BUTTE DES MORTS--LAKE PUCKAWAY.
The Butte des Morts, or Hillock of the Dead, was the scene long
since[11] of a most sanguinary battle between the French and the
Mis-qua-kees, or Foxes. So great was the carnage in this engagement,
that the memory of it has been perpetuated by the gloomy appellation
given to the mound where the dead were buried. The Foxes up to this time
had inhabited the shores of the river to which they had given their
name, but, being completely overwhelmed and beaten in this conflict,
they retired to the neighborhood of the Mississippi, and sought an
asylum among their allies, the Saukies, or, as they are now called, the
Sauks, with whom they became gradually incorporated, until the combined
tribes came to be known, as at present, by the name of "Sauks and
Foxes."
Among the French inhabitants of the upper country, each tribe of Indians
has a particular appellation, descriptive of some peculiarity of either
their habits or their personal appearance. Thus, the Chippewas, from
their agility, are denominated "Sauteurs," or Jumpers; the Ottawas, the
"Courtes-oreilles," or Short-ears. The Menomonees, from the wild rice so
abundant in their country, are called "Folles Avoines;"--the
Winnebagoes, from their custom of wearing the fur of a polecat on their
legs when equipped for war, are termed "les Puans;"--the Pottowattamies,
from their uncleanly habits, "les Poux;"--the Foxes are "les Renards,"
etc. etc.
Hence you will never hear a French or half-breed resident of the country
mention an Indian in any other style. "Such a person is a
'Court-oreille.'" "Is that woman a 'Winnebago'?" "No, she is a 'Folle
Avoine.'" In this manner a stranger is somewhat puzzled at first to
classify the acquaintances he forms.
All the native friends with whom we were here surrounded were "les
Puans," or, to use their own euphonious appellation, the
"_Ho-tshung-rahs_."
Having with great regret said adieu to our friend Judge Doty, whose
society had contributed so much to the pleasure of our trip, and whose
example, moreover, had given us a valuable lesson to take things as we
find them, we bade good-bye at an early hour after breakfast to our kind
hosts, and set forward on our journey.
From Butte des Morts to the Portage, the distance by land is about
seventy miles; by water, it is not less than a hundred and thirty, so
serpentine is the course of the river through the low swampy prairies
which stretch over a great portion of this part of the country.
About six miles above the Butte, a tolerably broad stream, called Wolf
River, joins the Fox, and as it is much the more direct and promising of
the two, strangers have sometimes mistaken it for the main stream, and
journeyed up it a considerable distance before discovering, to their
great chagrin, that they must retrace their steps.
Beyond this place, the river begins to play its pranks with the compass.
As I was always looking out for pretty scenery to sketch, I was at one
spot much attracted by a picturesque group on a bank quite close to the
stream. There were broad overhanging trees, and two or three wigwams
nestled under their shade. Bright-looking little children, quite
unencumbered with clothing, were sporting about, and their two mothers
were sitting on the ground, engaged in the manufacture of a mat for
their lodge. It was a pretty scene, and I commenced a sketch. As usual,
the whole party on the bank set up a shout when they recognized
Shaw-nee-aw-kee,--
"Ee-awn-chee-wee-rah, Hee-nee-kar-ray-kay-noo."[12]
It was an occasion on which they became demonstrative. After a little
time we proceeded, and I went on to complete my drawing. The sun kept
coming more and more into the wrong place. He had been just behind me,
presently he was on my left hand, now he was straight ahead. I moved
from time to time; at length the sun was decidedly on my right hand.
What could be the matter? I looked up. "Oh, here is a pretty scene; I
must have this too! But how surprisingly like the one I have just
finished, only in a different direction." Again we were greeted with
shouts and laughter; it was the same spot which we had passed not an
hour before, and, having taken a circuit of nearly four miles, we had
returned to find that we had made an actual progress of only the width
of the bank on which the trees and wigwams stood. Decidedly not very
encouraging to an impatient traveller.
We reached Lake Puckaway late in the evening of our second day from
Butte des Morts. Here lived a white man named Gleason, the same
concerning whom, owing to his vast powers of exaggeration, poor Hooe was
fond of uttering his little pun, "All is not gold that Gleasons." We did
not seek shelter at his house, for, late as the season was, we found the
shore so infested with mosquitoes that we were glad to choose a spot as
far as possible from the bank, and make ourselves comfortable in our
boat.
This lake has its name from the long flags or rushes which are found in
its waters in great abundance, and of which the squaws manufacture the
coarse matting used in covering their wigwams. Their mode of fabricating
this is very primitive and simple. Seated on the ground, with the rushes
laid side by side, and fastened at each extremity, they pass their
shuttle, a long flat needle made of bone, to which is attached a piece
of cordage formed of the bark of a tree, through each rush, thus
confining it very closely, and making a fine substantial mat. These mats
are seldom more than five or six feet in length, as a greater size would
be inconvenient in adjusting and preparing the lodges.
It is a species of labor usually assigned to the elder women of the
family. When they become broken down and worn out with exposure and
hardship, so that they cannot cut down trees, hoe corn, or carry heavy
burdens, they are set to weaving mats, taking care of the children, and
disciplining the dogs, with which every Indian lodge abounds.
Lac de Boeuf, or Buffalo Lake, into which our course next brought us, is
a lovely sheet of water. In some places its banks are exceedingly
picturesque, with beautiful headlands jutting out into the clear depths,
where they, and the magnificent groups of trees which crown them, lie
reflected as in a mirror. Now and then we would catch a glimpse of deer
darting across the glades which at intervals opened through the
woodlands, or a pair of sand-hill cranes would rise, slowly flapping
their wings, and seek a place of more undisturbed repose. The flocks of
teal now skimming the surface of the water, now rising higher towards
the shelter of the forests, tempted our sportsman sorely; but, as there
was little prospect of finding his game when it was brought down, he did
not give way to the wanton pleasure of shooting merely to destroy life.
In quitting this charming lake, and again entering the narrow, tortuous
course of the river, we bade adieu to everything like scenery, until we
should reach our journey's end.
We had now seventy miles to pass through a country perfectly monotonous
and uninteresting, the distastefulness of which was aggravated by the
knowledge that we could, had we been provided with horses or a carriage
of any kind, have crossed over to the Portage from Gleason's, through a
pleasant country, in little more than three hours. Even our great
resource, the cheering, animating songs of our voyageurs, was out of the
question; for the river, though deep, is so narrow that, in many places,
there is no room for the regular play of the oars; and the voices of
Frenchmen can never "keep tune" unless their oars can "keep time."
Lapierre, one of our men, did his best with a paddle, or, as he called
it, the "_little row_," but it was to no purpose--it _would not go_.
Besides this, the wild rice abounds to such an extent in many places,
that it almost completely obstructs the progress of even a
moderate-sized boat, so that a passage through its tangled masses is
with difficulty forced by the oars. Tedious and monotonous as was the
whole course of the two following days, the climax of impatience and
discouragement was not reached until we arrived in sight of the white
walls of Fort Winnebago, looking down from a rising ground upon the vast
expanse of low land through which the river winds.
The Indians have a tradition that a vast serpent once lived in the
waters of the Mississippi, and that, taking a freak to visit the Great
Lakes, he left his trail through the prairies, which, collecting the
waters from the meadows and the rains of heaven as they fell, at length
became the Fox River.
The little lakes along its course were probably the spots where he
flourished about in his uneasy slumbers at night. He must have played
all the antics of a kitten in the neighborhood of the Portage. When the
fort was first pointed out to me, I exclaimed, with delight, "Oh, we
shall be there in half an hour!"
"Not quite so soon," said my husband, smiling. "Wait and see." We sat
and watched. We seemed approaching the very spot where we were to
disembark. We could distinguish the officers and a lady on the bank
waiting to receive us. Now we were turning our backs on them, and
shooting out into the prairie again. Anon we approached another bank, on
which was a range of comfortable-looking log houses. "That's the
Agency," said my husband; "the largest house belongs to Paquette, the
interpreter, and the others are the dwellings of our Frenchmen. The
little building, just at the foot of the hill, is the blacksmith's shop,
kept there by the Government, that the Indians may have their guns and
traps mended free of expense."
"But are we going to stop there?"
"No; do you not see we are going back to the fort?"
And, to be sure, our course had now turned, and we were setting in our
first direction. In this manner, after tacking to the right and left and
putting backwards and forwards during the greater part of two hours, we
at length reached the little landing, on which the assembled party stood
ready to greet us.