ROCK RIVER--HOURS OF TROUBLE.
It was late on the following day (March 13th) when we took leave of our
kind hostess. She loaded us with cakes, good wishes, and messages to her
sister Dixon and the children. We journeyed pleasantly along through a
country beautiful in spite of its wintry appearance.
There was a house at Buffalo Grove, at which we stopped for half an
hour, and where a nice-looking young girl presented us with some
maple-sugar of her own making. She entertained us with the history of a
contest between two rival claimants for the patronage of the
stage-wagon, the proprietors of which had not decided whether to send it
by Buffalo Grove or by another route, which she pointed out to us, at no
great distance. The _driver_, she took care to inform us, was in favor
of the former; and the blush with which she replied in the affirmative
to our inquiry, "Is he a young man?" explained the whole matter
satisfactorily.
At length, just at sunset, we reached the dark, rapid waters of the Rock
River. The ferry which we had travelled so far out of our way to take
advantage of, proved to be merely a small boat or skiff, the larger one
having been swept off into the stream, and carried down in the
breaking-up of the ice, the week previous.
My husband's first care was to get me across. He placed me with the
saddles, packs, etc. in the boat, and as, at that late hour, no time was
to be lost, he ventured, at the same time, to hold the bridles of the
two most docile horses, to guide them in swimming the river.
When we had proceeded a few rods from the shore, we were startled by a
loud puffing and blowing near us, and looking around, to our great
surprise, discovered little Brunet just upon our "weather-bow."
Determined not to be outdone by his model, Jerry, he had taken to the
water on his own responsibility, and arrived at the opposite shore as
soon as any of the party.
All being safely landed, a short walk brought us to the house of Mr.
Dixon. Although so recently come into the country, he had contrived to
make everything comfortable around him; and when he ushered us into Mrs.
Dixon's sitting-room, and seated us by a glowing wood fire, while Mrs.
Dixon busied herself in preparing us a nice supper, I felt that the
comfort overbalanced the inconvenience of such a journey.
Mrs. Dixon was surrounded by several children. One leaning against the
chimney-piece was dressed in the full Indian costume--calico shirt,
blanket, and leggings. His dark complexion, and full, melancholy eyes,
which he kept fixed upon the ashes in which he was making marks with a
stick, rarely raising them to gaze on us, as children are wont to do,
interested me exceedingly, and I inquired of an intelligent little girl,
evidently a daughter of our host,--
"Who is that boy?"
"Oh, that is John Ogie," answered she.
"What is the matter with him? he looks very sad."
"Oh, he is fretting after his mother."
"Is she dead, then?"
"Some say she is dead, and some say she is gone away. I guess she is
dead, and buried up in one of those graves yonder"--pointing to two or
three little picketed inclosures upon a rising ground opposite the
window.
I felt a strong sympathy with the child, which was increased when the
little spokeswoman, in answer to my inquiry, "Has he no father?"
replied,--
"Oh, yes, but he goes away, and drinks, and don't care for his
children."
"And what becomes of John then?"
"He stays here with us, and we teach him to read, and he learns
_dreadful_ fast."
When the boy at length turned his large dark eyes upon me, it went to my
heart. It was such a _motherless_ look. And it was explained when, long
afterwards, I learned his further history. His mother was still living,
and he knew it, although, with the reserve peculiar to his people, he
never spoke of her to his young companions. Unable to endure the
continued ill treatment of her husband, a surly, intemperate Canadian,
she had left him, and returned to her own family among the
Pottowattamies. Years after, this boy and a brother who had also been
left behind with their father found their way to the Upper Missouri, to
join their mother, who, with the others of her tribe, had been removed
by the Government from the shores of Lake Michigan.
A most savory supper of ducks and venison, with their accompaniments,
soon smoked upon the board, and we did ample justice to it. Travelling
is a great sharpener of the appetite, and so is cheerfulness; and the
latter was increased by the encouraging account Mr. Dixon gave us of the
remainder of the route yet before us.
"There is no difficulty," said he, "if you keep a little to the north,
and strike the great _Sauk trail_. If you get too far to the south, you
will come upon the Winnebago Swamp, and, once in that, there is no
telling when you will ever get out again. As for the distance, it is
nothing at all to speak of. Two young men came out here from Chicago,
on foot, last fall. They got here the evening of the second day; and,
even with a lady in your party, you could go on horseback in less time
than that. The only thing is to be sure and get on the great track that
the Sauks have made, in going every year from the Mississippi to Canada,
to receive their presents from the British Indian Agent."
The following morning, which was a bright and lovely one for that season
of the year, we took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, in high spirits. We
travelled for the first few miles along the beautiful, undulating banks
of the Rock River, always in an easterly direction, keeping the beaten
path, or rather road, which led to Fort Clark, or Peoria. The Sauk
trail, we had been told, would cross this road at the distance of about
six miles.
After having travelled, as we judged, fully that distance, we came upon
a trail bearing northeast, and a consultation was held as to the
probability of its being the one we were in search of.
Mr. Kinzie was of opinion that it tended too much to the north, and was,
moreover, too faint and obscure for a trail so much used, and by so
large a body of Indians in their annual journeys.
Plante was positive as to its being the very spot where he and "Piché"
in their journey to Port Winnebago, the year before, struck into the
great road. "On that very rising-ground at the point of woods, he
remembered perfectly well stopping to shoot ducks, which they ate for
their supper."
Mr. Kellogg was non-committal, but sided alternately with each speaker.
As Plante was "the guide," and withal so confident of being right, it
was decided to follow him, not without some demurring, however, on the
part of the bourgeois, who every now and then called to halt, to
discuss the state of affairs.
"Now, Plante," he would say, "I am sure you are leading us too far
north. Why, man, if we keep on in this direction, following the course
of the river, we shall bring up at Kosh-ko-nong, instead of Chicago."
"Ah! mon bourgeois," would the light-hearted Canadian reply, "would I
tell you this is the road if I were not quite certain? Only one year ago
I travelled it, and can I forget so soon? Oh, no--I remember every foot
of it."
But Monsieur Plante was convinced of his mistake when the trail brought
us to the great bend of the river with its bold rocky bluffs.
"Are you satisfied now, Plante?" asked Mr. Kinzie. "By your leave, I
will now play pilot myself." And he struck off from the trail, in a
direction as nearly east as possible.
The weather had changed and become intensely cold, and we felt that the
detention we had met with, even should we now be in the right road, was
no trifling matter. We had not added to our stock of provisions at
Dixon's, wishing to carry as much forage as we were able for our horses,
for whom the scanty picking around our encamping-grounds afforded an
insufficient meal. But we were buoyed up by the hope that we were in the
right path at last, and we journeyed on until night, when we reached a
comfortable "encampment," in the edge of a grove near a small stream.
Oh, how bitterly cold that night was! The salted provisions, to which I
was accustomed, occasioned me an intolerable thirst, and my husband was
in the habit of placing the little tin coffee-pot filled with water at
my bed's head when we went to rest, but this night it was frozen solid
long before midnight. We were so well wrapped up in blankets that we
did not suffer from cold while within the tent, but the open air was
severe in the extreme.
March 15th.--We were roused by the bourgeois at peep of day to make
preparations for starting. We must find the Sauk trail this day at all
hazards. What would become of us should we fail to do so? It was a
question no one liked to ask, and certainly one that none could have
answered.
On leaving our encampment, we found ourselves entering a marshy tract of
country. Myriads of wild geese, brant, and ducks rose up screaming at
our approach. The more distant lakes and ponds were black with them, but
the shallow water through which we attempted to make our way was frozen,
by the severity of the night, to a thickness not quite sufficient to
bear the horses, but just such as to cut their feet and ankles at every
step as they broke through it. Sometimes the difficulty of going forward
was so great that we were obliged to retrace our steps and make our way
round the head of the marsh, thus adding to the discomforts of our
situation by the conviction that, while journeying diligently, we were,
in fact, making very little progress.
This swampy region at length passed, we came upon more solid ground,
chiefly the open prairie. But now a new trouble assailed us. The weather
had moderated, and a blinding snow-storm came on. Without a trail that
we could rely upon, and destitute of a compass, our only dependence had
been the sun to point out our direction; but the atmosphere was now so
obscure that it was impossible to tell in what quarter of the heavens he
was.
We pursued our way, however, and a devious one it must have been. After
travelling in this way many miles, we came upon an Indian trail, deeply
indented, running at right angles with the course we were pursuing. The
snow had ceased, and, the clouds becoming thinner, we were able to
observe the direction of the sun, and to perceive that the trail ran
north and south. What should we do? Was it safest to pursue our easterly
course, or was it probable that by following this new path we should
fall into the direct one we had been so long seeking? If we decided to
take the trail, should we go north or south? Mr. Kinzie was for the
latter. He was of opinion we were still too far north--somewhere about
the Grand Marais, or Kish-wau-kee. Mr. Kellogg and Plante were for
taking the northerly direction. The latter was positive his bourgeois
had already gone too far south--in fact, that we must now be in the
neighborhood of the Illinois River. Finding himself in the minority, my
husband yielded, and we turned our horses' heads north, much against his
will. After proceeding a few miles, however, he took a sudden
determination. "You may go north, if you please," said he, "but I am
convinced that the other course is right, and I shall face about--follow
who will."
So we wheeled round and rode south again, and many a long and weary mile
did we travel, the monotony of our ride broken only by the querulous
remarks of poor Mr. Kellogg. "I am really afraid we are wrong, Mr.
Kinzie. I feel pretty sure that the young man is right. It looks most
natural to me that we should take a northerly course, and not be
stretching away so far to the south."
To all this, Mr. Kinzie turned a deaf ear. The Frenchmen rode in
silence. They would as soon have thought of cutting off their right hand
as showing opposition to the bourgeois when he had once expressed his
decision. They would never have dreamed of offering an opinion or remark
unless called upon to do so.
The road, which had continued many miles through the prairie, at
length, in winding round a point of woods, brought us suddenly upon an
Indian village. A shout of joy broke from the whole party, but no
answering shout was returned--not even a bark of friendly welcome--as we
galloped up to the wigwams. All was silent as the grave. We rode round
and round, then dismounted and looked into several of the spacious huts.
They had evidently been long deserted. Nothing remained but the bare
walls of bark, from which everything in the shape of furniture had been
stripped by the owners and carried with them to their wintering-grounds,
to be brought back in the spring, when they returned to make their
corn-fields and occupy their summer cabins.
Our disappointment may be better imagined than described. With heavy
hearts, we mounted and once more pursued our way, the snow again falling
and adding to the discomforts of our position. At length we halted for
the night. We had long been aware that our stock of provisions was
insufficient for another day, and here we were--nobody knew where--in
the midst of woods and prairies--certainly far from any human
habitation, with barely enough food for a slender evening's meal.
The poor dogs came whining round us to beg their usual portion, but they
were obliged to content themselves with a bare bone, and we retired to
rest with the feeling that if not actually hungry then, we should
certainly be so to-morrow.
The morrow came. Plante and Roy had a bright fire and a nice pot of
coffee for us. It was our only breakfast, for, on shaking the bag and
turning it inside out, we could make no more of our stock of bread than
three crackers, which the rest of the party insisted I should put in my
pocket for my dinner. I was much touched by the kindness of Mr. Kellogg,
who drew from his wallet a piece of tongue and a slice of fruit-cake,
which he said "he had been saving for _the lady_ since the day before,
for he saw how matters were a going."
Poor man! it would have been well if he had listened to Mr. Kinzie and
provided himself at the outset with a larger store of provisions. As it
was, those he brought with him were exhausted early in the second day,
and he had been _boarding_ with us for the last two meals.
We still had the trail to guide us, and we continued to follow it until
about nine o'clock, when, in emerging from a wood, we came upon a broad
and rapid river. A collection of Indian wigwams stood upon the opposite
bank, and, as the trail led directly to the water, it was fair to infer
that the stream was fordable. We had no opportunity of testing it,
however, for the banks were so lined with ice, which was piled up tier
upon tier by the breaking-up of the previous week, that we tried in vain
to find a path by which we could descend the bank to the water.
The men shouted again and again, in hopes some straggling inhabitant of
the village might be at hand with his canoe. No answer was returned,
save by the echoes. What was to be done? I looked at my husband and saw
that care was on his brow, although he still continued to speak
cheerfully. "We will follow this cross-trail down the bank of the
river," said he. "There must be Indians wintering near, in some of these
points of wood."
I must confess that I felt somewhat dismayed at our prospects, but I
kept up a show of courage, and did not allow my despondency to be seen.
All the party were dull and gloomy enough.
We kept along the bank, which was considerably elevated above the water,
and bordered at a little distance with a thick wood. All at once my
horse, who was mortally afraid of Indians, began to jump and prance,
snorting and pricking up his ears as if an enemy were at hand. I
screamed with delight to my husband, who was at the head of the file,
"Oh, John! John! there are Indians near--look at Jerry!"
At this instant a little Indian dog ran out from under the bushes by the
roadside, and began barking at us. Never were sounds more welcome. We
rode directly into the thicket, and, descending into a little hollow,
found two squaws crouching behind the bushes, trying to conceal
themselves from our sight.
They appeared greatly relieved when Mr. Kinzie addressed them in the
Pottowattamie language,--
"What are you doing here?"
"Digging Indian potatoes"--(a species of artichoke.)
"Where is your lodge?"
"On the other side of the river."
"Good--then you have a canoe here. Can you take us across?"
"Yes--the canoe is very small."
They conducted us down the bank to the water's edge where the canoe was.
It was indeed _very small_. My husband explained to them that they must
take me across first, and then return for the others of the party.
"Will you trust yourself alone over the river?" inquired he. "You see
that but one can cross at a time."
"Oh, yes"--and I was soon placed in the bottom of the canoe, lying flat
and looking up at the sky, while the older squaw took the paddle in her
hand, and placed herself on her knees at my head, and the younger, a
girl of fourteen or fifteen, stationed herself at my feet. There was
just room enough for me to lie in this position, each of the others
kneeling in the opposite ends of the canoe.
While these preparations were making, Mr. Kinzie questioned the women as
to our whereabout. They knew no name for the river but "Saumanong."
This was not definite, it being the generic term for any large stream.
But he gathered that the village we had passed higher up, on the
opposite side of the stream, was Wau-ban-see's, and then he knew that we
were on the Fox River, and probably about fifty miles from Chicago.
The squaw, in answer to his inquiries, assured him that Chicago was
"close by."
"That means," said he, "that it is not so far off as Canada. We must not
be too sanguine."
The men set about unpacking the horses, and I in the mean time was
paddled across the river. The old woman immediately returned, leaving
the younger one with me for company. I seated myself on the fallen trunk
of a tree, in the midst of the snow, and looked across the dark waters.
I am not ashamed to confess my weakness--for the first time on my
journey I shed tears. It was neither hunger, nor fear, nor cold, which
extorted them from me. It was the utter desolation of spirit, the
sickness of heart which "hope deferred" ever occasions, and which of all
evils is the hardest to bear.
The poor little squaw looked into my face with a wondering and
sympathizing expression. Probably she was speculating in her own mind
what a person who rode so fine a horse, and wore so comfortable a
broadcloth dress, could have to cry about. I pointed to a seat beside me
on the log, but she preferred standing and gazing at me, with the same
pitying expression. Presently she was joined by a young companion, and,
after a short chattering, of which I was evidently the subject, they
both trotted off into the woods, and left me to my own solitary
reflections.
"What would my friends at the East think," said I to myself, "if they
could see me now? What would poor old Mrs. Welsh say? She who warned me
that _if I came away so far to the West, I should break my heart?_
Would she not rejoice to find how likely her prediction was to be
fulfilled?"
These thoughts roused me. I dried up my tears, and by the time my
husband with his party and all his horses and luggage were across, I had
recovered my cheerfulness, and was ready for fresh adventures.