RETURN TO FORT WINNEBAGO
A great part of the command, with the cattle belonging to the officers
and soldiers, had a day or two previous to the time of our departure,
set out on their march by land to Green Bay, _via_ Fort Winnebago.
Lieut. Foster, under whose charge they were, had lingered behind that
he might have the pleasure of joining our party, and we, in turn, had
delayed in order to see the other members of our family safely on board
the Napoleon. But now, all things being ready, we set our faces once
more homeward.
We took with us a little _bound-girl_, Josette (a daughter of
Ouilmette, a Frenchman who had lived here at the time of the Massacre,
and of a Pottowattamie mother), a bright, pretty child of ten years of
age. She had been at the St. Joseph's mission-school, under Mr. McCoy,
and she was now full of delight at the prospect of a journey all the
way to the Portage with Monsieur and Madame Jolm.
We had also a negro boy, Harry, brought a year before from Kentucky,
by Mr. Kercheval. In the transfer at that time from a slave State to
a free one, Harry's position became somewhat changed--he could be no
more than an indentured servant. He was about to become a member of Dr.
Wolcott's household, and it was necessary for him to choose a guardian.
All this was explained to him on his being brought into the parlor,
where the family were assembled. My husband was then a young man, on a
visit to his home. "Now, Harry," it was said to him, "you must choose
your guardian;" and the natural expectation was that Harry would select
the person of his acquaintance of the greatest age and dignity. But,
rolling round his great eyes, and hanging his head on one side, he said,
"I'll have Master John for my guardian."
From that day forward Harry felt as if he belonged, in a measure, to
Master John, and at the breaking up of the family in Chicago he was,
naturally, transferred to our establishment.
There were three ladies of our travelling party--our mother, our sister
Mrs. Helm, and myself. To guard against the burning effect of the sun
and the prairie winds upon our faces, I had, during some of the last
days of my visit, prepared for each of us a mask of brown linen, with
the eyes, nose, and mouth fitted to accommodate our features; and to
enhance the hideousness of each, I had worked eye-brows, lashes, and
a circle around the opening for the mouth in black silk. Gathered in
plaits under the chin, and with strings to confine them above and
below, they furnished a complete protection against the sun and wind,
though nothing can be imagined more frightful than the appearance we
presented when fully equipped. It was who should be called the ugliest.
We left amid the good wishes and laughter of our few remaining
acquaintances, of whom we now took leave. Our wagon had been provided
with a pair of excellent travelling horses, and sister Margaret and
myself accommodated with the best pacers the country could afford, and
we set off in high spirits toward the Aux Plaines--our old friend,
Billy Caldwell (the Sau-ga-nash), with our brother Robert and Gholson
Kercheval, accompanying us to that point of our journey.
There was no one at Barney Lawton's when we reached there but a
Frenchman and a small number of Indians. The latter in their eagerness
to say "bonjour," and shake hands with Shaw-nee-aw-kee, passed us by,
apparently without observation, so my sister and I dismounted and
entered the dwelling, the door of which stood open. Two Indians were
seated on the floor smoking. They raised their eyes as we appeared,
and never shall I forget the expression of wonder and horror depicted
on the countenances of both. Their lips relaxed until the pipe of one
fell upon the floor. Their eyes seemed starting from their heads, and
raising their outspread hands, as if to wave us from them, they slowly
ejaculated, "_Manitou!_" (a spirit).
As we raised our masks, and, smiling, came forward to shake hands with
them, they sprang to their feet and fairly uttered a cry of delight at
the sight of our familiar faces.
"Bonjour, bonjour, Maman!" was their salutation, and they instantly
plunged out of doors to relate to their companions what had happened.
Our afternoon's ride was over a prairie stretching away to the
north-east. No living creature was to be seen upon its broad expanse,
but flying and circling over our heads were innumerable flocks of
curlews,
"Screaming their wild notes to the listening waste."
Their peculiar shrill cry of "crack, crack, crack--rackety, rackety,
rackety," repeated from the throats of dozens as they sometimes stooped
quite close to our ears, became at length almost unbearable. It seemed
as if they had lost their senses in the excitement of so unusual and
splendid a cortége in their hitherto desolate domain.
The accelerated pace of our horses as we approached a beautiful wooded
knoll, warned us that this was to be our place of repose for the night.
These animals seem to know by instinct a favorable encamping-ground,
and this was one of the most lovely imaginable.
The trees, which near the lake had, owing to the coldness and tardiness
of the season, presented the pale-yellow appearance of unfledged
goslings, were here bursting into full leaf. The ground around was
carpeted with flowers--we could not bear to have them crushed by the
felling of a tree and the pitching of our tent among them. The birds
sent forth their sweetest notes in the warm, lingering sunshine, and
the opening buds of the young hickory and sassafras filled the air with
perfume.
Nothing could be more perfect than our enjoyment of this sylvan and
beautiful retreat[AQ] after our ride in the glowing sun. The children
were in ecstasies. They delighted to find ways of making themselves
useful--to pile up the saddles--to break boughs for the fire--to fill
the little kettles with water for Petaille and Lecuyer, the Frenchmen
who were preparing our supper.
[Footnote AQ: It is now known as Dunkley's Grove.]
Their amusement at the awkward movements of the horses after they were
spancelled knew no bounds. To Edwin everything was new, and Josette,
who had already made more than one horseback journey to St. Joseph's,
manifested all the pride of an old traveller in explaining to him
whatever was novel or unaccountable.
They were not the last to spring up at the call "how! how!" on the
following morning.
The fire was replenished, the preparations for breakfast commenced, and
the Frenchmen dispatched to bring up the horses in readiness for an
early start.
Harry and Josette played their parts, under our direction, in preparing
the simple meal, and we soon seated ourselves, each with cup and knife,
around the _table-mat_. The meal was over, but no men, no horses
appeared. When another half-hour had passed, my husband took Harry and
commenced exploring in search of the missing ones.
The day wore on, and first one of them and then another would make his
appearance to report progress. Petaille and Lecuyer at length brought
two of the horses, but the others could nowhere be found. In time, Mr.
Kinzie and Harry returned, wet to their knees by the dew upon the long
prairie grass, but with no tidings. Again the men were dispatched after
having broken their fast, but returned as unsuccessful as before.
The morning had been occupied by our party at the encampment in
speculating upon the missing animals.
Could they have been stolen by the Indians? Hardly--these people seldom
committed robberies in time of peace--never upon our family, whom they
regarded as their best friends. The horses would doubtless be found.
They had probably been carelessly fastened the preceding evening, and
therefore been able to stray further than was their wont.
A council was held, at which it was decided to send Grignon back to
Chicago to get some fresh horses from Gholson Kercheval, and return as
speedily as possible. If on his return our encampment were deserted,
he might conclude we had found the horses and proceeded to Fox River,
where he would doubtless overtake us.
Upon reflection, it was thought best to send him once more in the
direction of Salt Creek, when, if still unsuccessful, the former
alternative could be adopted.
He had not been gone more than an hour, before, slowly hopping out of
a point of woods to the north of us (a spot which each of the seekers
averred he had explored over and over again), and making directly for
the place where we were, appeared the vexatious animals. They came up
as demurely as if nothing had happened, and seemed rather surprised
to be received with a hearty scolding, instead of being patted and
caressed as usual.
It was the work of a very short half hour to strike and pack the tent,
stow away the mats and kettles, saddle the horses and mount for our
journey.
"Whoever pleases may take my place in the carriage," said our mother.
"I have travelled so many years on horseback, that I find any other
mode of conveyance too fatiguing."
So, spite of her sixty years, she mounted sister Margaret's pacer with
the activity of a girl of sixteen.
Lieut. Foster had left us early in the morning, feeling it necessary to
rejoin his command, and now, having seen us ready to set off, with a
serene sky above us, and all things "right and tight" for the journey,
our friend the Sau-ga-nash took leave of us, and retraced his steps
towards Chicago.
We pursued our way through a lovely country of alternate glade and
forest, until we reached the Fox River.[76] The current ran clear and
rippling along, and as we descended the steep bank to the water, the
question, so natural to a traveller in an unknown region, presented
itself, "Is it fordable?"
Petaille, to whom the ground was familiar, had not yet made his
appearance. Lecuyer was quite ignorant upon the subject. The troops
had evidently preceded us by this very trail. True, but they were on
horseback--the difficulty was, could we get the carriage through? It
must be remembered, that the doubt was not about the depth of the
water, but about the hardness of the bottom of the stream.
It was agreed that two or three of the equestrians should make the
trial first. My mother, Lecuyer and myself advanced cautiously across
to the opposite bank, each choosing a different point for leaving the
water, in order to find the firmest spot. The bottom was hard and firm
until we came near the shore, then it yielded a little. With one step,
however, we were each on dry ground.
"Est-il beau?" called my husband, who was driving.
"Oui, Monsieur."
"Yes, John, come just here, it is perfectly good."
"No, no--go a little further down. See the white gravel just there--it
will be firmer still, there."
Such were the contradictory directions given. He chose the latter, and
when it wanted but one step more to the bank, down sunk both horses,
until little more than their backs were visible.
The white gravel proved to be a bed of treacherous yellow clay, which
gleaming through the water, had caused so unfortunate a deception.
With frantic struggles, for they were nearly suffocated with mud and
water, the horses made desperate efforts to free themselves from the
harness. My husband sprang out upon the pole. "Some one give me a
knife," he cried. I was back in the water in a moment, and approaching
as near as I dared, handed him mine from the scabbard around my neck.
"Whatever you do, do not cut the traces," cried his mother.
He severed some of the side-straps, when just as he had reached the
extremity of the pole, and was stretching forward to separate the
head-couplings, one of the horses gave a furious plunge, which caused
his fellow to rear and throw himself nearly backwards. My husband was
between them. For a moment we thought he was gone--trampled down by
the excited animals, but he presently showed himself, nearly obscured
by the mud and water. With the agility of a cat, Harry, who was near
him, now sprung forward on the pole, and in an instant, with his sharp
jack-knife which he had ready, divided the straps that confined their
heads.
The horses were at this moment lying floating on the water--one
apparently dead, the other as if gasping out his last breath. But
hardly did they become sensible of the release of their heads from
bondage than they made, simultaneously, another furious effort to free
themselves from the pole to which they were still attached by the
neck-strap.
Failing in this, they tried another expedient, and by a few judicious
twists and turns, succeeded in wrenching the pole asunder, and finally
carried it off in triumph across the river again, and up the bank,
where they stood waiting to decide what were the next steps to be taken.
Here was a predicament! A few hours before we had thought ourselves
uncomfortable enough, because some of our horses were missing. Now, a
greater evil had befallen us. The wagon was in the river, the harness
cut to pieces, and, what was worse, carried off in the most independent
manner, by Tom and his companion; the pole was twisted to pieces, and
there was not so much as a stick on that side of the river with which
to replace it.
At this moment, a whoop from the opposite bank, echoed by two or three
hearty ones from our party, announced the reappearance of Petaille
Grignon. He dismounted and took charge of the horses, who were resting
themselves after their fatigues under a shady tree, and by this time
Lecuyer had crossed the river and now joined him in bringing back the
delinquents.
In the meantime we had been doing our best to minister to our sister
Margaret. Both she and her little son Edwin had been in the wagon at
the time of the accident, and it had been a work of some difficulty
to get them out and bring them on horseback to shore. The effect of
the agitation and excitement was to throw her into a fit of the ague,
and she now lay blue and trembling among the long grass of the little
prairie, which extended along the bank. The tent, which had been packed
in the rear of the wagon, was too much saturated with mud and water to
admit of its being used as a shelter; it could only be stretched in the
sun to dry. We opened an umbrella over our poor sister's head, and now
began a discussion of ways and means to repair damages. The first thing
was to cut a new pole for the wagon, and for this, the master and men
must recross the river and choose an _iron-tree_ out of the forest.
Then, for the harness. With provident care, a little box had been
placed under the seat of the wagon, containing an awl, waxed-ends, and
various other little conveniences exactly suited to an emergency like
the present.
It was question and answer, like Cock Robin:
"Who can mend the harness?"
"I can, for I learned when I was a young girl to make shoes as _an
accomplishment_, and I can surely now, as a matter of usefulness and
duty, put all those wet, dirty pieces of leather together."
So, we all seated ourselves on the grass, under the shade of the only
two umbrellas we could muster.
I stitched away diligently, blistering my hands, I must own, in no
small degree.
A suitable young tree had been brought, and the hatchets, without which
one never travels in the woods, were all busy, fashioning it into
shape, when a peculiar hissing noise was heard, and instantly the cry,
"_Un serpent sonnette!_ A rattlesnake!"
All sprang to their feet, even the poor shaking invalid, just in time
to see the reptile glide past within three inches of my mother's feet,
while the men assailed the spot it had left with whips, missives, and
whatever would help along the commotion.
This little incident proved an excellent remedy for the ague. One
excitement drives away another, and by means of this, (upon the
homœopathic principle), sister Margaret was so much improved that
by the time all the mischiefs were repaired, she was ready to take her
place in the cavalcade, as bright and cheerful as the rest of us.
So great had been the delay occasioned by all these untoward
circumstances, that our afternoon's ride was but a short one, bringing
us no further than the shores of a beautiful sheet of water, now known
as Crystal Lake. Its clear surface was covered with Loons, and _Poules
d'Eau_, a species of Rail, with which, at certain seasons, this region
abounds.
The Indians have, universally, the genius of Æsop for depicting animal
life and character, and there is, among them, a fable illustrative of
every peculiarity in the personal appearance, habits, or dispositions
of each variety of the animal creation.
The back of the little Rail is very concave, or hollow. The Indians
tell us it became so in the following manner:--
STORY OF THE LITTLE RAIL, OR _POULE D'EAU_.
There is supposed, by most of the North-western tribes, to exist an
invisible being, corresponding to the "Genius" of oriental story.
Without being exactly the father of evil, _Nan-nee-bo-zho_ is a
mischievous spirit, to whose office it seems to be assigned to punish
what is amiss. For his own purposes too, he seems constantly occupied
in entrapping and making examples of all the animals that come in his
way.
One pleasant evening, as he walked along the banks of a lake, he saw a
flock of ducks, sailing and enjoying themselves on the blue waters. He
called to them:
"Ho! come with me into my lodge, and I will teach you to dance!" Some
of the ducks said among themselves, "It is Nan-nee-bo-zho, let us not
go." Others were of a contrary opinion, and his words being fair, and
his voice insinuating, a few turned their faces towards the land--all
the rest soon followed, and with many pleasant quackings, trooped after
him, and entered his lodge.
When there, he first took an Indian sack, with a wide mouth, which
he tied by the strings around his neck, so that it would hang over
his shoulders, having the mouth unclosed. Then placing himself in the
centre of the lodge, he ranged the ducks in a circle around him.
"Now," said he, "you must all shut your eyes _tight_, whoever opens
his eyes at all, something dreadful will happen to him. I will take my
Indian flute and play upon it, and you will, at the word I shall give,
open your eyes, and commence dancing, as you see me do."
The ducks obeyed, shutting their eyes _tight_, and keeping time to the
music by stepping from one foot to the other, all impatient for the
dancing to begin.
Presently a sound was heard like a smothered "quack," but the ducks did
not dare to open their eyes.
Again, and again, the sound of the flute would be interrupted, and a
gurgling cry of "qu-a-a-ck" be heard. There was one little duck, much
smaller than the rest, who, at this juncture, could not resist the
temptation to open one eye, cautiously. She saw Nan-nee-bo-zho, as he
played his flute, holding it with one hand, stoop a little at intervals
and seize the duck nearest him, which he throttled and stuffed into
the bag on his shoulders. So, edging a little out of the circle, and
getting nearer the door which had been left partly open to admit the
light, she cried out:
"Open your eyes--Nan-nee-bo-zho is choking you all and putting you into
his bag!"
With that she flew, but the Nan-nee-bo-zho pounced upon her. His hand
grasped her back, yet, with desperate force, she released herself and
gained the open air. Her companions flew, quacking and screaming after
her. Some escaped, and some fell victims to the sprite.
The little duck had saved her life, but she had lost her beauty. She
ever after retained the attitude she had been forced into, in her
moment of danger--her back pressed down in the centre, and her head and
neck unnaturally stretched forward into the air.