country. It appeared that there were about fifty wigwams on the island
when the red men were compelled to leave by the government. Most of them
were taken to a reservation out west, and a number went to some lands of
their kindred along the St. Joseph river in Michigan. Eventually a few
returned and lived in scattered isolation, but their tribal organization
was broken up.
The head of the village on Jerry Island was a venerable warrior named
“Hot Ashes.” He was a friend of Buck’s grandfather, and it was he who
gave him the brass bound box when the Indians left. He said it had been
brought to the island by the “Black Robe” many years before, and that he
had left it in the mission house when he went away.
The box had been treasured by the Indians, for it was supposed for a
long time to be a “great medicine,” but when they departed they
considered it a useless burden. There had been much misfortune after the
Black Robe left and their faith in its powers gradually ceased.
The going away of the kindly priest was much mourned by his dusky flock.
He was supposed to have departed on some mysterious errand, and to have
met fatality in the woods, but they were never able to find any traces
of him.
Hot Ashes believed that the Black Robe had a great trouble, as, before
his disappearance, he neglected the work of his mission for several
days, and walked about on the island, carrying a little bundle which he
was seen to throw into the river the day he left.
There was no further reference in the manuscript to the Black Robe, or
to the brass bound box, which I now opened.
There were two compartments, divided into sections, one on either side
of a larger opening in the middle. These contained various small
articles. Two of them fitted low square bottles, one of which was half
filled with a black powdery substance. On the label, that fell off when
I removed the bottle, I deciphered the word ENCRE. Experiment justified
the conclusion that the powder had been added to water when ink was
needed. A dry coating on the inside of the other bottle indicated that
it had been used for this purpose.
In a larger section were some beads that were once a rosary, fragments
of a silk cord that had held them together, and a crucifix.
At the center of each end of the box, were half circular rests, probably
designed to hold a chalice. The space contained a breviary, bound in
leather, and much worn, some ink stained quill pens, a small box of fine
sand that had been used for blotting, and some loosely folded papers.
They consisted mostly of letters from the Superior of the Mission, and
pertained to routine affairs, suggestions regarding the work of the
little mission, and congratulations on its successful progress.
Comparison of the depth of the opening with the outside of the box
revealed the existence of a secret space, and it was only after long
study and experiment that I discovered the means of access to it. On
lifting its cover I found a flexible cloth covered book and a letter
enclosed in oiled silk, that was much tattered.
The book, which was yellow with age, and frayed at the edges, contained
closely written pages in French, many of them much faded, obscure, and
in some places entirely obliterated.
The chirography was in the main neat and methodical, but apparently the
writing had been done under many varying conditions that made uniformity
impossible. Several small drawings were scattered through the text. Some
of them showed considerable skill and care, and the others were rough
topographic sketches and memorandums of routes.
The book was the journal of Pierre de Lisle, a young Jesuit missionary
who left France in 1723 to carry salvation to the heathen in the remote
wilderness of the new continent.
The early entries related to his novitiate in Paris, his work in the
Jesuit college, and the preparations for his departure for America. They
reflected his hopes for the success of his perilous undertaking.
There were vague references to a deep affliction, and to periods of
heart sickness and mental depression, by reason of which he had taken
the long and difficult path of self denial and self effacement that led
him into the activities of the Society of Jesus.
He had spent the required years in the subjugation of the flesh and the
sanctification of mind and soul, when he went on board the vessel that
was to take him to Quebec.
In the hope of finding a clue to Pierre’s sorrow, I extracted the letter
from its silk covering. It had evidently been cherished through the
vicissitudes of purification and the perils of arduous journeyings. It
was signed by Marie d’Aubigney, and told of her love, that was undying
but hopeless, and of her approaching compulsory marriage to “M. le
Marquis.” His name did not appear in the letter.
Mingled with the musty odor of the ancient missive, I thought I detected
a faint lingering perfume—at least there was one in the message, if not
in the paper that bore it.
Several pages of the journal were devoted to the tempestuous voyage
across the Atlantic, and a gloomy week spent in the fog off the Grand
Banks. The vessel finally reached Quebec, where Pierre reported to the
Superior of the Canadian Mission.
He and several other missionaries, accompanied by voyageurs and Indian
guides, made a long and eventful trip up the St. Lawrence and Ottawa
rivers to Georgian Bay. They skirted its shores to Lake Huron, where a
violent gale scattered their boats, and wrecked two of them.
After much danger and hardship the party landed on the wild coast, but
the food supplies had been lost in the turbulent waters. In an attempt
to find sustenance, Pierre and one companion wandered a considerable
distance from the camp and lost their way in a snowstorm. They found an
Indian village that had been depopulated by small pox, and took refuge
in one of the squalid huts, where they were besieged by a pack of wolves
for several days. Had it not been for some scraps of dried fish that
they fortunately found in the hut, they would have starved. They were
finally rescued, and Pierre ascribed their deliverance to St. Francis.
The Indians succeeded in killing some game in the woods, and, after a
hazardous journey, the party reached Mackinac. Pierre went from there to
Green Bay. He stayed a few months and departed for the mission on the
St. Joseph river, where he remained a year.
The journal gave many details of his life as an assistant at this
mission, where he baptized numerous converts, and greatly increased the
attendance at the mission school.
In the hope of enlarging his usefulness, he sent a letter to Quebec,
asking permission to found a new mission among the Indians inhabiting
the river country south of the St. Joseph. With the doubtful means of
communication the letter was a long time in reaching its destination,
and he had about given up hope when a favorable reply came.
With one of his converts as a guide, he departed for the field of his
new labors. They ascended the St. Joseph in a canoe, made the portage
from its headwaters, and descended the Kankakee.
Frequent mention was made in the journal of the faithful guide, who
proved invaluable, and of the beautiful scenery of the route. Camps were
pitched on the verdant banks at night, but once, in passing through one
of the vast marshes, they lost the uncertain channel and were compelled
to sleep in the canoe.
They stopped at a few Indian villages along the river and were received
with kindness. The journey was continued down stream beyond Jerry
Island. The populous communities above and below that point commended it
to his judgment. He returned and began the work of establishing his
mission.
Although he found the manifold vices of paganism in the villages, he was
treated with bountiful hospitality. Successive feasts were prepared in
his honor, in which boiled dog was the “piece de resistance.” Willing
hands assisted in the construction of the mission house, and the date of
the first mass was recorded in the journal.
There was much sickness among the Indians when Pierre came, the nature
of which did not appear. Orgies and incantations continued day and night
to conjure away the epidemic. He performed the consolatory offices of
his church in the afflicted wigwams. Soon after his arrival practically
all of the sickness disappeared. Their recovered health convinced the
credulous savages that the Black Robe possessed a mysterious power, and
the small bottle of black powder was thought to be a mighty magic.
Ink has swayed the destinies of countless millions, but here its potency
seems to have played a strange role.
Much of the journal was devoted to happenings that now seem trivial, but
to the zealous disciple of Loyola—a protagonist of his faith on a
spiritual frontier—they were of great moment. Detached from their
contemporary human associations, events must affect the emotions or the
interests of the mass of mankind if their records endure.
Pierre assisted in the councils, gave advice on temporal affairs, and
patiently inculcated the precepts of his religion in the minds of his
primitive flock. Impressive baptisms and beautiful deaths were noted at
length. Converts who strayed from the fold, and were induced to return,
were given much space.
Here and there poetic reflections graced the faded pages, and pious
musings were recorded. Original verse, and quotations from favorite
authors, that seemed inspired by melancholy hours, mingled with the
text. The names of the various saint’s days were often used as captions
for the entries, instead of calendar dates.
In the back of the book was a list of names of converts, dates of
baptism, marriages and deaths, and a vocabulary of about three hundred
words of the Pottowatomie dialect of the Algonquin language, with their
French equivalents. Variations in the chirography indicated that the
lists had grown gradually, as additions were made with different pens.
A gloomy spirit seemed to pervade the dim pages. The broken heart of
Pierre de Lisle throbbed between the lines of the story of his life in
the wilderness. He had carried his cross to the far places, and, in
isolation, he yearned for the healing balm of forgetfulness on his
fevered soul. There were evidences of a great mental conflict among the
last entries. He mentioned the arrival at the island of Jacques Le
Moyne, a Jesuit priest, who was on his way to a distant post on the
Mississippi, and spent several weeks with him. They had been boyhood
friends in France and had entered the Jesuit college at about the same
time. His coming was a breath of life from the outer world.
Le Moyne told him of the death of the Marquis de Courcelles, whose
existence had darkened Pierre’s life, and all of the precepts, tenets,
and pageantry of the Church of Rome floated away as mists before a
freshening wind.
Pierre was born again. The dormant life currents quickened, and his
virile soul and body exulted in emancipation and new found hope.
The entries in the journal closed with a sorrowful farewell to his
spiritual charges, of which they probably never knew, and an expression
of pathetic gratitude to his friend Jacques, who had opened a gate
between desolation and earthly paradise, for warm arms in France were
reaching across the stormy seas, and into the wilds of the new world for
Pierre de Lisle.
It seemed strange that he had left the journal and the letter of Marie
d’Aubigney. He was probably obsessed by his one dominant thought, and
naturally excluded everything not needed for his long journey, but if
his mind had not been much perturbed and confused he might have taken or
destroyed the journal, but he surely would have carried the precious
letter with him.
The little bundle that he threw into the river, the day he left the
island, may have contained his sacramental chalice, for in it his lips
had found bitter waters.
He probably dissembled his apostasy and utilized such Jesuit facilities
as were available in getting back to his native land, lulling his
conscience with one of the maxims of the Society of Jesus—“the end
justifies the means”—but be that as it may, the chronicles in the attic
had come to an end.
I sat for a long time, listening to the patter of the rain on the old
roof, and mused over the frail memorials.
There is but one great passion in the world. With it all human destiny
is entwined. Votaries of established religion have ever been recruited
from the disconsolate. The gray walls of convents and monasteries have
lured the heart stricken, and in remote fields of pious endeavor
unguents have been sought for cruel wounds. In the waste places of the
earth have been scattered the ashes of despair, but while life lasts, it
somewhere holds the eternal chords. At hope’s vibrant touch the
enfeebled strings awake and attune to the sublime strains of the Great
Lyric.
The faint echo of a song lingered in the brass bound box. The silk
covered letter intoned a dream melody that the years had not hushed.
IV
THE “WETHER BOOK” OF BUCK GRANGER’S GRANDFATHER
My friend “Buck” told me something of his grandfather’s history as we
sat in the genial glow of the stone fireplace the evening after I had
examined the contents of the brass bound box.
The old pioneer, with his wife and two sons, had come west in 1810 and
located on the island. He found many Indians there and his relations
with them were very friendly. A small area was cleared and cultivated on
the island, but the main source of livelihood was hunting, fishing and
trapping. The woods and waters teemed with life and nature yielded
easily of her abundance.
The old man lived alone for many years after the death of his wife. His
sons married and went farther west. Two years before he died one of the
sons, Buck’s father, returned with his wife and little boy, to the old
home. Buck was now the only surviving member of the family.
His recollections of his grandfather were rather vague. He remembered
him as an old man with a white bushy beard, frowsy coon skin cap, ear
muffs, and fur mittens. He had spent much time with him fishing along
the river, and in trips through the woods. From him he had learned the
ways of the big marsh, and much of the unwritten lore of the forest. His
stories of the old pioneer gave an impression of one who was much given
to having his own way, rather crusty at times, but whose sympathy and
kindness of heart were often imposed upon by those who knew him.
Buck said that in the old oak chest in the attic was a lot of stuff that
had belonged to his grandfather. We went to the attic the next morning
and took out of the chest the odd assortment of things we found in it.
Most of them were of no special interest. There were some old account
books, several cancelled promissory notes for small amounts, and a
package of receipts. One note, payable to the old man, was marked across
its face “Debt forgiven—Can’t Collect.”
I was pleased to find a bag of Indian arrow heads, many of them
beautifully made, a couple of spear heads, and a tomahawk.
There was a section of a maple tree root, about a foot long, in the
chest, that Buck said he had chopped out one winter in the woods near
the marsh. A steel trap was imbedded in it, and between the jaws were
two bones of a coon’s foot. The uneven hammer marks on the metal
indicated that the trap was probably home forged. Buck had identified it
as one belonging to his grandfather, and there were others like it in
the chest. Apparently the victim had dragged the trap to the foot of the
tree, which it was unable to climb. He had died with his leg across the
young exposed root that had grown around and through the mechanism,
until only a portion of the rusty chain, the end of the spring, and the
upper parts of the jaws that held the little bones remained. The story
of the tragedy was plainly told.
[Illustration:
THE OLD LOG HOUSE
]
In the bottom of the chest was a thick leather bound book. On the cover
was some crude lettering in black ink, with labored attempts at
ornamentation. On removing the dust I deciphered the inscription:
WETHER BOOK—JOSIAH GRANGER
Evidently its author had spent much time in keeping a record of the
weather and of his life on the island. Innumerable thermometer readings
filled columns at the right of the pages. After most of the dates were
weather observations, comments on intrusive friends, and various things
that had come within the sphere of a lonely existence.
Diaries are pictures of character—unsafe repositories of intimate
personal things that enlighten and betray. Among the pages were traces
of petty jealousies and much harmless egotism. Here and there were
patches of sunlight, touches of irony and unconscious humor. At times a
tinge of pathos shadowed the lines of the “wether book,” and under it
all was the human story of one who, in this humble form of expression,
had sought relief from solitude.
As I perused the faded chronicles the figure of the old man, sitting
before his fire at night, with his pipe and almanac, diligently
recording the happenings of the days that passed in his little world,
seemed a reality.
The record covered a number of years, but extracts from the entries of
1852 will convey a general idea of the contents of the old book.
_Jan 1st_—This is the first of the yeare & I start in not very well.
Cold prevales & a good dele of snow. Snow drifts stacked around the
house. Cant see out. I stay mostly in my blankett.
_Jan 10th_—Lots of snow. Froze hard last nite. Big wind. Stade in & must
hole up for rest of winter if this keaps up. Rumetiziam bad. Hiram
Barnes com today with feet froze. It is blowing bad. Looks worse
outside. Moon eclips was predicted for the 8th but nuthing of the kind
sene.
_Jan 12th_—I notis by my almanack Lady J. Gray behedded today in 1555
but what for does not say & hevy rain storms predicted but nuthing of
the kind. It has never ben colder. I got to melt som more snow and get
the pump going. She is froze hard.
_Jan 14th_—Was out som today & it looks thawy. Thaw coming. Som deer
traks on iland. Will get after deer soon.
_Jan 16th_—Got a buck today & fixed the meat. Sunup & Sunsett both
according to clock. Evrything on skedule. Som sweling white cloudds off
in W. The cold abates som.
_Jan 20_—We are geting storms in these parts & a good dele of wether
comes at nite. Som days are cleare & cold with merkery stedy at Zero.
The moon is around but nites dark & clouddy. Moon must hav ben full the
7th but not sene.
_Jan 31st_—Month closes mild yet flying snow. River ice som places over
a ft. thick. This has ben a remarkabel month. Thare was too much wether
in Jan. The merkery gets funny now and then. I dont think eny thermomter
is akkerate.
_Feb 2nd_—Big thaw has com & erly in the morning a shour of rain. Got a
buck on the ice at the marsh & got the meat home late. This was
yesterdy. Snow is all mushy. This has ben a quere day. It is now 5 P.M.
_Feb 3rd_—Snow flurrys mixed with rain. Ice braking som. I heare meney
cracks out on the river. As I sett down to rite in my wether book I
beleve the back bone of the winter is broke.
_Feb 5–6–7–8–9–10_—Had 1 nice brite day & ever sence a whopping big
storm. Big drifts. Cant see out. Must get some backake ointmint. Full
moon was on the 5th. Good thing I got a lot of wood in. I notis in my
almanack storms probabel this month & this is rite.
_Feb 15th_—Out yesterdy & 20 inches snow in woods. Shot 3 patriches near
the house. Wolves yelld all nite. Sene gese flying N. but they beter go
back. It is warmer thow. Som deer crossed river last nite. This is being
a remarkabel month. Cool & misty air prevales as I rite.
_Feb 20_—I was down to the marsh. This was yesterdy. Got 36 rats from 42
trapps. 2 trapps lost. Som rat houses near chanel butted out by ice
moving along. Sene som gese very high going N. One I think was a flock
of swanns. Fogg & sleat tonite.
_Feb 21–22–23–24–25_—All bad days. G. Washington had a birthday on the
22nd. That was my birthday too. The politicks would make him sick if he
could see them now. Thares lots of dead pepil that would not like what
is now going on, and we would not like som things they done if we was
thare.
_Feb 28_—Snow most gone & hard rain. Lot of ice moving in river. I sene
4 flocks gese 5 of ducks, mostly bloobills. Thare has ben few deer this
winter. I got 2 bucks & 1 doe all fat in good condition & I got a small
bear. This was over neare Wild Catt Swamp on the 18th & I forgot to rite
it down. Old Josiah & the dog was thare on that date.
_Feb 29th_—This is leap yeare. Hav not ben out today. I am geting throw
the winter all rite. Feb a changabel month. It closes with foggs & high
water. S. Conkrite com today on his way to the marsh. His noos is Ed
Baxter & Fanny Noonan got marrid Jan 6th. Probly she asked him. Wether
tonite looks thick. Cloudds both big & black are in the West.
_March 5th_—Gese coming rite along now & thousans of ducks. Rats on the
marsh ben prety fare. Got a lot so far but probly will find prices bad.
Your uncle Josiah was all over the oak tract in boat for malards. Got
over 50. He had on his shooting shirt. They was after the acorns in
about 2 ft. of watter. This was yesterdy. Meney ducks going on N. & som
gese gone too but som will stay & make nests.
_March 11th_—2 egals lit today on the iland & stade around all P.M. They
may think of nesting heare. Old Josiah will take a popp at them. Dense
cloudds are around.
_March 15th_—I notis in my almanack big flodes all over the south &
sweling rivers predicted. Big flode heare too as I rite & evrything
overflode. River ice all gone. Lots of dead timber coming down & floting
bushes. Most of the noos you read in the almanack is bad. On most all of
the dates bloodshed & fires & famins are notised & meney batels & deaths
of Kings & Quenes. Funy no Jacks are spoken of. Shot 62 ducks 11 gese.
Lost aminition on a big flock. Snipe are around & som plover coming in.
Got 34 rats & a wolf. This was yesterdy. Saw 2 deer at Huckelbery Byou.
They left on time. Thare was wild catt traks on the iland Monday morning
after a lite bust of snow. Would like to get that cuss. He beter look
out for the old man. His skin would make a good vest. Moon was full on
the 6th but I ben busy rite along & not evrything ritten down. This is a
bad day & I stade in. Awful hard rain going on as I rite. You get a
buckett full in the face if you open the door. High wind & probly a lot
of damage somwhare. It is now 8 P.M. & your uncle Josiah to bed.
_March 16th_—Clearing wether. Was out but rumetiziam som worse. Lost
aminition on 2 gese that flew over at evening. My almanack says the
planatary aspecks for planting potattoes will be faverabel in 4 weeks
now. I notis thare has ben a lot of small animils around. Som skunks &
foxes. Must put out som trapps.
_March 20_—Clear brite & calm & no wether now for foar days. It is a new
moon like a mellin rine tonite & I sene it over my left sholder. It
hangs wet in the west & this menes rain. Fixed the chickin house against
all skunks & foxes but weezels may get in. A wolf has ben around the
iland. A fogg prevales tonite.
_March 21_—Bad day but it gets into spring now.
_March 22_—Good wether for ducks but they fly high. Beter for gese.
Gusty looking sky tonite.
_March 24th_—I went after them yesterdy. Got no ducks but it was good
wether for them. Shot 22 gese. Bad day for gese too. Got 40 rats.
Perhaps a small snow tonite. Looks likely.
_March 26th_—Got a boat full of rats. Will skin tomorrow. This was
yesterdy I got the rats. Bad storm today. Cant see out. Wether foul &
bad. Old Josiah gets mushrats all rite when he goes out in his little
trapping boat.
_March 27th_—Cold day. Thermomter busted March 10. Cant tell how cold it
is but it is cold. The merkery must be way down. Lite bust of snow as I
rite. Must get som Magic Oil for stif joints.
_March 28th_—River is froze along edges but open in the curent. Ducks &
Gese moving thick. Big bunches went over today flying high. Som deer
around. Must go after deer tomorrow. A lot of Jaybirds round the house.
Crows & Jaybirds make rackett. Must hav quiet. Must get bag of small
shot.
_March 30th_—Got no deer yesterdy. Sene one but too far off. If could
hav shot with a spy glass I could hav got him if I had one. Got som
sasafras. Must cook som spring medicin. I now have all ingrediments.