BUTTE DES MORTS--LAKE PUCKAWAY
The Butte des Morts, or Hillock of the Dead, was the scene long
since[K] 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."[38]
[Footnote K: In the year 1714.]
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 the "Folles Avoines"--the
Winnebagoes, from their custom of wearing the fur of a pole-cat on
their legs when equipped for war, are termed "les Puans"'[39]--the
Pottowattamies, from their uncleanly habits, "les Poux"--the Foxes,
are "les Renards," &c., &c.
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 application, 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,"[L] 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.
[Footnote L: Father! How do you do?]
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 of
whom, owing to his vast powers of exaggeration, poor Hooe[40] 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 musquitoes 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 their
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 Bœuf, 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 were 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 that 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 only reached when 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.
[Illustration: FORT WINNEBAGO IN 1831.
From a sketch by Mrs. Kinzie, in original edition.]
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 are turning our back on them, and
shooting out into the prairie again. Anon we approach another bank,
on which is a range of comfortable-looking log-houses. "That is the
Agency,--the largest house belongs to Paquette, the interpreter,[41]
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 was 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.