Crow-Wing, July, 1846.
The spot thus designated is beautifully situated on the east side of the
Mississippi, directly at the mouth of the river known by that name. It
is here that the trader Morrison resides, whose reputation as an
upright, intelligent, and noble-hearted man, is coextensive with the
entire wilderness of the northwest. He is a Scotchman by birth, somewhat
advanced in life, and has resided in the Indian country for thirty-five
years. He possesses all the virtues of the trader and none of his vices.
He is the worthy husband of a worthy Indian woman, the affectionate
father of a number of bright children, and the patriarch of all the
Chippeway Indians, who reside on the Mississippi. Around his cabin and
two rude store-houses, at the present time are encamped about three
hundred Indians, who are _visiting_ him, and I am informed that his
guests, during the summer, seldom amounted to less than one hundred. And
this is the place where I have passed ten of the most truly delightful
days that I ever experienced. It is at this point that I am to embark in
a canoe, during my summer tour with Morrison, (accompanied by his unique
suite,) who is to be my guide, counsellor and friend, while I wander,
according to my own free will, over the lake region of the extreme Upper
Mississippi.
Crow-Wing is not only one of the most delightfully located nooks in the
world, but it is rich in historical and legendary associations. A famous
battle was once fought here, between the Chippeways and Sioux. A party
of the latter had gone up Crow-Wing river for the purpose of destroying
a certain Chippeway village. They found it inhabited only by women and
children, every one of whom they murdered in cold blood, and consumed
their wigwams. It so happened that the Chippeway warriors had been
expecting an attack, and had consequently stationed themselves in deep
holes on a high bank of the river at Crow-Wing, intending to fall upon
the Sioux party on their way _up_ the river. But they were most sadly
disappointed. While watching for their enemies, they were suddenly
startled by a triumphant shout that floated _down_ the stream. In
perfect agony they looked, when lo! the very party that they were after,
came into full view, shouting with delight and tossing up the scalps
which they had taken. Many a Chippeway brave recognized the glossy locks
of his wife or child, and knew his gloomiest anticipations to be true.
They remained in ambush for a few minutes longer, and when the enemy
came within reach of their arrows, every single one of them was killed,
while their canoes, plunder and bodies were suffered to float down the
stream unmolested; and the pall of night rested upon the hills, the
glens, the waveless river, and the Chippeway camp.
Among the many legends associated with Crow-Wing is one about a white
Panther, whose home was here when the world was young. That Panther was
the Prophet of a certain Chippeway tribe, and had power to speak the
Chippeway language. A young brave was anxious to revenge the death of a
brother, and had sought the oracle to learn the success of his intended
expedition. The Panther told him that he must _not_ go, but wait until a
more propitious season. But the young man headed his party, and
_went_;—and every one of his followers was killed,—himself escaping by
the merest chance. Thinking that the Panther had caused this calamity,
he stole upon this creature and slaughtered it, in the darkness of
midnight. The dying words of the oracle were,—“Cruel and unhappy
warrior, I doom thee to walk the earth for ever, a starving and undying
skeleton.” And it is said that this spectre man, whenever the moon is
tinged with red, or the aurora borealis floods the sky with purple, may
be seen flitting in perfect solitude along the banks of the Mississippi.
Crow-Wing is the Windsor of the wilderness, for it is the nominal home
of the head Chief of the Chippeway nation. His name is Hole-in-the-day,
and I had frequent opportunities of visiting him in his lodge. He is
about sixty years of age, and a remarkably handsome man. He is stern and
brave, but mean, vain, treacherous and cruel. He was in the habit of
resorting to the most contemptible tricks, for the purpose of obtaining
whisky, with which he always made a beast of himself. He was constantly
in the habit of talking about himself, and exhibiting the official
papers which he had received from the Government in making treaties. The
following was the most famous of his deeds, and one that he had the
hardihood to boast of as something creditable. He and some six warriors,
while on a hunting tour, were hospitably entertained in a Sioux lodge,
where resided a family of seventeen persons. The two nations were at
peace, and for a time their intercourse had been perfectly friendly. On
leaving his host, Hole-in-the-day shook him cordially by the hand, with
a smile upon his countenance, and departed. At midnight, when the Sioux
family were revelling in their peaceful dreams, Hole-in-the-day and his
men retraced their steps, and without a reasonable provocation fell upon
the unprotected family and cruelly murdered every member, even to the
lisping babe. And it was in the lodge of this titled leader, that I
spent whole hours in conversation, and from whom I received a present,
in the shape of a handsome red-stone pipe. It is indeed a singular fact,
that the most interesting and intelligent nation of the West should be
ruled by such an unworthy chief as Hole-in-the-day.
A word now about his household. He is the husband of two wives, who
pursued, while I was present, their various avocations in perfect
silence. Each of them presented me with a pair of moccasons, and placed
before me whole mocucks of maple sugar. In passing I might remark, that
when the Indians are hard pushed for flour or game, they will resort to
their sugar, upon which they can live for days, and which they consider
the most wholesome of food. The children that swarmed about the chief’s
lodge, I was unable to number. His eldest son and successor I frequently
met, and found him to be a perfect Brummel of the woods. The following
story gave me a glimpse of his character. Some months ago, the idea had
entered his head that his father was jealous of his increasing
popularity among the _people_. He was seriously affected by it, and in a
fit of anger resolved to starve himself to death. His friends laughed at
him, but to no purpose. He left his home, marched into the woods and
ascended a certain hill, (called Look-Out hill, and used from time
immemorial, by the Indians, as a point from which to watch the movements
of their enemies ascending or descending the Mississippi,) where he
remained four days without a particle of food. He was only rescued from
death by the timely discovery of his friends, who took him away by
force, and actually crammed some nourishment down his throat.
But my Crow-Wing stories are not all related yet. I here saw, _alive_
and _quite happy_, a warrior who was once _scalped_ in a skirmish on the
northern shore of Red Lake. His enemies left him on the ground as dead,
but wonderful to relate, he gradually recovered, and is now as well as
any body, but perfectly hairless, of course, and wears upon his head a
black silk handkerchief. The summer after this event he was hunting
buffalo in the Sioux country, when he had another fight with two
Indians, both of whom he succeeded in butchering, and one of those very
men was the identical Sioux who had taken his scalp a few months before.
During my sojourn here, I have had frequent opportunities of witnessing
the Indian mode of swimming. To speak within bounds, there must be some
sixty boys at Crow-Wing, who enjoy a swim about every hour. When not in
the water, they are hard _at work_ playing ball, and all in the
sweltering sunshine, with their ragged looking heads entirely uncovered,
and their bodies almost naked. Just as soon as the child is loosened
from its prison cradle, it is looked upon as a fit candidate for any
number of duckings, which are about its only inheritance. These children
are just as much at home in the water as a full-fledged duck. They swim
with great rapidity, always extending one arm forward, like a bowsprit,
and holding the other closely at the side. They are so expert in diving
that when a number are pursuing a particular individual, and that one
happens to dive, the whole of them will follow after, and finally all
come up a hundred yards off. To bring up a pebble from a hole twenty
feet deep is looked upon as a very common feat. This art seems to be
inherent in their nature, and is the gift of a wise Providence;—for all
their journeys are performed on the water, and their canoes are as frail
as frailty itself. It is very seldom that we hear of an Indian being
drowned.
The only Indian ceremony I have witnessed at this place, is called the
Begging Dance. A large party of _brave_ warriors had come to pay their
white father (Mr. Morrison) a _disinterested_ visit, but as they were
nearly starved, they said not a word, but immediately prepared
themselves for the dance, that is universally practised throughout the
nation. It was night, and all the people of Crow-Wing were stationed in
a large circle before Morrison’s door; while one swarthy form held aloft
a birchen torch, which completed such a picture as was never equalled
upon canvass. The everlasting drum, and rattling of “dry bones,”
commenced their monotonous music; when the most ridiculously dressed man
that I ever beheld, stepped out from the crowd and commenced dancing,
keeping time with a guttural hum. Upon his head was a peaked woollen
hat, and his flowing hair was filled and entangled with burs. On his
back he wore the remnant of an ancient military coat, and on one leg the
half of a pair of breeches, while his other propelling member was
besmeared with mud. In one hand he held the empty skin of a skunk, and
in the other the gaunt body of a dead crane. Immediately after this rare
specimen, appeared in regular succession about twenty more dressed in
the same manner, and when all out, their dancing capers were even more
uncouth and laughable than their personal appearance. The object of all
this was to exhibit their abject poverty, and create an atmosphere of
good nature; and it was their method of asking Mr. Morrison for food.
Soon as he had supplied them with flour and pork, they ceased dancing,
seized the booty, and departed for their wigwams to enjoy a feast. On
the following day, this band of gentlemen made their appearance,
painted, and decked out in most splendid style, with the feathers,
ribbons, scarlet leggins, and other ornaments which they had kept hidden
until after the dance and feast were ended.
I have as yet accomplished but little in the way of hunting; that is,
but little for this region. On one occasion I killed seven fine
_looking_ ducks, which turned out, however, to be unfit to eat, as they
were of the dipper species, and a little too fishy even for my taste; at
one time I killed twenty-five pigeons; at another about a dozen grouse;
and last of all a couple of young coons. This latter game, I would
remark, afforded me one of the most delectable of feasts.
But in the way of fishing, the waters about Crow-Wing have treated me to
some of the rarest of sport. The Mississippi at this point contains a
great variety of fish of the mullet and sucker genus, but the only two
desirable kinds are the muskanounge and a very large pike. I tried some
of these with a fine hook hidden in the breast of a frog, (the disciples
of Byron will please not take the hint, and accuse me of inhuman
cruelty,) but I could not tempt them in that way. The _fashionable_ mode
for taking them is with a spear, by torchlight, and during half the
hours of one night I performed the part of a devotee to fashion. My
pilot was an Indian, and we went in a birchen canoe, using birch-bark
for a torch. There were quite a number of canoes out that night, and the
gliding about of the various torches, the wild shores, the ever-varying
bed of the river, and my own occasional struggle with an immense
fish,—conspired to throw me into a nervous state of excitement which has
not entirely left me at the present moment. I did think of mentioning
the number of prizes that were taken on that memorable night, but my
modesty forbids; I will only say that I saw extended on the shore a
muskanounge that weighed fifty-seven pounds, and a pike that almost
weighed twenty-four.
Two miles east of Morrison’s house is a little lake, some four miles in
circumference, which is said to contain no other fish than black bass.
My own experience tells me that this report is true. I angled along its
sandy shores a number of times, and could take nothing but bass. They
were small, weighing about a pound, of a dark green color on the back,
sides a brilliant yellow, and belly perfectly white. I took them with a
fly, and to the palate found them perfectly delicious.