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,"[59] 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, "Was 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, &c., 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 Brunêt 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.[60] 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 afterward, 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 his 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 savoury 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,[61] 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 north-east, 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 Fort Winnebago, the year before, struck into the
great road. "On that very rising-ground at the point of woods, he
remembered perfectly 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 a 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 unaccustomed, occasioned me an intolerable thirst, and my husband
was in the habit of placing the little tin coffeepot 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 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 on 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 cornfields 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 around 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
fruitcake, 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 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 hope 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 woman
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 sat about unpacking the horses, and I in the meantime 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.