Midway between the St. Louis River and Sandy Lake, in the Territory of
Minesota, is to be found one of the largest and most forbidding of
tamarack swamps. From time immemorial it has been a thing of dread, not
only to the Indians, but also to the traders and voyagers, for directly
across its centre runs the portage train leading from the waters of Lake
Superior to those of the Upper Mississippi. For a goodly portion of the
year it is blocked up with snow, and during the summer is usually so far
covered with water as only occasionally to afford a little island of
coarse vegetation. It is so desolate a place as to be uninhabited even
by wild animals, and hence the pleasures of traveling over it are far
from being manifold. In fact, the only way in which it can be overcome
during the vernal months is by employing a rude causeway of logs for the
more dangerous places; and as it happens to be directly on the route of
a portage over which canoes and packs of furs are annually transported
to a considerable extent, we cannot wonder that it should frequently be
the scene of mishaps and accidents. Evidences to prove this, we
distinctly remember to have seen, when once crossing the swamp, for all
along the trail were the skeletons of canoes, which had been abandoned
by their owners, together with broken paddles and remnants of camp
furniture. But the most interesting object that we witnessed in this
remote corner of the wilderness was a rude wooden cross, surmounting a
solitary grave. And connected with this grave is the following story,
obtained from one who assisted at the burial.
It was a summer day, and many years ago, when a stranger made his
appearance at the Sault St. Marie. He reported himself as coming from
Montreal and anxious to obtain a canoe passage to the head waters of the
Mississippi. He was a Frenchman, of elegant address, and in easy
circumstances, so far as one could judge from his stock of traveling
comforts. His name and business, however, were alike unknown, and hence
a mystery attended his every word and movement. Having purchased a new
canoe and a comfortable tent, he secured the services of four stalwart
Chippeways and started upon his western pilgrimage. He sailed along the
southern shore of Lake Superior, and as its unique features developed
themselves to his view one after another, he frequently manifested the
gratification he experienced in the most enthusiastic manner, thereby
increasing the mystery which surrounded him. Wholly unacquainted with
the language spoken by his companions, he could only converse with them
by signs; but though they could not relate to him the traditions
associated with the sandstone cliffs, mountains, and beautiful islands
which they witnessed, they did everything in their power to make him
comfortable. They entered his tent and built his watch-fire at night,
supplied him with game and fish, and during the long pleasant days, when
skimming over the blue waters, entertained him with their romantic but
uncouth songs. In due time, they reached the superb and most picturesque
St. Louis River, surmounted by means of many portages its waterfalls,
entered and ascended one of its tributaries, and finally drew up their
canoe at the eastern extremity of the portage leading over the tamarack
swamp.
The spot where the voyagers landed was distinguished for its beauty, and
as they arrived there in the afternoon, they concluded that a better
place could not be found to spend the night. The tent of the stranger
was therefore erected, and while the Indians busied themselves in
preparing the evening meal, the former amused himself by exploring the
immediate vicinity of the encampment. He wandered into a neighboring
swamp for the purpose of obtaining a few roots of the _sweet flag_ of
which he was particularly fond, and on his return to the tent ate an
unreasonable quantity of what he had collected. On that night he was
taken sick, and while endeavoring to account for heart-burning and
severe pains that he experienced, he pulled out of his pocket a specimen
of the root he had eaten and handed it to the Indians. They were
surprised at this movement, but on examining the root they found it to
be a deadly poison, whereupon they managed to inform the stranger that
he had made a great mistake, and would probably lose his life. This
intelligence was of course received with amazement and horror, and the
unhappy man spent a most agonizing night. At daybreak he was a little
better, and insisted upon immediately continuing his journey. The
voyagers obeyed, and packing up their plunder, started across the
portage in single file. The excitement which filled the mind of the
stranger seemed to give new energy to his sinews, and he traveled for
about an hour with great rapidity; but by the time he reached the centre
of the tamarack swamp his strength failed him, and he was compelled to
call a halt. Upon one of the green islands, already mentioned the
Indians erected his tent, and, with all the blankets and robes belonging
to the company, made him as comfortable as possible. The hours of the
day were nearly numbered: the stranger had endured the severest agony,
and he knew that he was about to die! He divested himself of his
clothes, and with all his papers and other personal property, motioned
that they should be placed in a heap a few paces from the door of his
tent. His request was obeyed. He then handed them all the money he had,
and dispatched all his attendants upon imaginary errands into the
neighboring woods, and when they returned they found the heap of clothes
and other property changed into heaps of ashes. They supposed the sick
man had lost his reason, and therefore did not deem his conduct
inexplicable. They only increased their kind attentions, for they felt
that the stream of life was almost dry. Again did the stranger summon
the Indians to his side, and pulling from his breast a small silver
crucifix, motioned to them that they should plant upon his grave a
similar memento; and hiding it again in the folds of his shirt, cast a
lingering and agonizing look upon the setting sun, and in this manner
breathed his last.
By the light of the moon did the Indians dig a grave on the spot where
the stranger died, into which they deposited his remains, with the
crucifix upon his breast. At the head of the grave, they planted a rude
cross made of the knotty tamarack wood, and after a night of troubled
repose, started upon their return to the Sault St. Marie, where they
finally recounted the catastrophe of their pilgrimage. And such is the
story that we heard of the lonely cross on the northern wilderness
surmounting the remains of the nameless exile.