THE WHITE INDIAN OF CHICAGO.
One morning, as Jasper threw aside the curtain of skins that answered
for a door to his cabin, a strange sight met his eyes. In the clearing
between the cabin and the lake stood the tall form of an Indian. It was
the most noble and beautiful form that he had ever seen, and the
Indian's face and hands were white.
Jasper stood silent. The white Indian bent his eyes upon him, and the
two looked in surprise at each other.
The Indian's eyes were dark, and like the eyes of the native races; but
his nose was Roman, and his skin English, with a slight brown tinge. His
hair was long and curly, and tinged with brown.
"Waubeno," said Jasper, "who is that?"
Waubeno came to the entrance of the cabin, and said:
"The white Indian. _They_ bring good. Speak to him. It is a good sign."
"They?" said Jasper. "I never knew that there were white Indians,
Waubeno. Where do they live? Where do they come from?"
"From the Great River. They come and go, and come and go, and they are
unlike other Indians. They know things that other Indians do not know.
They have a book that talks to them. It came from heaven."
Jasper stepped out on to the clearing, and Waubeno followed him. The
white Indian awaited their approach.
"Welcome, stranger," said Jasper. "Where are you journeying from?"
"From the Great River (Mississippi) to the land of the lakes. They are
coming, coming, my brothers from over the sea, as the prophet said. I
have not seen you here before. I am glad that you have come."
"Where do you live?" asked Jasper.
"My tribe is few, and they wander. They wander till the brothers come.
We are not like other people here, though all the tribes treat us well
and give us food and shelter. We are wanderers. We have lived in the
country many years, and we have often visited Kaskaskia. You will hear
of us there. When the French came, we thought they were brothers. Then
the English came, and we felt that they were brothers. The white people
are our brothers."
"Come in," said Jasper, "and breakfast with us. You are strange to me. I
never heard of you. You seem like a visitant from another world. Tell
me, my brother, how came you to be white?"
"I beg your pardon, stranger, but I ask you the same question, How came
you to be white? The same Power that made your face like the cloud and
the snow, made mine the same. There is kindred blood in our veins, but I
know not how it is--we do not know. Our ancestors had a book that told
us of God, but it was lost when the French raised the cross at
Kaskaskia. We had a legend of the cross, and of armies marching under
the cross, and when the bell began to ring over the praise house there,
we found that we, too, had ancient tales of the bell. More I can not
tell. All the tribes welcome us, and we belong to all the tribes, and we
have wandered for years and years. Our fathers wandered."
"This is all very strange," said Jasper. "Tell us more."
"I expected your coming," said the white Indian. "I was not surprised to
see you here. I expected you. I knew it. There are more white brothers
to come--many. Let me tell you about it all.
"We had a prophet once. He said that we came from over the sea, and that
we would never return, but that we must wander and wander, and that one
day our white brothers would come from over the sea to us. They are
coming; their white wagons are crossing the plains. Every day they are
coming. I love to see them come and pass. The prophet spoke true.
"The French say that we came from a far-away land called Wales. The
French say that a voyager, whose name was Modoc, set sail for the West
eight hundred years ago, and was never heard of again in his own land;
that his ships drifted West, and brought our fathers here. That is what
the French say. I do not know, but I think that you and I are brothers.
I feel it in my heart. You have treated me like a brother, and I kiss
you in my heart. I love the English. They are my friends. I am going to
Malden. There will be more white faces here when I come again."
He took breakfast in the cabin, and went away. Jasper hardly
comprehended the visit. He sought the Indian agent, and described to him
the appearance of the wandering stranger, and related the story that the
man had told.
"There are white crows, white blackbirds, white squirrels, and white
Indians," said the agent, "strange as it may seem. I know nothing about
the origin of any of them--only that they do exist. Ever since the
French and Indians came to the lakes white Indians have been seen. So
have white crows and blackbirds. The French claim that these white
Indians are of Welsh origin, and are the descendants of a body of
mariners who were driven to our shores in the twelfth century by some
accident of navigation or of weather. If so, the Welsh are the second
discoverers of America, following the Northmen. But I put no faith in
these traditions. I only know that from time to time a white-faced
Indian is seen in the Mississippi Valley. There are many tales and
traditions of them. It is simply a mystery that will never be solved."
"But what am I to think of the white Indian's story?"
"Simply that he had been taught by the French romancers, and that he
believed it himself. Black faces have strangely appeared among white
peoples, and Nature alone, could she speak, could explain her laws in
these cases. The Indians have various traditions of the white Indian's
appearance in the regions about Chicago; they regard him as a
medicine-man, or a prophet, or a kind of good ghost. It is thought to be
good fortune to meet him."
"Why does he come here?" said Jasper.
"To see the white people. He believes that the white people are his
kindred, and that they are coming, 'coming,' and one day that they will
flock here in multitudes. The French have told him this. He is a
mythical character. Somehow he has white blood in his veins. I can not
tell how. The Welsh tradition may be true, but it is hardly probable."
Years passed. The white Indian appeared again. The fort had become a
town. The Indian races were disappearing. He saw the white wagons
crossing the prairies, and the reluctant Pottawattomies making their way
toward the Great River and the lands of the sunset. He went away,
solitary as when he came, and was never seen again.
Who may have been these mysterious persons whose white faces for
generations haunted the lakes and the plains? They appeared at
Kaskaskia, their canoes glided mysteriously along the Mississippi, and
they were often seen at the hunting-camps of the North. They sought the
French and the English as soon as these races began to make settlements,
and they seemed to be strangely familiar with English tones, sounds, and
words.
Jasper loved to look out from his cabin on the blue lake, and to dream
of the old scenes of the Prussian war, of Koerner, Von Weber, of
Pestalozzi, and his friend Froebel, and contrast them with the rude new
life around him. The past was there, but the future was here, and here
was his work for the future. It is not what a man has that makes him
happy, but what he is; not his present state, but the horizon of the
future around him that imparts glow to life, and Jasper was at peace
with himself in the sense of doing his duty. Heaven to him was bright
with the smile of God, and he longed no more for the rose-gardens of
Marienthal or the castles of the Rhine.
The appearance of the white Indian filled the mind of Waubeno with pride
and hope.
"We will be happy now," he said. "You will be happy now; nothing happens
to them who see the white Indian; all goes well. I know that you are
good within, else he would not come; only they whose beings within are
good see the white Indian, and he brings bright suns and moons and
calumets of peace, and so the days go on forever. I now know that you
speak true. And Waubeno has seen him; he will do well; he has seen the
white crow among the black crows, and he will do well. Happy moons await
Waubeno."
The lake was glorious in these midsummer days. The prairie roses hung
from the old trees in the groves, and the air rang with the joyful notes
of the lark and plover. Indians came to the fort and went away.
Pottawattomies encamped near the place and visited the agency, and white
traders occasionally appeared here from Malden and Fort Wayne.
But these were uneventful days of Fort Dearborn. The stories of Mrs.
John Kinzie are among the most interesting memories of these days of
general silence and monotony. The old Kinzie house was situated where is
now the junction of Pine and North Water Streets. The grounds sloped
toward the banks of the river. It had a broad piazza looking south, and
before it lay a green lawn shaded by Lombardy poplars and a cottonwood
tree. Across the river rose Fort Dearborn, amid groves of locust trees,
the national flag blooming, as it were, above it.
The cottonwood tree in the yard was planted by John Kinzie, and lived
until Chicago became a great city, in Long John Wentworth's day.
The old residents of Chicago will ever recall the beauty of the outlook
from the south piazza. At the dull period of the agency, only an Indian
canoe, perhaps from Mackinaw, disturbed the peace of the river.
It was on this piazza that on a June morning was heard the chorus of
Moore's Canadian Boat Song on the Chicago River, and here General Lewis
Cass presently appeared. The great men of the New West often gathered
here after that. Here the best stories of the lake used to be told by
voyagers, and Mark Beaubien, we may well suppose, often played his
violin.
The scene of the lake and river from the place was changed by moonlight
into romance.
Amid such scenes the old Chief Shaubena related the legends of the
tribes, and Mrs. Kinzie the thrilling episodes of the massacre of 1812.
Jasper, we may imagine, joined the company, with the beautiful spiritual
tales of the Rhine, and Waubeno added his delightful wonder-tale of the
white Indian, whose feet brought good fortune. No one then dreamed that
John Kinzie's home stood for two millions of people who would come there
before the century should close, or that the cool cottonwood tree would
throw its shade over some of the grandest scenes in the march of the
world.