their manes and
tails? A scrubby, pickety ridge along the neck, and a bare stump
projecting behind, were all that remained of the flowing honors with which
they

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had come gallivanting down to "bear away the bell" at Hickory Creek, or,
in the emphatic language of the country, "to take the rag off the bush."

Gholson sat down on a log and cried outright. Medard took the matter more
philosophically--the horse was none of his--it was Lieutenant Foster's.

Robert characteristically looked around to see whom he could knock down on
the occasion; but there was no one visible on whom to wreak their
vengeance.

The bumpkins had stolen away, and, in some safe, quiet nook, were snugly
enjoying their triumph, and doubtless the deceitful fair ones were by this
time at their sides, sharing their mirth and exultation.

The unlucky gallants mounted their steeds, and set their faces homeward.
Never was there a more crestfallen and sorry-looking cavalcade. The poor
horses seemed to realize that they had met the same treatment as the
messengers of King David at the hands of the evil-disposed Hanun. They
hung their heads, and evidently wished that they could have "tarried at
Jericho" for a season. Unfortunately, there was in those days no back way
by which they could steal in, unobserved. Across the prairie, in view of
the whole community, must their approach be made; and to add to their
confusion, in the rarity of stirring events, it was the custom of the
whole settlement to turn out and welcome the arrival of any new-comer.

As hasty a retreat as possible was beaten, amid the shouts, the jeers, and
the condolences of their acquaintances; and it is on record that these
three young gentlemen were in no hurry to accept, at any future time, an
invitation to partake of the festivities of Hickory Creek.

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In due time the Napoleon made her appearance. (Alas that this great name
should be used in the feminine gender!) As there was at this period no
harbor, vessels anchored outside the bar, or tongue of land which formed
the left bank of the river, and the lading and unlading were carried on by
boats, pulling in and out, through the mouth of the river, some distance
below.

Of course it always was a matter of great importance to get a vessel
loaded as quickly as possible, that she might be ready to take advantage
of the first fair wind, and be off from such an exposed and hazardous
anchoring-ground.

For this reason we had lived packed up for many days, intending only to
see our friends safe on board, and then commence our own journey back to
Fort Winnebago.

Our heavy articles of furniture, trunks, etc. had been sent on board the
Napoleon, to be brought round to us by way of Fox River. We had retained
only such few necessaries as could be conveniently carried on a pack-
horse, and in a light dearborn wagon lately brought by Mr. Kercheval from
Detroit (the first luxury of the kind ever seen on the prairies), and
which my husband had purchased as an agreeable mode of conveyance for his
mother and little nephew.

It was a matter requiring no small amount of time and labor to transport,
in the slow method described, the effects of so many families of officers
and soldiers, with the various etceteras incident to a total change and
removal. It was all, however, happily accomplished--everything, even to
the last article, sent on board--nothing remaining on shore but the
passengers, whose turn it would be next.

It was a moment of great relief; for Captain Hinckley had been in a fever
and a fuss many hours, predicting a change of weather, and murmuring at
what be thought the unnecessary amount of boat-loads to be taken on board.

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Those who had leisure to be looking out towards the schooner, which had
continued anchored about half a mile out in the lake, had, at this crisis,
the satisfaction to see her hoist sail and leave her station for the open
lake; those who were a little later could just discern her bearing away to
a distance, as if she had got all on board that she had any idea of
taking. Here we were, and here we might remain a week or more, if it so
pleased Captain Hinckley and the schooner Napoleon, and the good east wind
which was blowing with all its might.

There was plenty of provisions to be obtained, so the fear of starvation
was not the trouble; but how were the cooking and the table to be provided
for? Various expedients were resorted to. Mrs. Engle, in her quarters
above-stairs, ate her breakfast off a shingle with her husband's jack-
knife, and when she had finished, sent them down to Lieutenant Foster for
his accommodation.

We were at the old mansion on the north side, and the news soon flew up
the river that the Napoleon had gone off with "the plunder" and left the
people behind. It was not long before we were supplied by Mrs. Portier
(our kind Victoire) with dishes, knives, forks, and all the other
conveniences which our mess-basket failed to supply.

This state of things lasted a couple of days, and then, early one fine
morning, the gratifying intelligence spread like wild-fire that the
Napoleon was at anchor out beyond the bar.

There was no unnecessary delay this time, and at an early hour in the
afternoon we had taken leave of our dear friends, and they were sailing
away from Chicago.(*)

(* It is a singular fact that all the martins, of which there were great
numbers occupying the little houses constructed for them by the soldiers,
were observed to have disappeared from their homes on the morning
following the embarkation of the troops. After an absence of five days
they returned. They had perhaps taken a fancy to accompany their old
friends, but, finding they were they were not Mother Carey's chickens,
deemed it most prudent to return and reoccupy their old dwellings.)



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CHAPTER XXIV.
RETURN TO FORT WINNEBAGO.

A great part of the command, with the cattle belonging to the officers and
soldiers, had, a day or two previous to the time of our departure, set out
on their march by land to Green Bay, via Fort Winnebago. Lieutenant
Foster, under whose charge they were, had lingered behind that he might
have the pleasure of joining our party, and we, in turn, had delayed in
order to see the other members of our family safely on board the Napoleon.
But now, all things being ready, we set our faces once more homeward.

We took with us a little bound-girl, Josette, a bright, pretty child of
ten years of age, a daughter of Ouilmette, a Frenchman who had lived here
at the time of the Massacre, and of a Pottowattamie mother. She had been
at the St. Joseph's mission-school, under Mr. McCoy, and she was now full
of delight at the prospect of a journey all the way to the Portage with
Monsieur and Madame John.

We had also a negro boy, Harry, brought a year before from Kentucky, by
Mr. Kercheval. In the transfer at that time from a slave State to a free
one, Harry's position became somewhat changed--he could be no more than

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an indentured servant. He was about to become a member of Dr. Wolcott's
household, and it was necessary for him to choose a guardian. All this was
explained to him on his being brought into the parlor, where the family
were assembled. My husband was then a young man, on a visit to his home.
"Now, Harry," it was said to him, "you must choose your guardian;" and the
natural expectation was that Harry would select the person of his
acquaintance of the greatest age and dignity. But, rolling round his great
eyes, and hanging his head on one side, he said,--

"I'll have Master John for my guardian."

From that day forward Harry felt as if he belonged, in a measure, to
Master John, and at the breaking-up of the family in Chicago he was,
naturally, transferred to our establishment.

There were three ladies of our travelling party--our mother, our sister
Mrs. Helm, and myself. To guard against the burning effect of the sun and
the prairie winds upon our faces, I had, during some of the last days of
my visit, prepared for each of us a mask of brown linen, with the eyes,
nose, and mouth fitted to our features; and, to enhance their hideousness,
I had worked eyebrows, eyelashes, and a circle around the opening for the
mouth, in black silk. Gathered in plaits under the chin, and with strings
to confine them above and below, they furnished a complete protection
against the sun and wind, though nothing can be imagined more frightful
than the appearance we presented when fully equipped. It was who should be
called the ugliest.

We left amid the good wishes and laughter of our few remaining
acquaintances. Our wagon had been provided with a pair of excellent
travelling horses, and, sister Margaret and myself being accommodated with
the best pacers

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the country could afford, we set off in high spirits towards the Aux
Plaines--our old friend, Billy Caldwell (the Sauga-nash), with our brother
Robert, and Gholson Kercheval, accompanying us to that point of our
journey.

There was no one at Barney Lawton's when we reached there, save a
Frenchman and a small number of Indians. My sister and I dismounted, and
entered the dwelling, the door of which stood open. Two Indians were
seated on the floor, smoking. They raised their eyes as we appeared, and
never shall I forget the expression of wonder and horror depicted on the
countenances of both. Their lips relaxed until the pipe of one fell upon
the floor. Their eyes seemed starting from their heads, and raising their
outspread hands, as if to wave us from them, they slowly ejaculated,
"Manitou!" (a spirit.)

As we raised our masks, and, smiling, came forward to shake hands with
them, they sprang to their feet and fairly uttered a cry of delight at the
sight of our familiar faces.

"Bon-jour, bon-jour, Maman!" was their salutation, and they instantly
plunged out of doors to relate to their companions what had happened.

Our afternoon's ride was over a prairie stretching away to the northeast.
No living creature was to be seen upon its broad expanse, but flying and
circling over our heads were innumerable flocks of curlews,

"Screaming their wild notes to the listening waste."

Their peculiar, shrill cry of "crack, crack, crack--rackety, rackety,
rackety," repeated from the throats of dozens, as they sometimes stooped
quite close to our ears, became at length almost unbearable. It seemed as
if they had lost their senses in the excitement of so unusual and splendid
a cortege in their hitherto desolate domain.

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The accelerated pace of our horses, as we approached a beautiful, wooded
knoll, warned us that this was to be our place of repose for the night.
These animals seem to know by instinct a favorable encamping-ground, and
this was one of the most lovely imaginable.

The trees, which near the lake had, owing to the coldness and tardiness of
the season, presented the pale-yellow appearance of unfledged goslings,
were here bursting into full leaf. The ground around was carpeted with
flowers--we could not bear to have them crushed by the felling of a tree
and the pitching of our tent among them. The birds sent forth their
sweetest notes in the warm, lingering sunlight, and the opening buds of
the young hickory and sassafras filled the air with perfume.

Nothing could be more perfect than our enjoyment of this sylvan and
beautiful retreat(*) after our ride in the glowing sun. The children were
in ecstasies. They delighted to find ways of making themselves useful--to
pile up the saddles--to break boughs for the fire--to fill the little
kettles with water for Petaille and Lecuyer, the Frenchmen, who were
preparing our supper.

Their amusement at the awkward movements of the horses after they were
spancelled knew no bounds. To our little nephew Edwin everything was new,
and Josette, who had already made more than one horseback journey to St.
Joseph, manifested all the pride of an old traveller in explaining to him
whatever was novel or unaccountable.

They were not the last to spring up at the call "how! how!" on the
following morning.

The fire was replenished, the preparations for breakfast commenced, and
the Frenchmen dispatched to bring up the horses in readiness for an early
start.

(* It is now known as Dunkley's Grove.)

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Harry and Josette played their parts, under our direction, in preparing
the simple meal, and we soon seated ourselves, each with cup and knife,
around the table-mat. The meal was over, but no men, no horses appeared.
When another half-hour had passed, my husband took Harry and commenced
exploring in search of the missing ones.

The day wore on, and first one and then another would make his appearance
to report progress. Petaille and Lecuyer at length brought two of the
horses, but the others could nowhere be found. In time, Mr. Kinzie and
Harry returned, wet to their knees by the dew upon the long prairie-grass,
but with no tidings. Again the men were dispatched after having broken
their fast, but returned unsuccessful as before.

The morning had been passed by our party at the encampment in speculating
upon the missing animals. Could they have been stolen by the Indians?
Hardly: these people seldom committed robberies in time of peace--never
upon our family, whom they regarded as their best friends. The horses
would doubtless be found. They had probably been carelessly fastened the
preceding evening, and had therefore been able to stray farther than was
their wont.

A council was held, at which it was decided to send Grignon back to
Chicago to get some fresh horses from Gholson Kercheval, and return as
speedily as possible. If on his return our encampment were deserted, he
might conclude we had found the horses and proceeded to Fox River, where
he would doubtless overtake us.

He had not been gone more than an hour before, slowly hopping out of a
point of woods to the north of us (a spot which each of the seekers
averred he had explored over and over again), and making directly for the
place where

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we were, appeared the vexatious animals. They came up as demurely as if
nothing had happened, and seemed rather surprised to be received with a
hearty scolding, instead of being patted and caressed as usual.

It was the work of a very short half-hour to strike and pack the tent,
stow away the mats and kettles, saddle the horses, and mount for our
journey.

"Whoever pleases may take my place in the carriage," said our mother. "I
have travelled so many years on horseback, that I find any other mode of
conveyance too fatiguing."

So, spite of her sixty years, she mounted sister Margaret's pacer with the
activity of a girl of sixteen.

Lieutenant Foster had left us early in the morning, feeling it necessary
to rejoin his command, and now, having seen us ready to set off, with a
serene sky above us, and all things "right and tight" for the journey, our
friend the Sau-ga-nash took leave of us, and retraced his steps towards
Chicago.

We pursued our way through a lovely country of alternate glade and forest,
until we reached the Fox River. The current ran clear and rippling along,
and, as we descended the steep bank to the water, the question, so natural
to a traveller in an unknown region, presented itself, "Is it fordable?"

Petaille, to whom the ground was familiar, had not yet made his
appearance. Lecuyer was quite ignorant upon the subject. The troops had
evidently preceded us by this very trail. True, but they were on
horseback--the difficulty was, could we get the carriage through? It must
be remembered that the doubt was not about the depth of the water, but
about the hardness of the bottom of the stream.

It was agreed that two or three of the equestrians

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should make the trail first. My mother, Lecuyer, and myself advanced
cautiously across to the opposite bank, each choosing a different point
for leaving the water, in order to find the firmest spot. The bottom was
hard and firm until we came near the shore; then it yielded a little. With
one step, however, we were each on dry ground.

"Est-il beau?" called my husband, who was driving.

"Oui, monsieur."

"Yes, John, come just here, it is perfectly good."

"No, no--go a little farther down. See the white gravel just there--it
will be firmer still, there."

Such were the contradictory directions given. He chose the latter, and
when it wanted but one step more to the bank, down sunk both horses, until
little more than their backs were visible.

The white gravel proved to be a bed of treacherous yellow clay, which,
gleaming through the water, had caused so unfortunate a deception.

With frantic struggles, for they were nearly suffocated with mud and
water, the horses made desperate efforts to free themselves from the
harness. My husband sprang out upon the pole. "Some one give me a knife,"
he cried. I was back in the water in a moment, and, approaching as near as
I dared, handed him mine from the scabbard around my neck.

"Whatever you do, do not cut the traces," cried his mother.

He severed some of the side-straps, when, just as he had reached the
extremity of the pole, and was stretching forward to separate the head-
couplings, one of the horses gave a furious plunge, which caused his
fellow to rear, and throw himself nearly backwards. My husband was between
them. For a moment we thought he was gone--

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trampled down by the excited animals; but he presently showed himself,
nearly obscured by the mud and water. With the agility of a cat, Harry,
who was near him, now sprang forward on the pole, and in an instant, with
his sharp jack-knife which he had ready, divided the straps that confined
their heads.

The horses were at this moment lying floating on the water--one apparently
dead, the other as if gasping out his last breath. But hardly did they
become sensible of the release of their heads from bondage, than they
made, simultaneously, another furious effort to free themselves from the
pole, to which they were still attached by the neck-strap.

Failing in this, they tried another expedient, and, by a few judicious
twists and turns, succeeded in wrenching the pole asunder, and finally
carried it off in triumph across the river again, and up the bank, where
they stood waiting to decide what were the next steps to be taken.

Here was a predicament! A few hours before, we had thought ourselves
uncomfortable enough, because some of our horses were missing. Now, a
greater evil had befallen us. The wagon was in the river, the harness cut
to pieces, and, what was worse, carried off in the most independent
manner, by Tom and his companion; the pole was twisted to fragments, and
there was not so much as a stick on our side of the river with which to
replace it.

At this moment, a whoop from the opposite bank, echoed by two or three
hearty ones from our party, announced the reappearance of Petaille
Grignon. He dismounted and took charge of the horses, who were resting
themselves after their fatigues under a shady tree, and by this time
Lecuyer had crossed the river, and now joined him in bringing back the
delinquents.

In the mean time we had been doing our best to minister

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to our sister Margaret. She, with her little son Edwin, had been in the
wagon at the time of the accident, and it had been a work of some
difficulty to get them out and bring them on horseback to shore. The
effect of the agitation and excitement was to throw her into a fit of the
ague, and she now lay blue and trembling among the long grass of the
little prairie which extended along the bank. The tent, which had been
packed in the rear of the wagon, was too much saturated with mud and water
to admit of its being used as a shelter; it could only be stretched in the
sun to dry. We opened an umbrella over our poor sister's head, and now
began a discussion of ways and means to repair damages. The first thing
was to cut a new pole for the wagon, and for this, the master and men must
recross the river and choose an iron-tree out of the forest.

Then, for the harness. With provident care, a little box had been placed
under the seat of the wagon, containing an awl, waxed ends, and various
other little conveniences exactly suited to an emergency like the present.

It was question and answer, like Cock Robin:

"Who can mend the harness?"

"I can, for I learned when I was a young girl to make shoes as an
accomplishment, and I can surely now, as a matter of usefulness and duty,
put all those wet, dirty pieces of leather together."

So we all seated ourselves on the grass, under the shade of the only two
umbrellas we could muster.

I stitched away diligently, blistering my hands, I must own, in no small
degree.

A suitable young tree had been brought, and the hatchets, without which
one never travels in the woods, were busy fashioning it into shape, when a
peculiar hissing noise was heard, and instantly the cry,--

"Un serpent sonnette! A rattlesnake!"

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All sprang to their feet, even the poor, shaking invalid, just in time to
see the reptile glide past within three inches of my mother's feet, while
the men assailed the spot it had left with whips, missiles, and whatever
would help along the commotion.

This little incident proved an excellent remedy for the ague. One
excitement drives away another, and by means of this (upon the homoepathic
principle) sister Margaret was so much improved that by the time all the
mischiefs were repaired, she was ready to take her place in the cavalcade,
as bright and cheerful as the rest of us.

So great had been the delay occasioned by all these untoward
circumstances, that our afternoon's ride was but a short one, bringing us
no farther than the shores of a beautiful sheet of water, now known as
Crystal Lake. Its clear surface was covered with loons, and Poules d'Eau,
a species of rail, with which, at certain seasons, this region abounds.

The Indians have the genius of Æsop for depicting animal life and
character, and there is among them a fable or legend illustrative of every
peculiarity in the personal appearance, habits, or dispositions of each
variety of the animal creation.

The back of the little rail is very concave, or hollow. The Indians tell
us that it became so in the following manner:--

STORY OF THE LITTLE RAIL, OR Poule d'Eau.

There is supposed, by most of the Northwestern tribes, to exist an
invisible being, corresponding to the "Genie" or Oriental story. Without
being exactly the father of evil, Nan-nee-bo-zho is a spirit whose office
it is to punish what is amiss. He is represented, too, as constantly

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occupied in entrapping and making examples of all the animals that come in
his way.

One pleasant evening, as he walked along the banks of a lake, he saw a
flock of ducks, sailing and enjoying themselves on the blue waters. He
called to them:

"Ho! come with me into my lodge, and I will teach you to dance!" Some of
the ducks said among themselves, "It is Nan-nee-bo-zho; let us not go."
Others were of a contrary opinion, and, his words being fair, and his
voice insinuating, a few turned their faces towards the land--all the rest
soon followed, and, with many pleasant quackings, trooped after him, and
entered his lodge.

When there, he first took an Indian sack, with a wide mouth, which he tied
by the strings around his neck, so that it would hang over his shoulders,
leaving the mouth unclosed. Then, placing himself in the centre of the
lodge, he ranged the ducks in a circle around him.

"Now," said he, "you must all shut your eyes tight; whoever opens his eyes
at all, something dreadful will happen to him. I will take my Indian flute
and play upon it, and you will, at the word I shall give, open your eyes,
and commence dancing, as you see me do."

The ducks obeyed, shutting their eyes tight, and keeping time to the music
by stepping from one foot to the other, all impatient for the dancing to
begin.

Presently a sound was heard like a smothered "quack," but the ducks did
not dare to open their eyes.

Again, and again, the sound of the flute would be interrupted, and a
gurgling cry of "qu-a-a-ck" be heard. There was one little duck, much
smaller than the rest, who, at this juncture, could not resist the
temptation to open one eye, cautiously. She saw Nan-nee-bo-zho, as he
played his flute, holding it with one hand, stoop a little at intervals
and seize the duck nearest him, which he throttled and

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stuffed into the bag on his shoulders. So, edging a little out of the
circle, and getting nearer the door, which had been left partly open to
admit the light, she cried out,--

"Open your eyes--Nan-nee-bo-zho is choking you all and putting you into
his bag!"

With that she flew, but Nan-nee-bo-zho pounced upon her. His hand grasped
her back, yet, with desperate force, she released herself and gained the
open air. Her companions flew, quacking and screaming, after her. Some
escaped, and some fell victims to the sprite.

The little duck had saved her life, but she had lost her beauty. She ever
after retained the attitude she had been forced into in her moment of
danger--her back pressed down in the centre, and her head and neck
unnaturally stretched forward into the air.



CHAPTER XXV.
RETURN JOURNEY, CONTINUED.

The third day of our journey rose brilliantly clear, like the two
preceding ones, and we shaped our course more to the north than we had
hitherto done, in the direction of Big-foot Lake, now known by the
somewhat hackneyed appellation, Lake of Geneva.

Our journey this day was without mishaps or disasters of any kind. The air
was balmy, the foliage of the forests fresh and fragrant, the little
brooks clear and sparkling--everything in nature spoke the praises of the
beneficent Creator.

It is in scenes like this, far removed from the bustle,

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the strife, and the sin of civilized life, that we most fully realize the
presence of the great Author of the Universe. Here can the mind most fully
adore his majesty and goodness, for here only is the command obeyed, "Let
all the earth keep silence before Him!"

It cannot escape observation that the deepest and most solemn devotion is
in the hearts of those who, shut out from the worship of God in temples
made with hands, are led to commune with him amid the boundless
magnificence that his own power has framed.

This day was not wholly without incident. As we stopped for our noontide
refreshment, and dismounting threw ourselves on the fresh herbage just at
the verge of a pleasant thicket, we were startled by a tender bleating
near us, and presently, breaking its way through the low branches, there
came upon us a sweet little dappled fawn, evidently in search of its
mother. It did not seem in the least frightened at the sight of us. As
poor Selkirk might have been parodied,--

It was so unacquainted with man,
Its tameness was charming to us.

But the vociferous delight of the children soon drove it bounding again
into the woods, and all hopes of catching it for a pet were at once at an
end.

We had travelled well this day, and were beginning to feel somewhat
fatigued, when, just before sunset, we came upon a ridge, overlooking one
of the loveliest little dells imaginable. It was an oak opening, and
browsing under the shade of the tall trees which were scattered around
were the cattle and horses of the soldiers, who had got thus far on their
journey. Two or three white tents were pitched in the bottom of the
valley, beside a clear stream. The camp-fires were already lighted, and
the men, singly

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or in groups, were busied in their various preparations for their own
comfort, or that of their animals.

Lieutenant Foster came forward with great delight to welcome our arrival,
and accepted without hesitation an invitation to join our mess again, as
long as we should be together.

We soon found a pleasant encamping-ground, far enough removed from the
other party to secure us against all inconvenience, and our supper having
received the addition of a kettle of fine fresh milk, kindly brought us by
Mrs. Gardiner, the hospital matron, who with her little covered cart
formed no unimportant feature in the military group, we partook of our
evening meal with much hilarity and enjoyment.

If people are ever companionable, it is when thrown together under
circumstances like the present. There has always been sufficient incident
through the day to furnish themes for discourse, and subjects of
merriment, as long as the company feel disposed for conversation, which
is, truth to tell, not an unconscionable length of time after their supper
is over.

The poor Lieutenant looked grave enough when we set out in advance of him
the next morning. None of his party were acquainted with the road; but,
after giving him directions both general and particular, Mr. Kinzie
promised to blaze a tree, or set up a chip for a guide, at every place
which appeared more than usually doubtful.

We now found ourselves in a much more diversified country than any we had
hitherto travelled. Gently swelling hills, lovely valleys, and bright
sparkling streams were the features of the landscape. But there was little
animate life. Now and then a shout from the leader of the party (for,
according to custom, we travelled Indian file) would call our attention to
a herd of deer "loping," as the Westerners

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say, through the forest; or an additional spur would be given to the
horses on the appearance of some small dark object, far distant on the
trial before us. But the game invariably contrived to disappear before we
could reach it, and it was out of the question to leave the beaten track
for a regular hunt.

Soon after mid-day, we descended a long, sloping knoll, and by a sudden
turn came full in view of the beautiful sheet of water denominated Gros-
pied by the French, Maunk-suck by the natives, and by ourselves Big-foot,
from the chief whose village overlooked its waters. Bold, swelling hills
jutted forward into the clear blue expanse, or retreated slightly to
afford a green, level nook, as a resting-place for the dwelling of man. On
the nearer shore stretched a bright, gravelly beach, across which coursed
here and there a pure, sparkling rivulet to join the larger sheet of water.

On a rising ground at the foot of one of the bold bluffs in the middle
distance, a collection of neat wigwams formed, with their surrounding
gardens, no unpleasant feature in the picture.

A shout of delight burst involuntarily from the whole party, as this
charming landscape met our view. "It was like the Hudson, only less bold--
no, it was like the lake of the Forest Cantons, in the picture of the
Chapel of William Tell! What could be imagined more enchanting? Oh! if our
friends at the East could but enjoy it with us!"

We paused long to admire, and then spurred on, skirting the head of the
lake, and were soon ascending the broad platform on which stood the
village of Maunk-suck, or Big-foot.

The inhabitants, who had witnessed our approach from a distance, were all
assembled in front of their wigwams

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to greet us, if friends--if otherwise, whatever the occasion should
demand. It was the first time such a spectacle had ever presented itself
to-their wondering eyes. Their salutations were not less cordial than we
expected. "Shaw-nee-aw-kee" and his mother, who was known throughout the
tribe by the touching appellation "Our friend's wife," were welcomed most
kindly, and an animated conversation commenced, which I could understand
only so far as it was conveyed by gestures; so I amused myself by taking a
minute survey of all that met my view.

The chief was a large, raw-boned, ugly Indian, with a countenance bloated
by intemperance, and with a sinister, unpleasant expression. He had a gay-
colored handkerchief upon his head, and was otherwise attired in his best,
in compliment to the strangers.

It was to this chief that Chambly, or, as he is now called, Shaw-bee-nay,
Billy Caldwell, and Robinson were dispatched, by Dr. Wolcott, their Agent,
during the Winnebago war, in 1827, to use their earnest endeavors to
prevent this chief and his band from joining the hostile Indians. With
some difficulty they succeeded, and were thus the means, doubtless, of
saving the lives of all the settlers who lived exposed upon the frontier.

Among the various groups of his people, there was none attracted my
attention so forcibly as a young man of handsome face, and a figure that
was striking even where all were fine and symmetrical. He too had a gay
handkerchief on his head, a shirt of the brightest lemon-colored calico,
an abundance of silver ornaments, and, what gave his dress a most fanciful
appearance, one legging of blue and the other of bright scarlet. I was not
ignorant that this peculiar feature in his toilet indicated a heart
suffering from the tender passion. The flute, which

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he carried in his hand, added confirmation to the fact, while the joyous,
animated expression of his countenance showed with equal plainness that he
was not a despairing lover.

I could have imagined him to have recently returned from the chase, laden
with booty, with which he had, as is the custom, entered the lodge of the
fair one, and thrown his burden at the feet of her parents, with an
indifferent, superb sort of air, as much as to say, "Here is some meat--it
is a mere trifle, but it will show you what you might expect with me for a
son-in-law." I could not doubt that the damsel had stepped forward and
gathered it up, in token that she accepted the offering, and the donor
along with it. There was nothing in the appearance or manner of any of the
maidens by whom we were surrounded, to denote which was the happy fair,
neither, although I peered anxiously into all their countenances, could I
there detect any blush of consciousness; so I was obliged to content
myself with selecting the youngest and prettiest of the group, and go on
weaving my romance to my own satisfaction.

The village stood encircled by an amphitheatre of bills, so precipitous,
and with gorges so steep and narrow, that it seemed almost impossible to
scale them, even on horseback; how, then, could we hope to accomplish the
ascent of the four-wheeled carriage? This was the point now under
discussion between my husband and the Pottowattamies. There was no
alternative but to make the effort, selecting the pass that the
inhabitants pointed out as the most practicable. Petaille went first, and
I followed on my favorite Jerry. It was such a scramble as is not often
taken,--almost perpendicularly, through what seemed the dry bed of a
torrent, now filled with loose stones, and scarcely affording one secure
foothold from the bottom to

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the summit! I clung fast to the mane, literally at times clasping Jerry
around his neck, and, amid the encouraging shouts and cheers of those
below, we at length arrived safely, though nearly breathless, on the
pinnacle, and sat looking down, to view the success of the next party.

The horses had been taken from the carriage, the luggage it contained
being placed upon the shoulders of some of the young Indians, to be toted
up the steep. Ropes were now attached to its sides, and a regular bevy of
our red friends, headed by our two Frenchmen, placed to man them. Two or
three more took their places in the rear, to hold the vehicle and keep it
from slipping backwards--then the labor commenced. Such a pulling! such a
shouting! such a clapping of hands by the spectators of both sexes! such a
stentorian word of command or encouragement from the bourgeois! Now and
then there would be a slight halt, a wavering, as if carriage and men were
about to tumble backwards into the plain below; but no--they would recover
themselves, and after incredible efforts they too safely gained the table-
land above. In process of time all were landed there, and, having
remunerated our friends to their satisfaction, the goods and chattels were
collected, the wagon repacked, and we set off for our encampment at Turtle
Creek.

The exertions and excitement of our laborious ascent, together with the
increasing heat of the sun, made this afternoon's ride more uncomfortable
than anything we had previously felt. We were truly rejoiced when the
whoop of our guide, and the sight of a few scattered lodges, gave notice
that we had reached our encamping-ground. We chose a beautiful sequestered
spot by the side of a clear, sparkling stream, and, having dismounted and
seen that our horses were made comfortable, my husband, after giving his
directions to his men, led me to a retired spot where

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I could lay aside my hat and mask and bathe my flushed face and aching
head in the cool, refreshing waters. Never had I felt anything so
grateful, so delicious. I sat down, and leaned my head against one of the
tall, overshadowing trees, and was almost dreaming, when summoned to
partake of our evening meal.

The Indians had brought us, as a present, some fine brook trout, which our
Frenchmen had prepared in the most tempting fashion, and before the bright
moon rose and we were ready for our rest, all headache and fatigue had
alike disappeared.

One of the most charming features of this mode of travelling is the
joyous, vocal life of the forest at early dawn, when all the feathered
tribe come forth to pay their cheerful salutations to the opening day.

The rapid, chattering flourish of the bob-o'-link, the soft whistle of the
thrush, the tender coo of the wood-dove, the deep, warbling bass of the
grouse, the drumming of the partridge, the melodious trill of the lark,
the gay carol of the robin, the friendly, familiar call of the duck and
the teal, resound from tree and knoll and lowland, prompting the
expressive exclamation of the simple half-breed,--

"Voila la foret qui parle!"(*)

It seems as if man must involuntarily raise his voice, to take part in the
general chorus--the matin song of praise.

Birds and flowers, and the soft balmy airs of morning! Must it not have
been in a scene like this that Milton's Adam poured out his beautiful hymn
of adoration,--

"These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good"?

(* How the woods talk!)

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This day we were journeying in hopes to reach, at an early hour, that
broad expanse of the Rock River which here forms the Kosh-ko-nong. The
appellation of this water, rendered doubly affecting by the subsequent
fate of its people, imports "the lake we live on."

Our road for the early part of the day led through forests so thick and
tangled that Grignon and Lecuyer were often obliged to go in advance as
pioneers with their axes, to cut away the obstructing shrubs and branches.
It was slow work, and at times quite discouraging, but we were through
with it at last, and then we came into a country of altogether a different
description,--low prairies, intersected with deep, narrow streams like
canals, the passage of which, either by horses or carriages, was often a
matter of delay and even difficulty.

Several times in the course of the forenoon the horses were to be taken
from the carriage and the latter pulled and pushed across the deep narrow
channels as best it might.

The wooded banks of the Kosh-ko-nong were never welcomed with greater
delight than by us when they at length broke upon our sight. A ride of
five or six miles through the beautiful oak openings brought us to
Maneater's village, a collection of neat bark wigwams, with extensive
fields on each side of corn, beans, and squashes, recently planted, but
already giving promise of a fine crop. In front was the broad blue lake,
the shores of which, to the south, were open and marshy, but near the
village, and stretching far away to the north, were bordered by fine lofty
trees. The village was built but a short distance below the point where
the Rock River opens into the lake, and during a conversation between our
party and the Indians at the village, an arrangement was made with them to
take us across at a spot about half a mile above.

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After a short halt, we again took up our line of march through the woods,
along the bank of the river.

A number of the Winnebagoes (for we had been among our own people since
leaving Gros-pied Lake) set out for the appointed place by water, paddling
their canoes, of which they had selected the largest and strongest.

Arrived at the spot indicated, we dismounted, and the men commenced the
task of unsaddling and unloading. We were soon placed in the canoes, and
paddled across to the opposite bank. Next, the horses were swum across--
after them was to come the carriage. Two long wooden canoes were securely
lashed together side by side, and being of sufficient width to admit of
the carriage standing within them, the passage was commenced. Again and
again the tottering barks would sway from side to side, and a cry or a
shout would arise from our party on shore, as the whole mass seemed about
to plunge sideways into the water, but it would presently recover itself,
and at length, after various deviations from the perpendicular, it reached
the shore in safety.

We now hoped that our troubles were at an end, and that we had nothing to
do but to mount and trot on as fast as possible to Fort Winnebago. But no.
Half a mile farther on was a formidable swamp, of no great width it is
true, but with a depth of from two to three feet of mud and water. It was
a question whether, with the carriage, we could get through it at all.
Several of the Indians accompanied us to this place, partly to give us
their aid and counsel, and partly to enjoy the fun of the spectacle.

On reaching the swamp, we were disposed to laugh at the formidable
representations which had been made to us. We saw only a strip of what
seemed rather low land, covered with tall, dry rushes.

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It is true the ground looked a little wet, but there seemed nothing to
justify all the apprehensions that had been excited. Great was my
surprise, then, to see my husband, who had been a few minutes absent,
return to our circle attired in his duck trousers, and without shoes or
stockings.

"What are you going to do?" inquired I.

"Carry you through the swamp on my shoulders. Come, Petaille, you are the
strongest--you are to carry Madame Kinzie, and To-shun-nuck there
(pointing to a tall, stout Winnebago), he will take Madame Helm."

"Wait a moment," said I, and, seating myself on the grass, I deliberately
took off my own boots and stockings.

"What is that for?" they all asked.

"Because I do not wish to ride with wet feet all the rest of the day."

"No danger of that," said they, and no one followed my example.

By the time they were in the midst of the swamp, however, they found my
precaution had been by no means useless. The water through which our
bearers had to pass was of such a depth that no efforts of the ladies were
sufficient to keep their feet above the surface; and I had the
satisfaction of feeling that my burden upon my husband's shoulders was
much less, from my being able to keep my first position instead of
changing constantly to avoid a contact with the water.

The laugh was quite on my side when I resumed my equipment and mounted,
dry-shod, into my saddle.

It will be perceived that journeying in the woods is, in some degree, a
deranger of ceremony and formality; that it necessarily restricts us
somewhat in our conventionalities. The only remedy is, to make ourselves
amends by a double share when we return to the civilized walks of life.

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By dint of much pulling, shouting, encouraging, and threatening, the
horses at length dragged the carriage through the difficult pass, and our
red friends were left to return to their village, with, doubtless, a very
exaggerated and amusing account of all that they had seen and assisted in.

We had not forgotten our promise to Lieutenant Foster to put up a "guide-
board" of some sort, for his accommodation in following us. We therefore,
upon several occasions, carried with us from the woods a few pieces, of
three or four feet in length, which we planted at certain points, with a
transverse stick through a cleft in the top, thus marking the direction he
and his party were to take.

We therefore felt sure that, although a few days later, he would find our
trial, and avail himself of the same assistance as we had, in getting
through the difficulties of the way.

Our encamping-ground, this night, was to be not far distant from the Four
Lakes. We were greatly fatigued with the heat and exercise of the day, and
most anxiously did we look out for the clumps of willows and alders which
were to mark the spot where water would be found. We felt hardly equal to
pushing on quite to the bank of the nearest lake. Indeed, it would have
taken us too much off our direct course.

When we, at a late hour, came upon a spot fit for our purpose, we
exchanged mutual congratulations that this was to be our last night upon
the road. The next day we should be at Winnebago!

Our journey had been most delightful--a continued scene of exhilaration
and enjoyment; for the various mishaps, although for the moment they had
perplexed, yet, in the end, had but added to our amusement. Still, with the

Page 258

inconstancy of human nature, we were pleased to exchange its excitement
for the quiet repose of home.

Our next morning's ride was of a more tranquil character than any that had
preceded it; for at an early hour we entered upon what was known as the
"Twenty-mile Prairie,"--and I may be permitted to observe that the miles
are wonderfully long on the prairies. Our passage over this was, except
the absence of the sand, like crossing the desert. Mile after mile of
unbroken expanse--not a tree--not a living object except ourselves.

The sun, as if to make himself amends for his two months' seclusion, shone
forth with redoubled brilliancy. There is no such thing as carrying an
umbrella on horse-back, though those in the wagon were able to avail
themselves of such a shelter.

Our mother's energies had sustained her in the saddle until this day, but
she was now fairly obliged to give in, and yield her place on little
Brunet to sister Margaret.

Thus we went on, one little knoll rising beyond another, from the summit
of each of which, in succession, we hoped to descry the distant woods,
which were to us as the promised land.

"Take courage," were the cheering words, often repeated; "very soon you
will begin to see the timber."

Another hour would pass heavily by.

"Now, when we reach the rising ground just ahead, look sharp."

We would look sharp--nothing but the same unvarying landscape.

There were not even streams to allay the feverish thirst occasioned by
fatigue and impatience.

At length a whoop from Shaw-nee-aw-kee broke the silence in which we were
pursuing our way.

"Le voila!" (There it is!)

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Our less practised eye could not at first discern the faint blue strip
edging the horizon, but it grew and grew upon our vision, and fatigue and
all discomfort proportionably disappeared.

We were in fine spirits by the time we reached "Hastings's Woods," a noble
forest, watered by a clear, sparkling stream.

Grateful as was the refreshment of the green foliage and the cooling
waters, we did not allow ourselves to forget that the day was wearing on,
and that we must, if possible, complete our journey before sunset; so we
soon braced up our minds to continue our route, although we would gladly
have lingered another hour.

The marsh of Duck Creek was, thanks to the heat of the past week, in a
very different state from what it had been a few months previous, when I
had been so unfortunately submerged in its icy waters.

We passed it without difficulty, and soon found ourselves upon the banks
of the creek.

The stream, at this point, was supposed to be always fordable; and even
were it not so, that to the majority of our party would have been a matter
of little moment. To the ladies, however, the subject seemed to demand
consideration.

"This water looks very deep--are you sure we can cross it on horseback?"

"Oh, yes! Petaille, go before, and let us see how the water is."

Petaille obeyed. He was mounted on a horse like a giraffe, and, extending
his feet horizontally, he certainly managed to pass through the stream
without much of a wetting.

It seemed certain that the water would come into the wagon, but that was
of the less consequence as, in case of the worst, the passengers could
mount upon the seats.

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My horse, Jerry, was above the medium height, so that I soon passed over,
with no inconvenience but that of being obliged to disengage my feet from
the stirrups and tuck them up snugly against the mane of the horse.

Sister Margaret was still upon Brunet. She was advised to change him for
one of the taller horses, but while the matter was under debate, it was
settled by the perverse little wretch taking to the water most
unceremoniously, in obedience to the example of the other animals.

He was soon beyond his depth, and we were at once alarmed and diverted at
seeing his rider, with surprising adroitness, draw her feet from the
stirrups and perch herself upon the top of the saddle, where she held her
position, and navigated her little refractory steed safely to land.

This was the last of our adventures. A pleasant ride of four miles brought
us to the Fort, just as the sun was throwing his last beams over the
glowing landscape; and on reaching the ferry we were at once conducted, by
the friends who were awaiting us, to the hospitable roof of Major Twiggs.



Page 261

CHAPTER XXVI.
FOUR-LEGS, THE DANDY.

The companies of the First Infantry, which had hitherto been stationed at
Fort Winnebago, had before our arrival received orders to move on to the
Mississippi as soon as relieved by a portion of the Fifth, now at Fort
Howard.

As many of the officers of the latter regiment were married, we had reason
to expect that all the quarters at the post would be put in requisition.
For this reason, although strongly pressed by Major Twiggs to take up our
residence again in the Fort until he should go on furlough, we thought it
best to establish ourselves at once at "the Agency."

It seemed laughable to give so grand a name to so very insignificant a
concern. We had been promised, by the heads of department at Washington, a
comfortable dwelling so soon as there should be an appropriation by
Congress sufficient to cover any extra expense in the Indian Department.
It was evident that Congress had a great spite at us, for it had delayed
for two sessions attending to our accommodation. There was nothing to be
done, therefore, but to make ourselves comfortable with the best means in
our power.

The old log barracks, which had been built for the officers and soldiers
on the first establishment of the post, two years previous, had been
removed by our French engages and put up again upon the little hill
opposite the Fort. To these some additions were now made in the

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shape of dairy, stables, smoke-house, etc., constructed of tamarack logs
brought from the neighboring swamp. The whole presented a very rough and
primitive appearance.

The main building consisted of a range of four rooms, no two of which
communicated with each other, but each opened by a door into the outward
air. A small window cut through the logs in front and rear, gave light to
the apartment. An immense clay chimney for every two rooms, occupied one
side of each, and the ceiling overhead was composed of a few rough boards
laid upon the transverse logs that supported the roof.

It was surprising how soon a comfortable, homelike air was given to the
old dilapidated rooms, by a few Indian mats spread upon the floor, the
piano and other furniture ranged in their appropriate places, and even a
few pictures hung against the logs. The latter, alas! had soon to be
displaced, for with the first heavy shower the rain found entrance through
sundry crevices, and we saw ourselves obliged to put aside, carefully,
everything that could be injured by the moisture. We made light of these
evils, however--packed away our carpets and superfluous furniture upon the
boards above, which we dignified with the name of attic, and contentedly
resolved to await the time when Government should condescend to remember
us. The greatest inconvenience I experienced, was from the necessity of
wearing my straw bonnet throughout the day, as I journeyed from bedroom to
parlor, and from parlor to kitchen. I became so accustomed to it that I
even sometimes forgot to remove it when I sat down to table, or to my
quiet occupations with my mother and sister.

Permission was, however, in time, received to build a house for the
blacksmith--that is, the person kept in pay by the Government at this
station to mend the guns, traps, etc. of the Indians.

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It happened most fortunately for us that Monsieur Isidore Morrin was a
bachelor, and quite satisfied to continue boarding with his friend Louis
Frum, dit Manaigre, so that when the new house was fairly commenced we
planned it and hurried it forward entirely on our own account.

It was not very magnificent, it is true, consisting of but a parlor and
two bedrooms on the ground-floor, and two low chambers under the roof,
with a kitchen in the rear; but compared with the rambling old stable-like
building we now inhabited, it seemed quite a palace.

Before it was completed, Mr. Kinzie was notified that the money for the
annual Indian payment was awaiting his arrival in Detroit to take it in
charge and superintend its transportation to the Portage; and he was
obliged to set off at once to fulfil this part of his duty.

The workmen who had been brought from the Mississippi to erect the main
building, were fully competent to carry on their work without an overseer;
but the kitchen was to be the task of the Frenchmen, and the question was,
how could it be executed in the absence of the bourgeois?

"You will have to content yourselves in the old quarters until my return,"
said my husband, "and then we will soon have things in order." His journey
was to be a long and tedious one, for the operations of Government were
not carried on by railroad and telegraph in those days.

After his departure I said to the men, "Come, you have all your logs cut
and hauled--the squaws have brought the bark for the roof--what is to
prevent our finishing the house and getting all moved and settled to
surprise Monsieur John on his return?"

"Ah! to be sure, Madame John," said Plante, who was

Page 264

always the spokesman, "provided the one who plants a green bough on the
chimney-top is to have a treat."

"Certainly. All hands fall to work, and see who will win the treat."

Upon the strength of such an inducement to the one who should put the
finishing stroke to the building, Plante, Pillon, and Manaigre, whom the
waggish Plante persisted in calling "mon negre," whenever he felt himself
out of the reach of the other's arm, all went vigorously to work.

Building a log house is a somewhat curious process. First, as will be
conceived, the logs are laid one upon another and jointed at the corners,
until the walls have reached the required height. The chimney is formed by
four poles of the proper length, interlaced with a wicker-work of small
branches. A hole or pit is dug, near at hand, and, with a mixture of clay
and water, a sort of mortar is formed. Large wisps of hay are filled with
this thick substance, and fashioned with the hands into what are
technically called "clay cats," and these are filled in among the frame-
work of the chimney until not a chink is left. The whole is then covered
with a smooth coating of the wet clay, which is denominated "plastering."

Between the logs which compose the walls of the building, small bits of
wood are driven, quite near together; this is called "chinking," and after
it is done, clay cats are introduced, and smoothed over with the plaster.
When all is dry, both walls and chimney are whitewashed, and present a
comfortable and tidy appearance.

The roof is formed by laying upon the transverse logs thick sheets of
bark. Around the chimney, for greater security against the rain, we took
care to have placed a few layers of the palisades that had been left when
Mr. Peach, an odd little itinerant genius, had fenced in our

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garden, the pride and wonder of the surrounding settlement and wigwams.

While all these matters were in progress, we received frequent visits from
our Indian friends. First and foremost among them was "the young Dandy,"
Four-Legs.

One fine morning he made his appearance, accompanied by two squaws, whom
he introduced as his wives. He could speak a little Chippewa, and by this
means he and our mother contrived to keep up something of a conversation.
He was dressed in all his finery, brooches, wampum, fan, looking-glass and
all. The paint upon his face and chest showed that he had devoted no small
time to the labors of his toilet.

He took a chair, as he had seen done at Washington, and made signs to his
women to sit down upon the floor.

The custom of taking two wives is not very general among the Indians. They
seem to have the sagacity to perceive that the fewer they have to manage,
the more complete is the peace and quiet of the wigwam.

Nevertheless, it sometimes happens that a husband takes a foolish fancy
for a second squaw, and in that case he uses all his cunning and eloquence
to reconcile the first to receiving a new inmate in the lodge. Of course
it is a matter that must be managed adroitly, in order that harmony may be
preserved.

"My dear, your health is not very good; it is time you should have some
rest. You have worked very hard, and it grieves me that you should have to
labor any longer. Let me get you some nice young squaw to wait upon you,
that you may live at ease all the rest of your life."

The first wife consents; indeed, she has no option. If she is of a
jealous, vindictive disposition, what a life the new-comer leads! The old
one maintains all her rights of dowager and duenna, and the husband's
tenderness is

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hardly a compensation for all the evils the young rival is made to suffer.

It was on Sunday morning that this visit of the Dandy was made to us. We
were all seated quietly, engaged in reading. Four-Legs inquired of my
mother, why we were so occupied, and why everything around us was so still.

My mother explained to him our observance of the day of rest--that we
devoted it to worshipping and serving the Great Spirit, as he had
commanded in his Holy Word.

Four-Legs gave a nod of approbation. That was very right, he said--he was
glad to see us doing our duty--he was very religious himself, and he liked
to see others so. He always took care that his squaws attended to their
duties,--not reading, perhaps, but such as the Great Spirit liked, and
such as he thought proper and becoming.

He seemed to have no fancy for listening to any explanation of our points
of difference. The impression among the Winnebagoes "that if the Great
Spirit had wished them different from what they are, he would have made
them so," seems too strong to yield to either argument or persuasion.

Sometimes those who are desirous of appearing somewhat civilized will
listen quietly to all that is advanced on the subject of Christianity,
then, coolly saying, "Yes, we believe that too," will change the
conversation to other subjects.

As a general thing, they do not appear to perceive that there is anything
to be gained by adopting the religion and the customs of the whites. "Look
at them," they say, "always toiling and striving--always wearing a brow of
care--shut up in houses--afraid of the wind and the rain--suffering when
they are deprived of the comforts of life! We, on the contrary, live a
life of freedom and happiness.

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We hunt and fish, and pass our time pleasantly in the open woods and
prairies. If we are hungry, we take some game; or, if we do not find that,
we can go without. If our enemies trouble us, we can kill them, and there
is no more said about it. What should we gain by changing ourselves into
white men?"(*)

Christian missionaries, with all their efforts to convert them, had at
this day made little progress in enlightening their minds upon the
doctrines of the Gospel. Mr. Mazzuchelli, a Roman Catholic priest,
accompanied by Miss Elizabeth Grignon as interpreter, made a missionary
visit to the Portage during our residence there, and, after some
instruction from him, about forty consented to be baptized. Christian
names were given to them, with which they seemed much pleased; and not
less so with the little plated crucifixes which each received, and which
the women wore about their necks. These they seemed to regard with a
devotional feeling; but I was not sufficiently acquainted with their
language to gather from them whether they understood the doctrine the
symbol was designed to convey. Certain it is, they expressed no wish to
learn our language, in order that they might gain a fuller knowledge of
the Saviour, nor any solicitude to be taught more about him than they had
received during the missionary's short visit.

One woman, to whom the name of Charlotte had been given, signified a
desire to learn the domestic ways of the whites, and asked of me as a
favor through Madame Paquette that she might be permitted to come on
"washing-day,"

(* It will be remembered that these were the arguments used at a period
when the Indians possessed most of the broad lands on the Upper
Mississippi and its tributaries--when they were still allowed some share
of the blessings of life.)

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and learn of my servants our way of managing the business. A tub was given
her, and my woman instructed her, by signs and example, how she was to
manage. As I was not a little curious to observe how things went on, I
proceeded after a time to the kitchen where they all were. Charlotte was
at her tub, scouring and rubbing with all her might at her little
crucifix. Two other squaws sat upon the floor near her, watching the
operation.

"That is the work she has been at for the last half-hour," said Josette,
in a tone of great impatience. "She'll never learn to wash."

Charlotte, however, soon fell diligently to work, and really seemed as if
she would tear her arms off, with her violent exertions.

After a time, supposing that she must feel a good deal fatigued and
exhausted with the unaccustomed labor, I did what it was at that day very
much the fashion to do,--what, at home, I had always seen done on washing-
day,--what, in short, I imagine was then a general custom among
housekeepers. I went to the dining-room closet, intending to give
Charlotte a glass of wine or brandy and water. My "cupboard" proved to be
in the state of the luckless "Mother Hubbard's"--nothing of the kind could
I find but a bottle of orange shrub.

Of this I poured out a wineglassful, and, carrying it out, offered it to
the woman. She took it with an expression of great pleasure; but, in
carrying it to her lips, she stopped short, and exclaiming, "Whiskey!"
immediately returned it to me. I would still have pressed it upon her;
for, in my inexperience, I really believed it was a cordial she needed;
but, pointing to her crucifix, she shook her head and returned to her work.

I received this as a lesson more powerful than twenty

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sermons. It was the first time in my life that I had ever seen spirituous
liquors rejected upon a religious principle, and it made an impression
upon me that I never forgot.



CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CUT-NOSE.

Among the women of the tribe with whom we early became acquainted, our
greatest favorite was a daughter of one of the Day-kau-rays. This family,
as I have elsewhere said, boasted in some remote generation a cross of the
French blood, and this fact might account for the fair complexion and soft
curling hair which distinguished our friend. She had a noble forehead,
full, expressive eyes, and fine teeth. Unlike the women of her people, she
had not grown brown and haggard with advancing years. Indeed, with the
exception of one feature, she might be called beautiful.

She had many years before married a Mus-qua-kee, or Fox Indian, and,
according to the custom among all the tribes, the husband came home to the
wife's family, and lived among the Winnebagoes.

It is this custom, so exactly the reverse of civilized ways, that makes
the birth of a daughter a subject of peculiar rejoicing in an Indian
family. "She will bring another hunter to our lodge," is the style of
mutual congratulation.

The Mus-qua-kee continued, for some few years, to live among his wife's
relations; but, as no children blessed their union, he at length became
tired of his new friends,

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and longed to return to his own people. He tried, for a time, to persuade
his wife to leave her home, and accompany him to the Mississippi, on the
banks of which the Sauks and Foxes lived, but in vain. She could not
resolve to make the sacrifice.

One day, after many fruitless efforts to persuade her, he flew into a
violent passion.

"Then, if you will not go with me," said he, "I will leave you; but you
shall never be the wife of any other man--I will mark you!"

Saying this, he flew upon her, and bit off the end of her nose. This, the
usual punishment for conjugal infidelity, is the greatest disgrace a woman
can receive--it bars her forever from again entering the pale of
matrimony. The wretch fled to his own people; but his revenge fell short
of its aim. Day-kau-ray was too well known and too universally respected
to suffer opprobrium in any member of his family. This bright, loving
creature in particular, won all hearts upon a first acquaintance--she
certainly did ours, from the outset.

She suffered much from rheumatism, and a remedy we gave her soon afforded
her almost entire relief. Her gratitude knew no bounds. Notwithstanding
that from long suffering she had become partially crippled, she would walk
all the way from the Barribault, a distance of ten miles, as often as once
in two or three weeks, to visit us. Then, to sit and gaze at us, to laugh
with childish glee at everything new or strange that we employed ourselves
about--to pat and stroke us every time we came near her--sometimes to
raise our hand or arm and kiss it--these were her demonstrations of
affection. And we loved her in return. It was always a joyful announcement
when, looking out over the Portage road, somebody called out, "The Cut-
nose is coming!" In time, however,

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we learned to call her by her baptismal name of Elizabeth, for she, too,
was one of Mr. Mazzuchelli's converts.

She came one day, accompanied by a half-grown boy, carrying a young fawn
she had brought me as a present. I was delighted with the pretty creature--
with its soft eyes and dappled coat; but having often heard the simile,
"as wild as a fawn," I did not anticipate much success in taming it. To my
great surprise, it soon learned to follow me like a dog. Wherever I went,
there Fan was sure to be. At breakfast, she would lie down at my feet,
under the table. One of her first tokens of affection was to gnaw off all
the trimming from my black silk apron, as she lay pretending to caress and
fondle me. Nor was this her only style of mischief.

One day we heard a great rattling among the crockery in the kitchen. We
ran to see what was the matter, and found that Miss Fan had made her way
to a shelf of the dresser, about two feet from the ground, and was
endeavoring to find a comfortable place to lie down, among the plates and
dishes. I soon observed that it was the shelter of the shelf above her
head that was the great attraction, and that she was in the habit of
seeking out a place of repose under a chair, or something approaching to
an "umbrageous bower." So after this I took care, as the hour for her
morning nap approached, to open a large green parasol, and set it on the
matting in the corner--then when I called "Fan, Fan," she would come and
nestle under it, and soon fall fast asleep.

One morning Fan was missing. In vain we called and sought her in the
garden--in the enclosure for the cattle--at the houses of the Frenchmen--
along the hill towards Paquette's--no Fan was to be found. We thought she
had asserted her own wild nature and sped away to the woods.

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It was a hot forenoon, and the doors were all open. About dinner-time, in
rushed Fan, panting violently, and threw herself upon her side, where she
lay with her feet outstretched, her mouth foaming, and exhibiting all the
signs of mortal agony. We tried to give her water, to soothe her, if
perhaps it might be fright that so affected her; but in a few minutes,
with a gasp and a spasm, she breathed her last. Whether she had been
chased by the greyhounds, or whether she had eaten some poisonous weed,
which, occasioning her suffering, had driven her to her best friends for
aid, we never knew; but we lost our pretty pet, and many were the tears
shed for her.

Very shortly after the departure of my husband, we received a visit from
"the White Crow," the "Little Priest," and several others of the principal
chiefs of the Rock River Indians. They seemed greatly disappointed at
learning that their Father was from home, even though his errand was to
get "the silver." We sent for Paquette, who interpreted for us the object
of their visit.

They had come to inform us that the Sauk chief Black Hawk and his band,
who, in compliance with a former treaty, had removed some time previous to
the west of the Mississippi, had now returned to their old homes and
hunting-grounds, and expressed a determination not to relinquish them, but
to drive off the white settlers who had begun to occupy them.

The latter, in fact, the chief had already done, and having, as it was
said, induced some of the Pottowattamies to join him, there was reason to
fear that he might persuade some of the Winnebagoes to follow their
example.

These chiefs had come to counsel with their Father, and

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to assure him that they should do all in their power to keep their young
men quiet. They had heard that troops were being raised down among the
whites in Illinois, and they had hopes that their people would be wise
enough to keep out of difficulty. Furthermore, they begged that their
Father, on his return, would see that the soldiers did not meddle with
them, so long as they remained quiet and behaved in a friendly manner.

White Crow seemed particularly anxious to impress it upon me, that if any
danger should arise in Shaw-nee-awkee's absence, he should come with his
people to protect me and my family. I relied upon his assurances, for he
had ever shown himself an upright and honorable Indian.

Notwithstanding this, the thoughts of Indian troubles so near us, in the
absence of our guardian and protector, occasioned us many an anxious
moment, and it was not until we learned of the peaceable retreat of the
Sauks and Foxes west of the Mississippi, that we were able wholly to lay
aside our fears.

We were now called to part with our friends, Major Twiggs and his family,
which we did with heartfelt regret. He gave me a few parting words about
our old acquaintance, Krissman.

"When I went into the barracks the other day," said he, "about the time
the men were taking their dinner, I noticed a great six-foot soldier
standing against the window-frame, crying and blubbering. 'Halloo,' said
I, 'what on earth does this mean?rsquo;

"'Why, that fellow there,' said Krissman (for it was he), 'has scrowged me
out of my place!' 'A pretty soldier your protege will make, madam!" added
the Major.

I never heard more of my hero. Whether he went to exhibit his prowess
against the Seminoles and Mexicans, or whether he returned to till the
fertile soil of his native

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German Flats and blow his favorite boatman's horn, must be left for some
future historian to tell.

There is one more character to be disposed of--Louisa. An opportunity
offering in the spring, the Major placed her under the charge of a person
going to Buffalo, that she might be returned to her parents. In compliment
to the new acquaintances she had formed, she shortened her skirts, mounted
a pair of scarlet leggings embroidered with porcupine-quills, and took her
leave of military life, having deposited with the gentleman who took
charge of her sixty dollars, for safe keeping, which she remarked "she had
saved up, out of her wages at a dollar a week, through the winter."

A very short time after we were settled in our new home at the Agency, we
attempted the commencement of a little Sunday-school. Edwin, Harry and
Josette were our most reliable scholars, but besides them there were the
two little Manaigres, Therese Paquette, and her mother's half-sister,
Florence Courville, a pretty young girl of fifteen. None of these girls
had even learned their letters. They spoke only French, or rather the
Canadian patois, and it was exceedingly difficult to give them at once the
sound of the words, and their signification, which they were careful to
inquire. Besides this, there was the task of correcting the false ideas,
and remedying the ignorance and superstition which presented so formidable
an obstacle to rational improvement. We did our best, however, and had the
satisfaction of seeing them, after a time, making really respectable
progress with their spelling-book, and, what was still more encouraging,
acquiring a degree of light and knowledge in regard to better things.

In process of time, however, Florence was often absent from her class.
"Her sister," she said, "could not always

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spare her. She wanted her to keep house while she herself went over on
Sunday to visit her friends the Roys, who lived on the Wisconsin."

We reasoned with Madame Paquette on the subject.

"Could she not spare Florence on some hour of the day? We would gladly
teach her on a week-day, for she seemed anxious to learn, but we had
always been told that for that there was no time."

"Well--she would see. Madame Allum (Helm) and Madame John were so kind!"

There was no improvement, however, in regularity. After a time Manaigre
was induced to send his children to Mr. Cadle's mission-school at Green
Bay. Therese accompanied them, and very soon Florence discontinued her
attendance altogether.

We were obliged, from that time forward, to confine our instructions to
our own domestic circle.