RELIEF.
We followed the old squaw to her lodge, which was at no great distance
in the woods. I had never before been in an Indian lodge, although I had
occasionally peeped into one of the many always clustered round the
house of the Interpreter at the Portage.
This one was very nicely arranged. Four sticks of wood placed to form a
square in the centre, answered the purpose of a hearth, within which the
fire was built, the smoke escaping through an opening in the top. The
mats of which the lodge was constructed were very neat and new, and
against the sides, depending from the poles or frame-work, hung various
bags of Indian manufacture, containing their dried food and other
household treasures. Sundry ladles, small kettles, and wooden bowls also
hung from the cross-poles; and dangling from the centre, by an iron
chain, was a large kettle in which some dark, suspicious-looking
substance was seething over the scanty fire. On the floor of the lodge,
between the fire and the outer wall, were spread mats, upon which my
husband invited me to be seated and make myself comfortable.
The first demand of an Indian on meeting a white man is for _bread_, of
which they are exceedingly fond, and I knew enough of the Pottowattamie
language to comprehend the timid "_pe-qua-zhe-gun choh-kay-go_" (I have
no bread) with which the squaw commenced our conversation after my
husband had left the lodge.
I shook my head, and endeavored to convey to her that, so far from being
able to give, I had had no breakfast myself. She understood me, and
instantly produced a bowl, into which she ladled a quantity of Indian
potatoes from the kettle over the fire, and set them before me. I was
too hungry to be fastidious, and, owing partly, no doubt, to the
sharpness of my appetite, I really found them delicious.
Two little girls, inmates of the lodge, sat gazing at me with evident
admiration and astonishment, which were increased when I took my little
Prayer book from my pocket and began to read. They had, undoubtedly,
never seen a book before, and I was amused at the care with which they
looked _away_ from me, while they questioned their mother about my
strange employment and listened to her replies.
While thus occupied, I was startled by a sudden sound of "hogh!" and the
mat which hung over the entrance of the lodge was raised, and an Indian
entered with that graceful bound which is peculiar to themselves. It was
the master of the lodge, who had been out to shoot ducks, and was just
returned. He was a tall, finely-formed man, with a cheerful, open
countenance, and he listened to what his wife in a quiet tone related to
him, while he divested himself of his accoutrements, in the most
unembarrassed, well-bred manner imaginable.
Soon my husband joined us. He had been engaged in attending to the
comfort of his horses, and assisting his men in making their fire, and
pitching their tent, which the rising storm made a matter of some
difficulty.
From the Indian he learned that we were in what was called the Big
Woods,[17] or "Piché's Grove," from a Frenchman of that name living not
far from the spot--that the river we had crossed was the Fox River--that
he could guide us to _Piché's_, from which the road was perfectly plain,
or even into Chicago if we preferred--but that we had better remain
encamped for that day, as there was a storm coming on, and in the mean
time he would go and shoot some ducks for our dinner and supper. He was
accordingly furnished with powder and shot, and set off again for game
without delay.
I had put into my pocket, on leaving home, a roll of scarlet ribbon, in
case a stout string should be wanted, and I now drew it forth, and with
the knife which hung around my neck I cut off a couple of yards for each
of the little girls. They received it with great delight, and their
mother, dividing each portion into two, tied a piece to each of the
little clubs into which their hair was knotted on the temples. They
laughed, and exclaimed "Saum!" as they gazed at each other, and their
mother joined in their mirth, although, as I thought, a little unwilling
to display her maternal exultation before a stranger.
The tent being all in order, my husband came for me, and we took leave
of our friends in the wigwam, with grateful hearts.
The storm was raging without. The trees were bending and cracking around
us, and the air was completely filled with the wild-fowl screaming and
_quacking_ as they made their way southward before the blast. Our tent
was among the trees not far from the river. My husband took me to the
bank to look for a moment at what we had escaped. The wind was sweeping
down from the north in a perfect hurricane. The water was filled with
masses of snow and ice, dancing along upon the torrent, over which were
hurrying thousands of wild-fowl, making the woods resound to their
deafening clamor.
Had we been one hour later, we could not possibly have crossed the
stream, and there would have been nothing for us but to have remained
and starved in the wilderness. Could we be sufficiently grateful to that
kind Providence that had brought us safely through such dangers?
The men had cut down an immense tree, and built a fire against it, but
the wind shifted so continually that every five minutes the tent would
become completely filled with smoke, so that I was driven into the open
air for breath. Then I would seat myself on one end of the huge log, as
near the fire as possible, for it was dismally cold, but the wind seemed
actuated by a kind of caprice, for in whatever direction I took my seat,
just that way came the smoke and hot ashes, puffing in my face until I
was nearly blinded. Neither veil nor silk handkerchief afforded an
effectual protection, and I was glad when the arrival of our huntsmen,
with a quantity of ducks, gave me an opportunity of diverting my
thoughts from my own sufferings, by aiding the men to pick them and get
them ready for our meal.
We borrowed a kettle from our Indian friends. It was not remarkably
clean; but we heated a little water in it, and _prairie-hay'd_ it out,
before consigning our birds to it, and with a bowl of Indian potatoes, a
present from our kind neighbors, we soon had an excellent soup.
What with the cold, the smoke, and the driving ashes and cinders, this
was the most uncomfortable afternoon I had yet passed, and I was glad
when night came, and I could creep into the tent and cover myself up in
the blankets, out of the way of all three of these evils.
The storm raged with tenfold violence during the night. We were
continually startled by the crashing of the falling trees around us, and
who could tell but that the next would be upon us? Spite of our fatigue,
we passed an almost sleepless night. When we arose in the morning, we
were made fully alive to the perils by which we had been surrounded. At
least fifty trees, the giants of the forest, lay prostrate within view
of the tent.
When we had taken our scanty breakfast, and were mounted and ready for
departure, it was with difficulty we could thread our way, so completely
was it obstructed by the fallen trunks.
Our Indian guide had joined us at an early hour, and after conducting us
carefully out of the wood, and pointing out to us numerous
bee-trees,[18] for which he said that grove was famous, he set off at a
long trot, and about nine o'clock brought us to _Piché's_, a log cabin
on a rising ground, looking off over the broad prairie to the east. We
had hoped to get some refreshment here, Piché being an old acquaintance
of some of the party; but, alas! the master was from home. We found his
cabin occupied by Indians and travellers--the latter few, the former
numerous.
There was no temptation to a halt, except that of warming ourselves at a
bright fire that was burning in the clay chimney. A man in Quaker
costume stepped forward to answer our inquiries, and offered to become
our escort to Chicago, to which place he was bound--so we dismissed our
Indian friend, with a satisfactory remuneration for all the trouble he
had so kindly taken for us.
A long reach of prairie extended from Piché's to the Du Page, between
the two forks of which, Mr. Dogherty, our new acquaintance, told us, we
should find the dwelling of a Mr. Hawley, who would give us a
comfortable dinner.
The weather was intensely cold; the wind, sweeping over the wide prairie
with nothing to break its force, chilled our very hearts. I beat my feet
against the saddle to restore the circulation, when they became benumbed
with the cold, until they were so bruised I could beat them no longer.
Not a house or wigwam, not even a clump of trees as a shelter, offered
itself for many a weary mile. At length we reached the west fork of the
Du Page. It was frozen, but not sufficiently so to bear the horses. Our
only resource was to cut a way for them through the ice. It was a work
of time, for the ice had frozen to several inches in thickness during
the last bitter night. Plante went first with an axe, and cut as far as
he could reach, then mounted one of the hardy little ponies, and With
some difficulty broke the ice before him, until he had opened a passage
to the opposite shore.
How the poor animals shivered as they were reined in among the floating
ice! And we, who sat waiting in the piercing wind, were not much better
off. Probably Brunet was of the same opinion; for, with his usual
perversity, he plunged in immediately after Plante, and stood shaking
and quaking behind him, every now and then looking around him, as much
as to say, "I've got ahead of you, this time!" We were all across at
last, and spurred on our horses, until we reached Hawley's[19]--a
large, commodious dwelling, near the east fork of the river.
The good woman welcomed us kindly, and soon made us warm and
comfortable. We felt as if we were in a civilized land once more. She
proceeded immediately to prepare dinner for us; and we watched her with
eager eyes, as she took down a huge ham from the rafters, out of which
she cut innumerable slices, then broke a dozen or more of fine fresh
eggs into a pan, in readiness for frying--then mixed a _johnny-cake_,
and placed it against a board in front of the fire to bake. It seemed to
me that even with the aid of this fine, bright fire, the dinner took an
unconscionable time to cook; but cooked it was, at last, and truly might
the good woman stare at the travellers' appetites we had brought with
us. She did not know what short commons we had been on for the last two
days.
We found, upon inquiry, that we could, by pushing on, reach Lawton's, on
the Aux Plaines, that night--we should then be within twelve miles of
Chicago. Of course we made no unnecessary delay, but set off as soon
after dinner as possible.
The crossing of the east fork of the Du Page was more perilous than the
former one had been. The ice had become broken, either by the force of
the current, or by some equestrians having preceded us and cut through
it, so that when we reached the bank, the ice was floating down in large
cakes. The horses had to make a rapid dart through the water, which was
so high, and rushing in such a torrent, that if I had not been mounted
on Jerry, the tallest horse in the cavalcade, I must have got a terrible
splashing.
As it was, I was well frightened, and grasped both bridle and mane with
the utmost tenacity. After this we travelled on as rapidly as possible,
in order to reach our place of destination before dark.
Mr. Dogherty, a tall, bolt-upright man, half Quaker, half Methodist, did
his best to entertain me, by giving me a thorough schedule of his
religious opinions, with the reasons from Scripture upon which they were
based. He was a good deal of a perfectionist, and evidently looked upon
himself with no small satisfaction, as a living illustration of his
favorite doctrine.
"St. John says," this was the style of his discourse, "St. John says,
'He that is born of God, doth not commit sin' Now, _if_ I am born of
God, I do not commit sin."
I was too cold and too weary to argue the point, so I let him have it
all his own way. I believe he must have thought me rather a dull
companion; but at least he gave me the credit of being a good listener.
It was almost dark when we reached Lawton's. The Aux Plaines[20] was
frozen, and the house was on the other side. By loud shouting, we
brought out a man from the building, and he succeeded in cutting the
ice, and bringing a canoe over to us; but not until it had become
difficult to distinguish objects in the darkness.
A very comfortable house was Lawton's, after we did reach it--carpeted,
and with a warm stove--in fact, quite in civilized style, Mr. Weeks, the
man who brought us across, was the major-domo, during the temporary
absence of Mr. Lawton.
Mrs. Lawton was a young woman, and not ill-looking. She complained
bitterly of the loneliness of her condition, and having been "brought
out there into the woods; which was a thing she had not expected, when
she came from the East." We did not ask her with what expectations she
had come to a wild, unsettled country; but we tried to comfort her with
the assurance that things would grow better in a few years. She said,
"She did not mean to wait for that. She should go back to her family in
the East, if Mr. Lawton did not invite some of her young friends to come
and stay with her, and make it agreeable."
We could hardly realize, on rising the following morning, that only
twelve miles of prairie intervened between us and _Chicago le Désiré_,
as I could not but name it.
We could look across the extended plain, and on its farthest verge were
visible two tall trees, which my husband pointed out to me as the
planting of his own hand, when a boy. Already they had become so lofty
as to serve as landmarks, and they were constantly in view as we
travelled the beaten road. I was continually repeating to myself, "There
live the friends I am so longing to see! There will terminate all our
trials and hardships!"
A Mr. Wentworth joined us on the road, and of him we inquired after the
welfare of the family, from whom we had, for a long time, received no
intelligence. When we reached Chicago, he took us to a little tavern at
the forks of the river. This portion of the place was then called _Wolf
Point_, from its having been the residence of an Indian named
"_Moaway_," or "the Wolf."
"Dear me," said the old landlady, at the little tavern, "what dreadful
cold weather you must have had to travel in! Why, two days ago the river
was all open here, and now it's frozen hard enough for folks to cross
a-horseback!"
Notwithstanding this assurance, my husband did not like to venture, so
he determined to leave his horses and proceed on foot to the residence
of his mother and sister, a distance of about half a mile.
We set out on our walk, which was first across the ice, then down the
northern bank of the river. As we approached the house we were espied by
Genevieve, a half-breed servant of the family. She did not wait to
salute us, but flew into the house, crying,--
"Oh! Madame Kinzie, who do you think has come? Monsieur John and Madame
John, all the way from Fort Winnebago on foot!"
Soon we were in the arms of our dear, kind friends. A messenger was
dispatched to "the garrison" for the remaining members of the family,
and for that day, at least, I was the wonder and admiration of the whole
circle, "for the dangers I had seen."