Front matter (continued 6)

White Crow seemed particularly anxious to impress it upon me, that if any danger should arise in Shawnee-aw-kee’s absence, he should come with his people to protect me and my family. I relied upon his assurances, for he had ever shown himself an upright and honorable Indian.

Notwithstanding this, the thoughts of “Indian troubles” so near us, in the absence of our guardian and protector, occasioned us many an anxious moment, and it was not until we learned of the peaceable retreat of the Sacs and Foxes, west of the Mississippi, that we were able wholly to lay aside our fears.[87]

We were now called to part with our friends. Major Twiggs and his family, which we did with heartfelt regret. He gave me a few parting words about our old acquaintance, Christman.

“When I went into the barracks the other day,” said he, “about the time the men were taking their dinner, I noticed a great six-foot soldier standing against the window-frame, crying and blubbering. ‘Halloo,’ said I, ‘what on earth does this mean?’

“‘Why, that fellow there,’ said Christman, (for it was he), ‘has scrowged me out of my place!’ A pretty soldier your protege will make, madam!”

I never heard any more of my hero. Whether he went to exhibit his prowess against the Seminoles and Mexicans, or whether he returned to till the fertile soil of his native German Flats, and blow his favorite boatman’s horn, must be left for some future historian to tell.

There is one more character to be disposed of—Louisa. An opportunity offering in the Spring, the Major had placed her under the charge of a person going to Buffalo, that she might be returned to her parents. In compliment to the new acquaintances she had formed, she shortened her skirts, mounted a pair of scarlet leggins, embroidered with porcupine quills, and took her leave of military life, having deposited with the gentleman who took charge of her, sixty dollars, for safe keeping, which she remarked “she had saved up, out of her wages at a dollar a week through the winter.”

A very short time after we were settled in our new home at the Agency, we attempted the commencement of a little Sunday School. Edwin, Harry and Josette, were our most reliable scholars, but besides them, there were the two little Manaigres, Therese Paquette, and her mother’s half sister, Florence Courville, a pretty young girl of fifteen. None of these girls had even learned their letters. They spoke only French, or rather, the Canadian patois,[88] and it was exceedingly difficult to give them at once the sound of the words, and their signification, which they were careful to inquire. Besides this, there was the task of correcting the false ideas, and remedying the ignorance and superstition which presented so formidable an obstacle to rational improvement. We did our best, however, and had the satisfaction of seeing them, after a time, making really respectable progress with their spelling-book, and what was still more encouraging, acquiring a degree of light and knowledge in regard to better things.

In process of time, however, Florence was often absent from her class. “Her sister,” she said, “could not always spare her. She wanted her to keep house while she, herself, went over on Sunday to visit her friends, the Roys, who lived on the Wisconsin.”

We reasoned with Madam Paquette on the subject. “Could she not spare Florence on some hour of the day? We would gladly teach her on a week day, for she seemed anxious to learn, but we had always been told that for that there was no time.”

“Well—she would see. Madame Allum (Helm) and Madame John, were so kind!”

There was no improvement, however, in regularity. After a time Manaigre was induced to send his children to Mr. Cadle’s mission-school at Green Bay.[89] Therese accompanied them, and very soon Florence discontinued her attendance altogether.

We were obliged, from that time forward, to confine our instructions to our own domestic circle.

CHAPTER XXVIII

INDIAN CUSTOMS AND DANCES

Before we had any right to look for my husband’s return, I one day received a message inviting me to come up to the new house. We all went in a body, for we had purposely staid away a few days, expecting this summons, of which we anticipated the meaning.

Plante, in full glee, was seated astride of a small keg on the roof, close beside the kitchen chimney, on the very summit of which he had planted a green bough. To this he held fast with one hand, while he exultingly waved the other and called out,

“Eh! ban, Madame John! à cette heure, pour le rigal!”

“Yes, Plante, you are entitled to a treat, and I hope you will not enjoy it the less that Pillon and Manaigre are to share it with you.”

A suitable gratification made them quite contented with their “bourgeoise,” against whom Plante had sometimes been inclined to grumble, “because,” as he said, “she had him called up too early in the morning.” He might have added, because, too, she could not understand the philosophy of his coming in to work in his own garden, under the plea that it was too wet and rainy to work in Monsieur John’s.

It was with no ordinary feelings of satisfaction, that we quitted the old log tenement for our new dwelling, small and insignificant though it was.

I was only too happy to enjoy the luxury of a real bed-chamber, in place of the parlor floor which I had occupied as such for more than two months. It is true that our culinary arrangements were still upon no improved plan. The clay chimney was not of sufficient strength to hold the trammel and pot-hooks, which, at that day had not been quite superseded by the cooking-stove and kitchen-range. Our fire was made as in the olden time, with vast logs behind, and smaller sticks in front, laid across upon the andirons or dogs. Upon the sticks were placed such of the cooking-utensils as could not be accommodated on the hearth, but woe to the dinner or the supper, if through a little want of care or scrutiny one treacherous piece was suffered to burn away. Down would come the whole arrangement—kettles, saucepans, burning brands, and cinders, in one almost inextricable mass. How often this happened under the supervision of Harry or little Josette, while the mistress was playing lady to some visitor in the parlor, “'twere vain to tell.”

Then, spite of Mons. Plante’s palisades round the chimney, in a hard shower the rain would come pelting down, and, the hearth unfortunately sloping a little the wrong way, the fire would become extinguished; while the bark on the roof, failing to do its duty, we were now and then so completely deluged, that there was no resource but to catch up the breakfast or dinner and tuck it under the table until better times—that is, till fair weather came again. In spite of all these little adverse occurrences, however, we enjoyed our new quarters exceedingly.

Our garden was well furnished with vegetables, and even the currant bushes which we had brought from Chicago with us, tied in a bundle at the back of the carriage, had produced us some fruit.

The Indian women were very constant in their visits and their presents. Sometimes it was venison—sometimes ducks or pigeons—whortleberries, wild plums, or cranberries, according to the season—neat pretty mats for the floor or table—wooden bowls or ladles, fancy work of deer-skin or porcupine quills. These they would bring in and throw at my feet. If through inattention I failed to look pleased, to raise the articles from the floor and lay them carefully aside, a look of mortification and the observation, “Our mother hates our gifts,” showed how much their feelings were wounded. It was always expected that a present would be received graciously, and returned with something twice its value.

Meantime, week after week wore on, and still was the return of “the master” delayed.

The rare arrival of a schooner at Green Bay, in which to take passage for Detroit, made it always a matter of uncertainty what length of time would be necessary for a journey there and back again—so that it was not until the last of August that he again reached his home. Great was his surprise to find us so nicely “moved and settled,” and under his active supervision, the evils of which we had to complain were soon remedied.

My husband had met at Fort Gratiot, and brought with him, my young brother, Julian, whom my parents were sending, at our request, to reside with us. Edwin was overjoyed to have a companion once more, for he had hitherto been very solitary. They soon had enough to occupy their attention, for, in obedience to a summons sent to the different villages, the Indians very shortly came flocking in to the payment.

There was among their number this year, one whom I had never seen before—the mother of the elder Day-kau-ray. No one could tell her age, but all agreed that she must have seen upwards of a hundred winters. Her eyes dimmed, and almost white with age—her face dark and withered, like a baked apple—her voice tremulous and feeble, except when raised in fury to reprove her graceless grandsons, who were fond of playing her all sorts of mischievous tricks, indicated the very great age she must have attained.

She usually went upon all fours, not having strength to hold herself erect. On the day of the payment, having received her portion, which she carefully hid in the corner of her blanket, she came crawling along and seated herself on the door-step, to count her treasure.

My sister and I were watching her movements from the open window.

Presently, just as she had, unobserved as she thought, spread out her silver before her, two of her descendants came suddenly upon her. At first they seemed begging for a share, but she repulsed them with angry gestures, when one of them made a sudden swoop, and possessed himself of a tolerable handful.

She tried to rise, to pursue him, but was unable to do more than clutch the remainder, and utter the most unearthly screams of rage. At this instant the boys raised their eyes and perceived us regarding them. They burst into a laugh, and with a sort of mocking gesture they threw her the half-dollars, and ran back to the pay-ground.

I think there was but little earnest in their vexatious tricks, for she seemed very fond of them, and never failed to beg something of “her father,” that she could bestow upon them.

She crept into the parlor one morning, when straightening herself up, and supporting herself by the frame of the door, she cried in a most piteous tone—“Shaw-nee-aw-kee! Wau-tshob-ee-rah Thsoonsh-koo-nee-noh!” (Silverman, I have no looking-glass.) Her “father” smiling and taking up the same little tone, cried in return,

“Do you wish to look at yourself, Mother?”

The idea seemed to her so irresistibly comic, that she laughed until she was fairly obliged to seat herself upon the floor and give way to the enjoyment. She then owned that it was for one of her boys that she wanted the little mirror. When her father had given it to her, she found that she had “no comb,” then that she had “no knife,” then that she had “no calico shawl,” until it ended, as it generally did, by Shaw-nee-aw-kee paying pretty dearly for his joke.

When the Indians arrived and when they departed, my sense of “woman’s rights” was often greatly outraged. The master of the family, as a general thing, came leisurely bearing his gun and perhaps a lance in his hand. The woman, with the mats and poles of her lodge upon her shoulders, her pappoose, if she had one, her kettles, sacks of corn and wild rice, and not unfrequently, the household dog perched on the top of all. If there is a horse or pony in the list of family possessions, the man rides, the squaw trudges after.

This unequal division of labor is the result of no want of kind, affectionate feeling on the part of the husband. It is rather the instinct of the sex to assert their superiority of position and importance, when a proper occasion offers. When out of the reach of observation, and in no danger of compromising his own dignity, the husband is willing enough to relieve his spouse from the burden that custom imposes on her, by sharing her labors and hardships.[90]

The payment had not passed without its appropriate number of complimentary and medicine dances. The latter take place only at rare intervals—the former whenever an occasion presents itself—demanding a manifestation of respect and courtesy.

It is the custom to ask permission of the person to be complimented, to dance for him. This granted, preparation is made by painting the face elaborately, and marking the person, which is usually bare about the chest and shoulders, after the most approved pattern. All the ornaments that can be mustered, are added to the hair, or head dress. Happy is he, who, in virtue of having taken one or more scalps, is entitled to proclaim it by a corresponding number of eagle’s feathers. The less fortunate make a substitute of the feathers of the wild turkey, or, better still, of the first unlucky “rooster” that falls in their way. My poor fowls, during the time of payment, were always thoroughly plucked.

When their preparations are completed, the dancers assemble at some convenient place, and then come marching to the spot appointed, accompanied by the music of the Indian drum and shee-shee-qua or rattle. They range themselves in a circle and dance with violent contortions and gesticulations, some of them graceful, others only energetical, the squaws, who stand a little apart, and mingle their discordant voices with the music of the instruments, rarely participating in the dance. Occasionally, however, when excited by the general gaiety, a few of them will form a circle outside and perform a sort of ungraceful, up and down movement, which has no merit, save the perfect time which is kept, and for which, the Indians seem, without exception, to possess a natural ear.

The dance finished, which is only when the strength of the dancers is quite exhausted, a quantity of presents are brought and placed in the middle of the circle, by order of the party complimented. An equitable distribution is made, by one of their number; and the object of all this display having been accomplished, they retire.

The medicine-dance is carried on chiefly to celebrate the skill of the “Medicine-man,” in curing diseases. This functionary belongs to a fraternity who are supposed to add to their other powers some skill in interpreting the will of the Great Spirit in regard to the conduct of his people. He occasionally makes offerings and sacrifices which are regarded as propitiatory. In this sense, the term “priest” may be deemed applicable to him. He is also a “prophet” in so far as he is, in a limited degree, an instructor, but does not claim to possess the gift of foretelling future events.

A person is selected to join the fraternity of the “Medicine-man” by those already initiated, chiefly on account of some skill or sagacity that has been observed in him. Sometimes it happens that a person who has had a severe illness which has yielded to the prescriptions of one of the members, is considered a proper object of choice from a sort of claim thus established.

When he is about to be initiated, a great feast is made, of course at the expense of the candidate, for in the most simple, as in the most civilized life, the same principle of politics holds good, “honors must be paid for.” An animal is killed and dressed, of which the people at large partake—there are dances and songs and speeches in abundance. Then the chief Medicine-man takes the candidate and privately instructs him in all the ceremonies and knowledge necessary to make him an accomplished member of the fraternity. Sometimes the new member selected is still a child. In that case he is taken by the Medicine-man so soon as he reaches a proper age, and qualified by instruction and example to become a creditable member of the fraternity.

Among the Winnebagoes, there seems a considerable belief in magic. Each Medicine-man has a bag or sack, in which is supposed to be enclosed some animal, to whom in the course of their pow-wows, he addresses himself, crying to him in the note common to his imagined species. And the people seem to be persuaded that the answers which are announced are really communications in this form, from the Great Spirit.

The Indians appear to have no idea of a retribution beyond this life. They have a strong appreciation of the great, fundamental virtues of natural religion—the worship of the Great Spirit, brotherly love, parental affection, honesty, temperance and chastity. Any infringement of the laws of the Great Spirit, by a departure from these virtues, they believe will excite his anger, and draw down punishment. These are their principles. That their practice evinces more and more, a departure from them, under the debasing influences of a proximity to the whites, is a melancholy truth, which no one will admit with so much sorrow as those who lived among them, and esteemed them, a quarter of a century ago, before this signal change had taken place.

One of the first improvements that suggested itself about our new dwelling, had been the removal of some very unsightly pickets surrounding two or three Indian graves, on the esplanade in front of the house. Such, however, is the reverence in which these burial-places are held, that we felt we must approach the subject with great delicacy and consideration.

My husband at length ventured to propose to Mrs. “Pawnee Blanc,” the nearest surviving relative of the person interred, to replace the pickets with a neat wooden platform.

The idea pleased her much, for through her intimacy in Paquette’s family, she had acquired something of a taste for civilization. Accordingly a little structure about a foot in height, properly finished with a moulding around the edge, was substituted for the worn and blackened pickets, and it was touching to witness the mournful satisfaction with which two or three old crones would come regularly every evening at sunset, to sit and gossip over the ashes of their departed relatives.

On the fine, moonlight nights too, there might often be seen a group sitting there, and enjoying what is to them a solemn hour, for they entertain the poetic belief that “the moon was made to give light to the dead.”

The reverence of the Indians for the memory of their departed friends, and their dutiful attention in visiting and making offerings to the Great Spirit, over their last resting-places, is an example worthy of imitation among their more enlightened brethren. Not so, however, with some of their customs in relation to the dead.

The news of the decease of one of their number is a signal for a general mourning and lamentation—it is also, in some instances, I am sorry to say, when the means and appliances can be found, the apology for a general carouse.

The relatives weep and howl for grief—the friends and acquaintances bear them company through sympathy. A few of their number are deputed to wait upon their “father,” to inform him of the event, and to beg some presents “to help them,” as they express it, “dry up their tears.”

We received such a visit one morning, not long after the payment was concluded.

A little drunken Indian, named by the French people around, “Old Boilvin,” from his resemblance to an Indian Agent of that name,[91] at Prairie du Chien, was the person on account of whose death the application was made. “He had been fishing,” they said, “on the shores of one of the little lakes near the Portage, and having taken a little too much ‘whiskee,’ had fallen into the water and been drowned.” Nothing of him had been found but his blanket on the bank, so there could be no funeral ceremonies, but they were prepared to make a great lamentation about him.

Their father presented them with tobacco, knives, calico and looking-glasses, in proportion to what he thought might be their reasonable grief at the loss of such a worthless vagabond, and they departed.

There was no difficulty, notwithstanding the stringent prohibitions on the subject, in procuring a keg of whiskey from some of the traders who yet remained, so armed with that and their other treasures, they assembled at an appointed spot, not far from the scene of the catastrophe, and sitting down with the keg in their midst, they commenced their affliction. The more they drank the more clamorous became their grief, and the faster flowed their tears.

In the midst of these demonstrations a little figure, bent and staggering, covered with mud and all in disorder, with a countenance full of wonder and sympathy, approached them and began,

“Why’s what? what? Who’s dead?”

“Who! dead?” repeated they, looking up in astonishment. “Why, you’re dead! you were drowned in Swan Lake! Did not we find your blanket there? Come, sit down and help us mourn.”

The old man did not wait for a second invitation. He took his seat and cried and drank with the rest, weeping and lamenting as bitterly as any of them, and the strange scene was continued as long as they had power to articulate, or any portion of the whiskey was left.

CHAPTER XXIX

STORY OF THE RED FOX

The Indians, of whatever tribe, are exceedingly fond of narrating or listening to tales and stories, whether historical or fictitious. They have their professed story-tellers, like the oriental nations, and these go about, from village to village, collecting an admiring and attentive audience, however oft-told and familiar the matter they recite.

It is in this way that their traditions are preserved and handed down unimpaired from generation to generation. Their knowledge of the geography of their country is wonderfully exact. I have seen an Indian sit in his lodge, and draw a map in the ashes, of the North-Western States, not of its statistical but its geographical features, lakes, rivers, and mountains, with the greatest accuracy, giving their relative distances, by day’s journeys, without hesitation, and even extending his drawings and explanations as far as Kentucky and Tennessee.

Of biography they preserve not only the leading events in the life of the person, but his features, appearance and bearing, his manners, and whatever little trait or peculiarity characterized him.

The women are more fond of fiction, and some of their stories have a strange mingling of humor and pathos. I give the two which follow as specimens. The Indian names contained in them are in the Ottawa or “Courte Oreilles” language, but the same tales are current in all the different tongues and dialects.

THE STORY OF THE RED FOX

This is an animal to which many peculiarities are attributed. He is said to resemble the jackal in his habit of molesting the graves of the dead, and the Indians have a superstitious dread of hearing his bark at night, believing that it forebodes calamity and death. They say, too, that he was originally of one uniform reddish-brown color, but that his legs became black in the manner related in the story.

There was a chief of a certain village who had a beautiful daughter. He resolved upon one occasion to make a feast, and invite all the animals. When the invitation was brought to the red fox he inquired, “What are you going to have for supper?”

“Mee-dau-mee-nau-bo,” was the reply.

This is a porridge made of parched corn, slightly cracked. The fox turned up his little sharp nose. “No, I thank you,” said he, “I can get plenty of that at home.”

The messenger returned to the chief, and reported the contemptuous refusal of the fox.

“Go back to him,” said the chief, “and tell him we are going to have a nice fresh body,[AT] and we will have it cooked in the most delicate maimer possible.”

Pleased with the prospect of such a treat, the fox gave a very hearty assent to the second invitation.

The hour arrived, and he sat off for the lodge of the chief to attend the feast. The company were all prepared for him, for they made common cause with their friend who had been insulted. As the fox entered, the guest next the door with great courtesy rose from his place, and begged the new-comer to be seated. Immediately the person next him also rose, and insisted that the fox should occupy his place, as it was still nearer the fire—the post of honor. Then the third, with many expressions of civility, pressed him to exchange with him, and thus, with many ceremonious flourishes, he was passed along the circle, always approaching the fire, where a huge cauldron stood, in which the good cheer was still cooking. The fox was by no means unwilling to occupy the highest place in the assembly, and besides, he was anxious to take a peep into the kettle, for he had his suspicions that he might be disappointed of the delicacies he had been expecting.

So, by degrees, he was ushered nearer and nearer the great blazing fire, until by a dexterous push and shove he was hoisted into the seething kettle.

His feet were dreadfully scalded, but he leaped out, and ran home to his lodge, howling and crying with pain. His grandmother, with whom, according to the custom of animals, he lived, demanded of him an account of the affair. When he had faithfully related all the circumstances (for, unlike the civilized animals, he did not think of telling his grandmother a story), she reproved him very strongly.

“You have committed two great faults,” said she. “In the first place you were very rude to the chief who was so kind as to invite you, and by returning insult for civility, you made yourself enemies who were determined to punish you. In the next place, it was very unbecoming in you to be so forward to take the place of honor. Had you been contented modestly to keep your seat near the door, you would have escaped the misfortune that has befallen you.”

All this was not very consolatory to the poor fox, who continued to whine and cry most piteously, while his grandmother, having finished her lecture, proceeded to bind up his wounds. Great virtue is supposed to be added to all medical prescriptions and applications by a little dancing, so, the dressing having been applied, the grandmother fell to dancing with all her might, round and round in the lodge.

When she was nearly exhausted, the fox said, “Grandmother, take off the bandages and see if my legs are healed.”

She did as he requested, but no—the burns were still fresh. She danced and danced again. Now and then, as he grew impatient, she would remove the coverings to observe the effect of the remedies. At length, towards morning, she looked, and, to be sure, the burns were quite healed. “But oh!” cried she, “your legs are as black as a coal! They were so badly burned that they will never return to their color!”

The poor fox, who, like many another brave, was vain of his legs, fell into a transport of lamentation.

“Oh! my legs! My pretty red legs! What shall I do? The young girls will all despise me. I shall never dare to show myself among them again!”

He cried and sobbed until his grandmother, fatigued with her exercise, fell asleep. By this time he had decided upon his plan of revenge.

He rose and stole softly out of his lodge, and pursuing his way rapidly towards the village of the chief, he turned his face in the direction of the principal lodge and barked. When the inhabitants heard this sound in the stillness of the night, their hearts trembled. They knew that it foreboded sorrow and trouble to some one of their number.

A very short time elapsed before the beautiful daughter of the chief fell sick, and she grew rapidly worse and worse, spite of medicines, charms, and dances. At length she died. The fox had not intended to bring misfortune on the village in this shape, for he loved the beautiful daughter of the chief, so he kept in his lodge and mourned and fretted for her death.

Preparations were made for a magnificent funeral, but the friends of the deceased were in great perplexity. “If we bury her in the earth,” said they, “the fox will come and disturb her remains. He has barked her to death, and he will be glad to come and finish his work of revenge.”

They took counsel together, and determined to hang her body high in a tree as a place of sepulture. They thought the fox would go groping about in the earth, and not lift up his eyes to the branches above his head.

But the grandmother had been at the funeral, and she returned and told the fox all that had been done.

“Now, my son,” said she, “listen to me. Do not meddle with the remains of the Chief’s daughter. You have done mischief enough already—leave her in peace.”

As soon as the grandmother was asleep at night, the fox rambled forth. He soon found the place he sought, and came and sat under the tree where the young girl had been placed. He gazed and gazed at her, all the live-long night, and she appeared as beautiful as when in life. But when the day dawned, and the light enabled him to see more clearly, then he observed that decay was doing its work—that instead of a beautiful, she presented only a loathsome appearance.

He went home sad and afflicted, and passed all the day mourning in his lodge.

“Have you disturbed the remains of the Chief’s beautiful daughter?” was his parent’s anxious question.

“No, grandmother,”—and he uttered not another word.

Thus it went on for many days and nights. The fox always took care to quit his watch at the early dawn of day, for he knew that her friends would suspect him, and come betimes to see if all was right.

At length he perceived that, gradually, she looked less and less hideous in the morning light, and that she by degrees resumed the appearance she had presented in life, so that in process of time, her beauty and look of health quite returned to her.

One day he said, “Grandmother, give me my pipe, that I may take a smoke.”

“Ah!” cried she, “you begin to be comforted. You have never smoked since the death of the chief’s beautiful daughter. Have you heard some good news?”

“Never you mind,” said he, “bring the pipe.”

He sat down and smoked, and smoked. After a time he said, “Grandmother, sweep your lodge and put it all in order, for this day you will receive a visit from your daughter-in-law.”

The grandmother did as she was desired. She swept her lodge, and arranged it with all the taste she possessed, and then both sat down to await the visit.

“When you hear a sound at the door,” said the Fox, “you must give the salutation, and say. Come in.”

When they had been thus seated for a time, the grandmother heard a faint, rustling sound. She looked towards the door. To her surprise, the mat which usually hung as a curtain was rolled up, and the door was open.

“Peen-tee-geen n’dau-nis!”[AU] cried she.

Something like a faint, faint shadow appeared to glide in. It took gradually a more distinct outline. As she looked and looked, she began to discern the form and features of the Chief’s beautiful daughter, but it was long before she appeared like a reality, and took her place in the lodge like a thing of flesh and blood.

They kept the matter hid very close, for they would not for the world that the father or friends of the bride should know what had happened. Soon, however, it began to be rumored about that the chief’s beautiful daughter had returned to life, and was living in the Red Fox’s lodge. How it ever became known was a mystery, for, of course, the grandmother never spoke of it.

Be that as it may, the news created great excitement in the village. “This must never be,” said they all. “He barked her to death once, and who knows what he may do next time.”

The father took at once a decided part. “The Red Fox is not worthy of my daughter,” he said. “I had promised her to the Hart, the finest and most elegant among the animals. Now that she has returned to life, I shall keep my word.”

So the friends all went in a body to the lodge of the Red Fox. The bridegroom, the bride and the grandmother, made all the resistance possible, but they were overpowered by numbers, and the Hart having remained conveniently, waiting on the outside where there was no danger, the beautiful daughter of the chief was placed upon his back, and he coursed away through the forest to carry her to his own home. When he arrived at the door of his lodge, however, he turned his head, but no bride was in the place where he expected to see her. He had thought his burden very light from the beginning, but that he supposed was natural to spirits returned from the dead. He never imagined she had at the outset glided from her seat, and in the midst of the tumult slipped back, unobserved, to her chosen husband.

One or two attempts were made by the friends, after this, to repossess themselves of the young creature, but all without success. Then they said, “Let her remain where she is. It is true the Red Fox occasioned her death, but by his watchfulness and care he caressed her into life again; therefore she rightfully belongs to him.” So the Red Fox and his beautiful bride lived long together in great peace and happiness.

CHAPTER XXX

STORY OF SHEE-SHEE-BANZE

There was a young man named Shee-shee-banze (the Little Duck), paddling his canoe along the shore of the lake.

Two girls came down to the edge of the water, and seeing him, the elder said to the younger, “Let us call to him to take us a sail.”

It must be remarked that in all Indian stories where two or more sisters are the dramatis personæ, the elder is invariably represented as silly, ridiculous and disgusting—the younger, as wise and beautiful.

In the present case the younger remonstrated. “Oh! no,” said she, “let us not do such a thing. What will he think of us?”

But the other persevered, and called to him, “Ho! come and take us into your canoe.” The young man obeyed, and approaching the shore, he took them with him into the canoe.

“Who are you?” asked the elder sister.

“I am Way-gee-mar-kin,” replied he, “the great Chief.”

This Way-gee-mar-kin was something of a fairy, for when surrounded by his followers, and wishing to confer favors on them, he had a habit of coughing slightly, when there would fly forth from his mouth quantities of silver brooches, ear-bobs and other ornaments, for which it was the custom of his people to scramble, each striving, as in more civilized life, to get more than his share.

Accordingly, the elder sister said, “If you are Way-gee-mar-kin, let us see your cough.”

Shee-shee-banze had a few of these silver ornaments which he had got by scrambling, and which he kept stowed away in the sides of his mouth in case of emergency. So he gave some spasmodic coughs and brought forth a few, which the girl eagerly seized.

After a time, as they paddled along, a fine noble elk came forth from the forest, and approached the water to drink.

“What is that?” asked the spokeswoman; for the younger sister sat silent and modest all the time.

“It is my dog that I hunt with.”

“Call him to us, that I may see him.”

Shee-shee-banze called, but the elk turned and fled into the woods.

“He does not seem to obey you, however.”

“No, it is because you inspire him with disgust, and therefore he flies from you.”

Soon a bear made his appearance by the water’s edge.

“What is that?”

“One of my servants.”

Again he was requested to call him, and as the call was disregarded, the same reason as before was assigned.

Their excursion was at length ended. There had been a little magic in it, for although the young girls had supposed themselves to be in a canoe, there was, in reality, no canoe at all. They only imagined it to have been so.

Now Shee-shee-banze lived with his grandmother, and to her lodge he conducted his young friends.

They stood outside while he went in.

“Grandmother,” said he, “I have brought you two young girls, who will be your daughters-in-law. Invite them into your lodge.”

Upon this, the old woman called, “Ho! come in,” and they entered. They were made welcome and treated to the best of everything.

In the meantime, the real Way-gee-mar-kin, the great chief, made preparations for a grand feast. When he was sending his messenger out with the invitations, he said to him, “Be very particular to bid Shee-shee-banze to the feast, for as he is the smallest and meanest person in the tribe, you must use double ceremony with him, or he will be apt to think himself slighted.”

Shee-shee-banze sat in his lodge with his new friends, when the messenger arrived.

“Ho! Shee-shee-banze,” cried he, “you are invited to a great feast that Way-gee-mar-kin is to give to-night, to all his subjects.”

But Shee-shee-banze took no notice of the invitation. He only whistled, and pretended not to hear. The messenger repeated his words, and finding that no attention was paid to them, he went his way.

The young girls looked at each other, during this scene, greatly astonished. At length the elder spoke.

“What does this mean?” said she. “Why does he call you Shee-shee-banze, and invite you to visit Way-gee-mar-kin?”

“Oh!” said Shee-shee-banze, “it is one of my followers that always likes to be a little impudent. I am obliged to put up with it sometimes, but you observed that I treated him with silent contempt.”

The messenger returned to the chief, and reported the manner in which the invitation had been received.

“Oh!” said the good-natured chief, “it is because he feels he is poor and insignificant. Go back again—call him by my name, and make a flourishing speech to him.”

The messenger fulfilled his mission as he was bid.

“Way-gee-mar-kin,” said he, pompously, “a great feast is to be given to-night, and I am sent most respectfully to solicit the honor of your company!”

“Did I not tell you?” said Shee-shee-banze to the maidens. Then nodding with careless condescension, he added, “Tell them I’ll come.”

At night, Shee-shee-banze dressed himself in his very best paint, feathers and ornaments—but before his departure he took his grandmother aside.

“Be sure,” said he, “that you watch these young people closely until I come back. Shut up your lodge tight, tight. Let no one come in or go out, and above all things, do not go to sleep.”

These orders given, he went his way.

The grandmother tried her best to keep awake, but finding herself growing more and more sleepy, as the night wore on, she took a strong cord and laced across the mat which hung before the entrance to the lodge, as the Indians lace up the mouths of their bags, and having seen all things secure and the girls quiet in bed, she laid down and soon fell into a comfortable sleep.

The young girls, in the meanwhile, were dying with curiosity to know what had become of Shee-shee-banze, and as soon as they were sure the old lady was asleep, they prepared to follow him, and see what was going on. Fearing, however, that the grandmother might awake and discover their absence, they took two logs of wood, and putting them under the blanket, so disposed them as to present the appearance of persons sleeping quietly. They then cut the cords that fastened the door, and, guided by the sounds of the music, the dancing, and the merry-making, they soon found their way to the dwelling of Way-gee-mar-kin.

When they entered, they saw the chief seated on a throne, surrounded by light and splendor. Everything was joy and amusement. Crowds of courtiers were in the apartment, all dressed in the most brilliant array. The strangers looked around for their friend Shee-shee-banze, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Now and then the chief would cough, when a shower of silver ornaments and precious things would fly in all directions, and instantly, a scramble would commence among the company, to gather them up and appropriate them. As they thus rushed forward, the brides elect saw their poor little friend crowded up into a corner, where nobody took any notice of him, except to push him aside, or step on him whenever he was in the way. He uttered piteous little squeaks as one and another would thus maltreat him, but he was too busy taking care of himself to perceive that those whom he had left snug at home in the lodge were witnesses of all that was going on.

At length the signal was given for the company to retire, all but the two young damsels, upon whom Way-gee-mar-kin had set his eye, and to whom he had sent, by one of his assistants, great offers to induce them to remain with him and become his wives.

Poor Shee-shee-banze returned to his lodge, but what was his consternation to find the door open!

“Ho! grandmother,” cried he, “is this the way you keep watch?”

The old woman started up. “There are my daughters-in-law,” said she, pointing to the two logs of wood. Shee-shee-banze threw himself on the ground between them. His back was broken by coming so violently in contact with them, but that he did not mind—he thought only of revenge, and the recovery of his sweethearts.

He waited but to get some powerful poison and prepare it, and then he stole softly back to the wigwam of Way-gee-mar-kin. All was silent, and he crept in without making the slightest noise. There lay the chief, with a young girl on each side of him.

They were all sound asleep, the chief lying on his back, with his mouth wide open. Before he was aware of it, the poison was down his throat, and Shee-shee-banze had retreated quietly to his own lodge.

The next morning the cry went through the village that Way-gee-mar-kin had been found dead in his bed. Of course it was attributed to over indulgence at the feast. All was grief and lamentation. “Let us go and tell poor Shee-shee-banze,” said one, “he was so fond of Way-gee-mar-kin.”

They found him sitting on a bank fishing. He had been up at peep of day, to make preparation for receiving intelligence.

He had caught two or three fish, and, extracting their bladders, had filled them with blood, and tied them under his arm. When the friends of Way-gee-mar-kin saw him, they called out to him,

“Oh! Shee-shee-banze, your friend. Way-gee-mar-kin, is dead!” With a gesture of despair, Shee-shee-banze drew his knife and plunged it, not into his heart, but into the bladders filled with blood that he had prepared. As he fell, apparently lifeless to the ground, the messengers began to reproach themselves: “Oh! why did we tell him so suddenly? We might have known he would not survive it. Poor Shee-shee-banze! he loved Way-gee-mar-kin so.”

To their great surprise, the day after the funeral, Shee-shee-banze came walking toward the wigwam of the dead chief. As he walked, he sang, or rather chanted to a monotonous strain[AV] the following:

All the village was aroused. Everybody flew in pursuit of the murderer, but he evaded them, and escaped to a place of safety.

Soon after, he again made his appearance, mincing as he walked, and singing to the same strain as before.

It seemed a good idea, and the young women were recommended to go and entice the culprit into the village, so that the friends of the deceased could lay hold of him.

They went forth on their errand. Shee-shee-banze would suffer them to approach, then he would dance off a little now he would allow them to come quite near; anon he would retreat a little before them, all the time singing.

Thus he decoyed them on, occasionally using honied words and flattering speeches, until he had gained their consent to return with him to his lodge, and take up their abode with him.

The friends of the murdered chief were scandalized at such inconstancy, and resolved to punish all three, as soon as they could catch them.

They surrounded his lodge with cries and threatenings, but Shee-shee-banze and his two brides had contrived to elude their vigilance and gain his canoe, which lay in the river, close at hand.

Hardly were they on board, when their escape was discovered. The whole troop flew after them. Some plunged into the stream, and seized the canoe. In the struggle it was upset, but immediately on touching the water, whether from the magical properties of the canoe, or the necromantic skill of the grandmother, they were transformed into ducks, and flew quacking away.

Since that time, the water-fowl of this species are always found in companies of three—two females and a male.

The Canard de France, or Mallard, and the Brancheuse, or Wood Duck, are of different habits from the foregoing, flying in pairs. Indeed, the constancy of the latter is said to be so great that if he loses his mate he never takes another partner, but goes mourning to the end of his days.

CHAPTER XXXI

A VISIT TO GREEN BAY—MAU-ZHEE-GAW-GAW SWAMP

The payment over, and the Indians dispersed, we prepared ourselves to settle down quietly in our little home. But now, a new source of disturbance arose.

My husband’s accounts of disbursements as Agent of the Winnebagoes, which he had forwarded to the Department at Washington, had failed to reach there, of which he received due notice—that is to say, such a notice as could reach us by the circuitous and uncertain mode of conveyance by which intercourse with the eastern world was then kept up. If the vouchers for the former expenditures, together with the recent payment of $15,000, annuity money, should not be forthcoming, it might place him in a very awkward position, so he decided to go at once to Washington, and be the bearer himself of his duplicate accounts.

“Should you like to go and see your father and mother,” said he to me, one morning, “and show them how the west agrees with you?”

It was a most joyful suggestion after a year’s separation, and in a few days all things were in readiness for our departure.

There was visiting us, at that time, Miss Brush, of Detroit, who had come from Green Bay with Mr. and Mrs. Whitney and Miss Frances Henshaw, on an excursion to the Mississippi.[92] Our little india-rubber house had contrived to expand itself for the accommodation of the whole party during the very pleasant visit they made us.

The arrival of two young ladies, was, as may be imagined, quite a godsend to the unmarried lieutenants, and when, tired of the journey, or intimidated by the snow which fell eight inches on the 4th of October, Miss Brush determined to give up the remainder of her excursion, and accept our pressing invitation to remain with us, until the return of her friends, we were looked upon as public benefactors. She was now to accompany us to Green Bay, and possibly to Detroit.

Our voyage down the river was without incident, and we reached Green Bay just as all the place was astir in the expectation of the arrival of one of Mr. Newberry’s schooners. This important event was the subject of interest to the whole community, from Fort Howard to “Dickenson’s.” To some its arrival would bring friends, to some supplies—to the ladies, the fashions, to the gentlemen, the news, for it was the happy bearer of the mails, not for that place alone, but for all the “upper country.”

In a few days the vessel arrived. She brought a mail for Fort Winnebago, which in the winter season only was carried by land to that place, via Niles Settlement and Chicago.

In virtue of his office as Post Master, my husband opened the mail-bag, and took possession of his own letters. One informed him of the satisfactory appearance of the missing accounts, but oh! sad disappointment, another brought the news that my parents had gone to Kentucky for the winter—not to any city or accessible place, but up “the Sandy,” and over among the mountains of Virginia, hunting up old land claims belonging to my grandfather’s estate.

It was vain to hope to follow them. We might hardly expect to find them during the short period we could be absent from home—not even were we to receive the lucid directions once given my father by an old settler during his explorations through that wild region.

“You must go up Tug,” said the man, “and down Troublesome, and fall over on to Kingdom-come.”[AW]

We did not think it advisable to undertake such an expedition, so we made up our minds to retrace our steps to Fort Winnebago.

No boats were in readiness to ascend the river. Hamilton Arndt promised to have one in preparation at once, but time passed by, and no boat was made ready.

It was now the beginning of November. We were passing our time very pleasantly with the Irwins and Whitneys, and at the residence of Colonel Stambaugh, the Indian agent,[93] but still this delay was inconvenient and vexatious.

I suggested undertaking the journey on horseback. “No, indeed,” was the answer I invariably received. “No mortal woman has ever gone that road, unless it was on foot, nor ever could.”

“But suppose we set out in the boat and get frozen in on the way. We can neither pass the winter there, nor possibly find our way to a human habitation. We have had one similar experience already. Is it not better to take it for granted that I can do what you and others of your sex have done?”

Dr. Finley, the post-surgeon at Fort Howard, on hearing the matter debated, offered me immediately his favorite horse Charlie. “He was very surefooted,” the Doctor alleged, “and capital in a marsh or troublesome stream.”

By land, then, it was decided to go, and as soon as our old Mee-no-mo-nee friend, “Wish-tay-yun,” who was as good a guide by land as by water, could be summoned, we set off, leaving our trunks to be forwarded by Hamilton Arndt, whenever it should please him to carry out his intention of sending up his boat.

We waited until a late hour on the morning of our departure for our fellow-travellers, Mr. Wing, of Monroe,[AX] and Dr. Philleo, of Galena; but finding they did not join us, we resolved to lose no time, confident that we should all meet at the Kakalin in the course of the evening.

After crossing the river at what is now Despere,[94] and entering the wild, unsettled country on the west of the river, we found a succession of wooded hills, separated by ravines so narrow and steep that it seemed impossible that any animals but mules or goats could make their way among them.

Wish-tay-yun took the lead. The horse he rode was accustomed to the country, and well trained to this style of road. As for Charlie, he was perfectly admirable. When he came to a precipitous descent, he would set forward his fore-feet, and slide down on his haunches in the most scientific manner, while my only mode of preserving my balance was to hold fast by the bridle, and lay myself almost flat upon his back. Then our position suddenly changed, and we were scaling the opposite bank, at the imminent risk of falling backward into the ravine below.

It was amusing to see Wish-tay-yun, as he scrambled on ahead, now and then turning partly round to see how I fared. And when, panting and laughing, I at length reached the summit, he would throw up his hands, and shout with the utmost glee, “Mamma Manitou!” (My mother is a spirit).

Our old acquaintances, the Grignons, seemed much surprised that I should have ventured on such a journey. They had never taken it, although they had lived so long at the Ka-kalin,[95] but then there was no reason why they should have done so. They could always command a canoe or a boat when they wished to visit “the bay.”

As we had anticipated, our gentlemen joined us at supper. “They had delayed to take dinner with Col. Stambaugh—had had a delightful gallop up from the bay—had seen no ravines, nor anything but fine smooth roads—might have been asleep, but if so, were not conscious of it.” This was the account they gave of themselves, to our no small amusement.

From the Ka-kalin to the Butte des Morts,[96] where now lived a man named Knaggs, was our next day’s stage. The country was rough and wild, much like that we had passed through the spring before, in going from Hamilton’s diggings to Kellogg’s Grove, but we were fortunate in having Wish-tay-yun, rather than Mr. H., for our guide, so that we could make our way with some degree of moderation.

We had travelled but forty miles when we reached Knaggs', yet I was both cold and fatigued, so that the sight of the cosy little room in which we found Mrs. Knaggs, and the bright fire, were most cheering objects; and as we had only broken our fast since morning, with a few crackers we carried in our pockets, I must own we did ample justice to her nice coffee and cakes, not to mention venison-steaks and bear’s meat, the latter of which I had never before tasted, and which, truth to tell, I never wished to taste again.

Our supper over, we looked about for a place of repose. The room in which we had taken our meal was of small dimensions, just sufficient to accommodate a bed, a table placed against the wall, and the few chairs on which we sat. There was no room for any kind of a “shake down.”

“Where can you put us for the night?” inquired my husband of Mr. Knaggs, when he made his appearance.

“Why, there is no place that I know of, unless you can camp down in the old building outside.”

We went to look at it. It consisted of one room, bare and dirty. A huge chimney, in which a few brands were burning, occupied nearly one side of the apartment. Against another was built a rickety sort of bunk. This was the only vestige of furniture to be seen. The floor was thickly covered with mud and dirt, in the midst of which, near the fire, was seated an old Indian with a pan of boiled corn on his lap, which he was scooping up with both hands, and devouring with the utmost voracity.

We soon discovered that he was blind. On hearing footsteps and voices, he instinctively gathered his dish of food close to him, and began some morose grumblings; but when he was told that it was “Shaw-nee-aw-kee” who was addressing him, his features relaxed into a more agreeable expression, and he even held forth his dish and invited us to share its contents.

“But are we to stay here?” I asked. “Can we not sleep out of doors?”

“We have no tent,” replied my husband, “and the weather is too cold to risk the exposure without one.”

“I could sit in a chair all night, by the fire.”

“Then you would not be able to ride to Bellefontaine to-morrow.”

There was no alternative. The only thing Mr. Knaggs could furnish in the shape of bedding was a small bearskin. The bunk was a trifle less filthy than the floor, so upon its boards we spread first the skin, then our saddle-blankets, and with a pair of saddle-bags for a bolster, I wrapped myself in my cloak, and resigned myself to my distasteful accommodations.

The change of position from that I had occupied through the day, probably brought some rest, but sleep I could not. Even on a softer and more agreeable couch, the snoring of the old Indian and two or three companions who had joined him, and his frequent querulous exclamations as he felt himself encroached upon in the darkness, would have effectually banished slumber from my eyes.

It was a relief to rise and prepare for the journey of the day. Where our fellow-travellers had bestowed themselves I knew not, but they evidently had fared no better than we. They were in fine spirits, however, and we cheerfully took our breakfast and were ferried over the river to continue on the trail from that point to Bellefontaine, twelve miles from Fort Winnebago.

The great “bug-bear” of this road, Mau-zhee-gaw-gaw Swamp, was the next thing to be encountered. We reached it about nine o’clock. It spread before us a vast expanse of morass, about half a mile in width, and of length interminable, partly covered with water, with black knobs rising here and there above the surface, to afford a precarious foothold for the animals in crossing it. Where the water was not, there lay in place of it, a bed of black oozy mud, which threatened to give way under the foot, and let it, at each step, sink into an unknown depth.

This we were now to traverse. All three of the gentlemen went in advance of me, each hoping, as he said, to select the surest and firmest path for me to follow. One and another would call, “Here, madam, come this way!” “This is the best path, wifie—follow me,” but often Charlie knew better than either, and selected a path according to his own judgment, which proved the best of the whole.

Once he went picking his way so slowly and cautiously, now pausing on one little hillock, now on another, and anon turning aside to avoid a patch of mud that seemed more than usually suspicious, that all the company had got some little distance ahead of me. On raising my eyes, which had been kept pretty closely on my horse’s footsteps, I saw my husband on foot, striving to lead his horse by the bridle from a difficult position into which he had got, Mr. Wing and his great white floundering animal, lying sideways in the mud, the rider using all his efforts to extricate himself from the stirrups, and Dr. Philleo standing at a little distance from his steed, who was doing his best to rise up from a deep bog into which he had pitched himself. It was a formidable sight! They all called out with one accord,

“Oh! do not come this way!”

“Indeed,” cried I, “I have no thought of it. Charlie and I know better”—and trusting to the sagacious creature, he picked his way carefully along, and carried me safely past the dismounted company. I could not refrain from a little triumphant flourish with my whip, as I looked back upon them, and watched their progress to their saddles once more.

Three hours had we been thus unpleasantly engaged and yet we were not over the “Slough of Despond.” At length we drew near its farthest verge. Here ran a deep stream of some five or six feet in width. The gentlemen, as they reached it, dismounted, and began debating what was to be done.

“Jump off, jump off, Madam,” cried Mr. Wing, and “Jump off, jump off,” echoed Dr. Philleo—“we are just consulting how we are to get you across.”

“What do you think about it?” asked my husband. “Charlie will show you,” replied I. “Come, Charlie,” and as I raised his bridle quickly, with a pat on his neck and an encouraging chirp, he bounded over the stream as lightly as a deer, and landed me safe on terra firma.

Poor Mr. Wing had fared the worst of the company; the clumsy animal he rode seeming to be of opinion when he got into a difficulty that he had nothing to do but to lie down and resign himself to his fate; while his rider not being particularly light and agile, was generally undermost, and half imbedded in the mire before he had quite made up his mind as to his course of action.

It was therefore a wise movement in him, when he reached the little stream, to plunge into it, and wade across, thus washing out, as much as possible, the traces of the morning’s adventures, from himself and his steed, and the other gentlemen, having no alternative, concluded to follow his example.

We did not halt long on the rising ground beyond the morass, for we had a long stretch before us to Bellefontaine, forty-five miles, and those none of the shortest.

Our horses travelled admirably the whole afternoon, Charlie keeping a canter all the way, but it was now growing dark, and there were no signs of the landmarks which were to indicate our near approach to the desired haven.

"Can we not stop and rest us for a few moments under one of the trees?" inquired I, for I was almost exhausted with fatigue, and to add to our discomfort, a cold November rain was pouring upon us.

“If it were possible, we would,” was the reply, “but see how dark it is growing. If we should lose our way, it would be worse than being wet and tired.”

So we kept on. Just at dark we crossed a clear stream. “That,” said my husband, “is, I think, two miles from Bellefontaine. Cheer up—we shall soon be there.” Quite encouraged we pursued our way more cheerfully. Mile after mile we passed, but still no light gleamed friendly through the trees.

“We have certainly travelled more than six miles now,” said I.

“Yes—that could not have been the two mile creek.” It was eight o’clock when we reached Bellefontaine.[97] We were ushered into a large room made cheerful by a huge blazing fire. Mr. Wing and Dr. Philleo had arrived before us, and there were other travellers, on their way from the Mississippi. I was received with great kindness and volubility, by the immense hostess, “la grosse Americaine,” as she was called, and she soon installed me in the arm-chair, in the warmest corner, and in due time set an excellent supper before us.

But her hospitality did not extend to giving up her only bed for my accommodation. She spread all the things she could muster on the hard floor before the fire, and did what she could to make me comfortable; then, observing my husband’s solicitude lest I might feel ill from the effects of the fatigue and rain, she remarked in tones of admiring sympathy, “How kind your companion is to you!” An expression which, as it was then new to us, amused us not a little.

Our travelling companions started early in the morning for the fort, which was but twelve miles distant, and they were so kind as to take charge of a note to our friends at home, requesting them to send Plante with the carriage to take us the rest of the distance.

We reached there in safety, and thus ended the first journey by land that any white woman had made from Green Bay to Fort Winnebago.

CHAPTER XXXII

COMMENCEMENT OF SAUK WAR

Late in the autumn, after our return, my husband took his mother to Prairie du Chien for the benefit of medical advice from Dr. Beaumont[98] of the U. S. Army. The journey was made in a large open boat down the Wisconsin river, and it was proposed to take this opportunity to bring back a good supply of corn for the winter’s use of both men and cattle.

The ice formed in the river, however, so early, that after starting with his load, he was obliged to return with it to the Prairie, and wait until the thick winter’s ice enabled him to make a second journey, and bring it up in sleighs—with so great an expense of time, labor, and exposure, were the necessaries of life conveyed from one point to another, through that wild and desolate region!

The arrival of my brother Arthur from Kentucky, by way of the Mississippi, in the latter part of April, brought us the uncomfortable intelligence of new troubles with the Sauks and Foxes. Black Hawk had, with the flower of his nation, recrossed the Mississippi, once more to take possession of their old homes and cornfields.[AY]

It was not long before our own Indians came flocking in, to confirm the tidings, and to assure us of their intention to remain faithful friends to the Americans. We soon heard of the arrival of the Illinois Rangers in the Rock River country, also of the progress of the regular force under Gen. Atkinson, in pursuit of the hostile Indians, who, by the reports, were always able to elude their vigilance. It not being their custom to stop and give battle, the Sauks soon scattered themselves through the country, trusting to some lucky accident (and they arrived, alas! only too often), to enable them to fall upon their enemies unexpectedly.

The experience of the pursuing army was, for the most part, to make their way, by toilsome and fatiguing marches to the spot where they imagined the Sauks would be waiting to receive them, and then to discover that the rogues had scampered off to quite a different part of the country.

Wherever these latter went, their course was marked by the most atrocious barbarities, though the worst had not, at this time, reached our ears. We were only assured that they were down in the neighborhood of the Rock river, and Kishwaukee, and that they lost no opportunity of falling upon the defenceless inhabitants, and cruelly murdering them.

As soon as it became certain that the Sauks and Foxes would not pursue the same course they had on the previous year, that is, retreat peaceably across the Mississippi, Mr. Kinzie resolved to hold a council with all the principal chiefs of the Winnebagoes, who were accessible at this time. He knew that the Sauks would use every effort to induce their neighbors to join them, and that there existed in the breasts of too many of the young savages a desire to distinguish themselves by “taking some white scalps.” They did not love the Americans—why should they? By them they had been gradually dispossessed of the broad and beautiful domains of their forefathers, and hunted from place to place, and the only equivalent they had received in exchange had been a few thousands annually in silver and presents, together with the pernicious example, the debasing influence, and the positive ill-treatment of too many of the new settlers upon their lands.

With all these facts in view, therefore, their “father” felt that the utmost watchfulness was necessary, and that the strongest arguments must be brought forward, to preserve the young men of the Winnebagoes in their allegiance to the Americans. Of the older members he felt quite sure. About fifty lodges had come at the commencement of the disturbances, and encamped around our dwelling, saying, that if the Sauks attacked us, it must be after killing them; and, knowing them well, we had perfect confidence in their assurances.

But their vicinity, while it gave us a feeling of protection, likewise furnished us with a channel of the most exciting and agitating daily communications. As the theatre of operations approached nearer and nearer, intelligence was brought from one of their runners—now, that “Captain Harney’s head had been recognized in the Sauk camp, where it had been brought the day previous,” next, “that the Sauks were carrying Lieut. Beall’s head on a pole in front of them as they marched to meet the whites.” Sometimes it was a story which we afterwards found to be true, as that of the murder of their agent, Mr. St. Vrain, at Kellogg’s Grove, by the Sauks themselves, who ought to have protected him.

It was after the news of this last occurrence, that the appointed council with the Winnebagoes was to be held at the Four Lakes, thirty-five miles distant from Fort Winnebago.

In vain we pleaded and remonstrated against such an exposure. “It was his duty to assemble and talk to them,” my husband said, “and he must run the risk, if there were any. He had perfect confidence in the Winnebagoes. The enemy, by all he could learn, were now far distant from the Four Lakes—probably at Kosh-ko-nong. He would set off early in the morning with Paquette, hold his council, and return to us the same evening.”

It were useless to attempt to describe our feelings during that long and dreary day. When night arrived the cry of a drunken Indian, or even the barking of a dog, would fill our hearts with terror.

As we sat, at a late hour, at the open window, listening to every sound, with what joy did we at length distinguish the tramp of horses—we knew it to be Griffin and Jerry ascending the hill, and a cheerful shout soon announced that all was well. They had ridden seventy miles that day, besides holding a long “talk” with the Indians.

The Winnebagoes in council had promised to use their utmost endeavors to preserve peace and good order among their young men. They informed their father that the bands on the Rock river, with the exception of Win-no-sheek’s were all determined to remain friendly, and keep aloof from the Sauks. To that end, they were all abandoning their villages and cornfields, and moving north, that their Great Father, the President, might not feel dissatisfied with them. With regard to Win-no-sheek and his people, they professed themselves unable to answer.

Time went on, and brought with it stories of fresh outrages. Among these were the murders of Auberry, Green, and Force, at Blue Mound, and the attack on Apple Fort. The tidings of the latter were brought by old Crély,[99] the father of Mrs. Paquette, who rode express from Galena, and who averred that he once passed a bush behind which the Sauks were hiding, but that his horse smelt the sweet-scented grass with which they always adorn their persons when on a war-party, and set out on such a gallop that he never stopped until he arrived at the Portage.

Another bearer of news was a young gentleman named Follett, whose eyes had become so protruded, and set, from keeping an anxious lookout for the enemy, that it was many days after his arrival at a place of safety, before they resumed their accustomed limits and expression.

Among other rumors which at this time reached us, was one that an attack upon the fort was in contemplation among the Sauks. That this was certainly in no state of defence, the Indians very well knew. All the effective men had been withdrawn, upon a requisition from General Atkinson, to join him at his newly-built fort at Kosh-ko-nong.[100]

Fort Winnebago was not picketed in—there were no defences to the barracks or officers' quarters, except slight panelled doors and Venetian blinds—nothing that would long resist the blows of clubs or hatchets. There was no artillery, and the Commissary’s store was without the bounds of the fort, under the hill.

Mr. Kinzie had, from the first, called the attention of the officers to the insecurity of their position, in case of danger, but he generally received a scoffing answer.

“Never fear,” they would say—“the Sauks are not coming here to attack us.”

One afternoon we had gone over on a visit to some friends in the garrison, and several officers being present, the conversation, as usual, turned upon the present position of affairs.

“Do you not think it wiser,” inquired I, of a blustering young officer, “to be prepared against possible danger?”

“Not against these fellows,” replied he, contemptuously—“I do not think I would even take the trouble to fasten the blinds to my quarters.”

“At least,” said I, “if you some night find a tomahawk raised to cleave your skull, you will have the consolation of remembering that you have not been one of those foolish fellows who keep on the safe side.”

He seemed a little nettled at this, and still more so when sister Margaret observed:

“For my part, I am of Governor Cass' opinion. He was at Chicago during the Winnebago war. We were all preparing to move into the fort on the first alarm. Some were for being brave and delaying, like our friends here. ‘Come, come,’ said the Governor, ‘hurry into the fort as fast as possible—there is no merit in being brave with the Indians. It is the height of folly to stay and meet danger which you may by prudence avoid.’”

In a few days our friends waked up to the conviction that something must be done at once. The first step was to forbid any Winnebago coming within the garrison, lest they should find out what they had known as well as ourselves for three months past—namely, the feebleness of the means of resistance. The next was to send “fatigue-parties” into the woods, under the protection of a guard, to cut pickets for enclosing the garrison.

There was every reason to believe that the enemy were not very far distant, and that their object in coming north was to break away into the Chippewa country, where they would find a place of security among their friends and allies. The story that our Indian runners brought in most frequently was, that the Sauks were determined to fall upon the whites at the Portage and Fort, and massacre all, except the families of the Agent and Interpreter.

Plante and Pillon with their families had departed at the first word of danger. There only remained with us Manaigre, whose wife was a half-Winnebago, Isidore Morrin, and the blacksmiths from Sugar Creek, Mâtâ, and Turcotte.

At night we were all regularly armed and our posts assigned us. After every means had been taken to make the house secure, the orders were given. Sister Margaret and I, in case of attack, were to mount with the children to the rooms above, while my husband and his men were to make good their defence as long as possible against the enemy. Since I had shown my sportsmanship by bringing down accidentally a blackbird on the wing, I felt as if I could do some execution with my little pistols, which were regularly placed beside my pillow at night, and I was fully resolved to use them, if necessity required it, and I do not remember to have had the slightest compunction at the idea of taking the lives of two Sauks, as I had no doubt I should do, and this explains to me what I had before often wondered at, the indifference of the soldier on the field of battle to the destruction of human life. Had I been called upon, however, to use my weapons effectually, I should no doubt have looked back upon it with horror.

Surrounded as we were by Indian lodges, which seldom became perfectly quiet, and excited as our nerves had become by all that we were daily in the habit of hearing, we seldom slept very soundly. One night, after we had as much as possible composed ourselves, we were startled at a late hour by a tap upon the window at the head of our bed, and a call of “Chon! Chon!”[AZ] (John! John!)

“Tshah-ko-zhah?” (What is it?)

It was Hoo-wau-ne-kah, the little Elk. He spoke rapidly, and in a tone of great agitation. I could not understand him, and I lay trembling, and dreading to hear his errand interpreted. Now and then I could distinguish the words Sau-kee (Sauks) and Shoonk-hat-tay-rah (horse), and they were not very reassuring.

The subject I soon learned was this: A fresh trail had been observed near the Petit Rocher, on the Wisconsin, and the people at the villages on the Barribault[101] were in a state of great alarm, fearing it might be the Sauks. There was the appearance of a hundred or more horses having passed by this trail. Hoo-wau-ne-kah had been dispatched at once to tell their father, and to ask his advice.

After listening to all he had to communicate, his father told him the trail was undoubtedly that of General Henry’s troops, who were said to have come North, looking for the enemy. That as the marks of the horses' hoofs showed them, by this report, to have been shod, that was sufficient proof that it was not the trail of the Sauks. He thought that the people at the villages need not feel any uneasiness.

“Very well, father,” replied Hoo-wau-ne-kah, "I will go back and tell my people what you say. They will believe you, for you always tell them the truth. You are not like us Indians, who sometimes deceive each other." So saying, he returned to his friends, much comforted.

The completion of the picketing and other defences, together with the arrival of a detachment of troops from Fort Howard under Lieut. Hunter,[102] at our fort now seemed to render the latter the place of greatest safety. We therefore regularly, every evening before dusk, took up our line of march for the opposite side of the river, and repaired to quarters that had been assigned us within the garrison, leaving our own house and chattels to the care of the Frenchmen and our friends, the Winnebagoes.

It was on one of these days that we were sitting at the windows which looked out on the Portage—indeed, we seldom sat anywhere else, our almost constant occupation being to look abroad and see what was coming next—when a loud, long, shrill whoop from a distance gave notice of something to be heard. “The news—halloo! what could it portend? What were we about to hear?” By gazing intently towards the farthest extremity of the road, we could perceive a moving body of horsemen, which, as they approached, we saw to be Indians. They were in full costume. Scarlet streamers fluttered at the ends of their lances—their arms glittered in the sun. Presently, as they drew nearer, their paint, and feathers and brooches became visible. There were fifty or more warriors. What could it denote? They passed the road which turns to the fort, and rode directly up the hill leading to the Agency. Shaw-nee-aw-kee was absent. The Interpreter had been sent for on the first distant appearance of the strangers, but had not yet arrived. The party having ascended the hill, halted near the blacksmith’s shop, but did not dismount.

Our hearts trembled—it must surely be the enemy. At this moment my husband appeared in the direction of the Interpreter’s house. We called to entreat him to stop, but he walked along towards the new comers.

To our infinite joy we saw the Chief of the party dismount, and all the others following his example, and approaching to shake hands.

A space was soon cleared around the leader and my husband, when the former commenced an oration, flourishing his sword and using much violent gesticulation. It was the first time I had seen an Indian armed with that weapon, and I dreaded to perceive it in such hands. Sometimes he appeared as if he were about to take off the head of his auditor at a blow, and our hearts sank as we remembered the stratagems at Mackinac and Detroit in former days. At length the speech was concluded, another shaking of hands took place, and we saw my husband leading the way to his storehouse, from which some of his men presently brought tobacco and pipes, and laid them at the feet of the Chief.

Our suspense was soon relieved by being informed that the strangers were Man-Eater, the principal Chief of the Rock River Indians, who had come with his band to “hold a talk,” and bring information.

These Indians were under the special care of Mr. Henry Gratiot,[103] and his efforts had been most judicious and unremitting in preserving the good feeling of this, the most dangerous portion of the Winnebagoes.

The intelligence that Man-Eater, who was a most noble Indian in appearance and character, brought us, confirmed that already received, namely, that the Sauks were gradually drawing north, towards the Portage, although he evidently did not know exactly their whereabouts.

There was, soon after their departure, an arrival of another party of Winnebagoes, and they requested permission to dance for their father.

The compliment having been accepted, they assembled, as usual, on the esplanade in front of the house. My sister, the children and myself, stationed ourselves at the open windows, according to custom, and my husband sat on the broad step before the door, which opened from the outer air directly into the parlor where we were.

The performance commenced, and as they proceeded, following each other round and round in the progress of the dance, my sister, Mrs. Helm, remarked to me, “Look at that small dark Indian, with the green boughs on his person—that is a Sauk! They always mark themselves in this manner with white clay, and ornament themselves with leaves when they dance!” In truth, I had never seen this costume among our own Indians, and as I gazed at this one, with a green chaplet round his head and his legs, and even his gun wreathed in the same manner, while his body displayed no paint except the white transverse streaks with which it was covered, I saw that he was, indeed, a stranger. Without owing anything to the exaggeration of fear, his countenance was truly ferocious. He held his gun in his hand, and every time the course of the dance brought him directly in front of where we sat, he would turn his gaze full upon us, and club his weapon before him with what we interpreted into an air of defiance. We sat as still as death, for we knew it would not be wise to exhibit any appearance of fear, but my sister remarked in a low tone, “I have always thought that I was to lose my life by the hands of the Indians—this is the third Indian war I have gone through, and now, I suppose, it will be the last.”

It was the only time I ever saw her lose her self-possession. She was always remarkably calm and resolute, but now I could see that she trembled. Still we sat there—there was a sort of fascination as our imaginations became more and more excited. Presently, some raindrops began to fall. The Indians continued their dance for a few minutes longer, then, with whoopings and shoutings, they rushed simultaneously towards the house. We fled into my apartment and closed the door, which my sister at first held fast, but presently came and seated herself by me on the bed, for she saw that I could not compose myself. Of all forms of death that by the hands of savages is the most difficult to face calmly, and I fully believed that our hour was come.

There was no interruption to the dance, which the Indians carried on in the parlor, leaping and yelling as if they would bring down the roof over our heads. In vain we tried to persuade my husband and the children, through a crevice of the door, to come and join us. The latter, feeling no danger, were too much delighted with the exhibition to leave it, and the former only came for a moment to reassure me, and then judged it wisest to return, and manifest his satisfaction at the compliment by his presence. He made light of our fears, and would not admit that the object of our suspicions was in fact a Sauk, but only some young Winnebago, who had, as is sometimes the custom, imitated them in costume and appearance.

It may have been “good fun” to him to return to his village and tell how he frightened “the white squaws.” Such a trick would not be unnatural in a white youth, and perhaps, since human nature is everywhere the same, it might not be out of the way in an Indian.

CHAPTER XXXIII

FLEEING FROM THE INDIANS

The danger now appeared to have become so imminent that my husband determined to send his family to Fort Howard, a point which was believed to be far out of the range of the enemy. It was in vain that I pleaded to be permitted to remain—he was firm.

“I must not leave my post,” said he, “while there is any danger. My departure would perhaps be the signal for an immediate alliance of the Winnebagoes with the Sauks. I am certain that as long as I am here, my presence will act as a restraint upon them. You wish to remain and share my dangers! Your doing so would expose us both to certain destruction in case of attack. By the aid of my friends in both tribes, I could hope to preserve my own life if I were alone, but surrounded by my family, that would be impossible—we should all fall victims together. My duty plainly is to send you to a place of safety.”

An opportunity for doing this soon occurred. Paquette, the interpreter, who was likewise an agent of the American Fur Company, had occasion to send a boat load of furs to Green Bay, on their way to Mackinac. Mr. Kinzie having seen it as comfortably fitted up as an open boat of that description could be, with a tent-cloth fastened on a framework of hoop-poles over the centre, and lined with a dark-green blanket; and having placed on board an abundant store of provisions and other comforts, he committed us to the joint care of my brother Arthur and his faithful blacksmith, Mâtâ.

This latter was a tall, gaunt Frenchman, with a freckled face, a profusion of crisp, sandy hair, and an inveterate propensity to speak English. His knowledge of the language was somewhat limited, and he burlesqued it by adding an s to almost every word, and giving out each phrase with a jerk.

“Davids,” he was wont to say to the little yellow fiddler, after an evening’s frolic at the Interpreter’s, “Davids, clear away the tables and the glasses, and play fishes hornspikes.”[BA] But he was a kind, affectionate creature, and his devotion to “Monsieur Johns” and “Madame Johns” knew no bounds.

Besides these two protectors, three trusty Indians, the chief of whom was called Old Smoker, were engaged to escort our party. The crew of the boat consisted entirely of French engagés in the service of the Fur Company. They were six gay-hearted, merry fellows, lightening their labor with their pipe and their songs, in which they always esteemed it a great compliment to be joined by any gentleman or lady who listened to them—but our hearts, alas! were now too heavy to participate in their enjoyment.

The Fourth of July, the day on which we left our home, was a gloomy one indeed to those who departed, and to the one left behind. Who knew if we should ever meet again? The experience which some of the circle had had in Indian warfare, was such as to justify the saddest forebodings. There was not even the consolation of a certainty that this step would secure our safety. The Sauks might, possibly, be on the other side of us, and the route we were taking might, perhaps, though not probably, carry us into their very midst. It was no wonder then that our leave-taking was a solemn one—a parting which all felt might be for this world.

Not all, however, for the gay, cheerful Frenchmen laughed and sung and cracked their jokes, and “assured Monsieur John that they would take Madame Jolm and Madame Alum safe to ‘the bay,’ spite of Sauks or wind or weather.”

Thus we sat out on our journey. For many miles the fort was in sight, as the course of the river alternately approached and receded from its walls, and it was not until nearly mid-day that we caught the last glimpse of our home.

At the noon-tide meal, or "pipe,"[104] as it is called by the voyageurs, an alarming discovery was made—no bread had been put on board for the crew! How this oversight had occurred, no one could tell. One was certain that a large quantity had been brought from the garrison bakery for their use that very morning—another had even seen the sacks of loaves standing in Paquette’s kitchen. Be that as it may, here we were, many miles on our journey, and with no provisions for the six Frenchmen, except some salted pork, a few beans, and some onions. A consultation was held in this emergency. Should they return to the Portage for supplies? The same danger that made their departure necessary, still existed, and the utmost dispatch had been enjoined upon them. We found upon examination that the store of bread and crackers with which our party had been provided, was far beyond what we could possibly require, and we thought it would be sufficient to allow of rations to the Frenchmen until we should reach Powell’s, at the Butte des Morts, the day but one following, where we should undoubtedly be able to procure a fresh supply.

This decided on, we proceeded on our journey, always in profound silence, for a song or a loud laugh was now strictly prohibited until we should have passed the utmost limits of country where the enemy might possibly be. We had been warned beforehand that a certain point, where the low marshy meadows, through which the river had hitherto run, rises into a more firm and elevated country, was the border of the Menomonee territory, and the spot where the Sauks, if they had fled north of the Wisconsin towards the Chippewa country, would be most likely to be encountered.

As we received intimation on the forenoon of the second day that we were drawing near this spot, I must confess that “we held our breath for awe.”

The three Winnebagoes were in the bow of the boat. Old Smoker, the chief, squatted upon his feet on the bench of the foremost rowers. We looked at him. He was gazing intently in the direction of the wooded point we were approaching. Our eyes followed his, and we saw three Indians step forward and stand upon the bank. We said in a low voice to each other, “if they are Sauks, we are lost, for the whole body must be in that thicket.” The boat continued to approach—not a word was spoken—the dip of the paddle, and perhaps the beating hearts of some, were the only sounds that broke the stillness. Again we looked at the chief. His nostrils were dilated—his eyes almost glaring.

Suddenly, with a bound, he sprung to his feet and uttered his long shrill whoop.

“Hoh! hoh! hoh! neetchee (friend) Mah-no-mo-nee!”

All was now joy and gladness. Every one was forward to shake hands with the strangers as soon as we could reach them, in token of our satisfaction that they were Menomonees and not Sauks, of the latter of whom, by the way, they would give us no intelligence.

By noon of that day, we considered ourselves to be out of the region of danger. Still caution was deemed necessary, and when at the mid-day pipe the boat was pushed ashore under a beautiful overhanging bank, crowned with a thick wood, the usual vigilance was somewhat relaxed, and the young people, under the escort of Arthur and Mâtâ were permitted to roam about a little, in the vicinity of the boat.

They soon came back with the report that the woods were "alive with pigeons,"[105]—they could almost knock them down with sticks, and earnestly did they plead to be allowed to shoot at least enough for supper. But no—the enemy might be nearer than we imagined, the firing of a gun would betray our whereabouts—it was most prudent to give no notice to friend or foe. So, very reluctantly, they were compelled to return to the boat without their game.

The next morning brought us to Powell’s, at the Butte des Morts. Sad were the faces of the poor Frenchmen at learning that not a loaf of bread was to be had. Our own store, too, was, by this time, quite exhausted. The only substitute we could obtain, was a bag of dark-looking, bitter flour. With this provision for our whole party, we were forced to be contented, and we left the Hillock of the Dead feeling that it had been indeed the grave of our hopes.

By dint of good rowing, our crew soon brought us to the spot where the river enters that beautiful sheet of water, Winnebago Lake. Though there was but little wind when we reached the lake, the Frenchmen hoisted their sail, in hopes to save themselves the labour of rowing across; but in vain did they whistle, with all the force of their lungs—in vain did they supplicate La Vierge, with a comical mixture of fun and reverence. As a last resource, it was at length suggested by some one that their only chance lay in propitiating the goddess of the winds with an offering of some cast-off garment.

Application was made all round by Guardapie, the chief spokesman of the crew. Alas! not one of the poor voyageurs could boast a spare article. A few old rags were at length rummaged out of the little receptacle of food, clothing, and dirt, in the bow of the boat, and cast into the waves. For a moment all flattered themselves that the experiment had been successful—the sail fluttered, swelled a little, and then flapped idly down against the mast. The party were in despair, until, after a whispered consultation together, Julian and Edwin stepped forward as messengers of mercy. In a trice they divested themselves of jacket and vest and made a proffer of their next garment to aid in raising the wind.

At first there seemed a doubt in the minds of the boatmen whether they ought to accept so magnificent an offer, but finding, on giving them a preparatory shake, that the value of the contribution was less than they had imagined, they, with many shouts, and much laughter, consigned them to the waves. To the great delight and astonishment of the boys, a breeze at this moment sprung up, which carried the little vessel beautifully over the waters for about half the distance to Garlic Island. By this time the charm was exhausted, nor was it found possible to renew it by a repetition of similar offerings. All expedients were tried without success, and, with sundry rather disrespectful reflections upon the lady whose aid they had invoked, the Frenchmen were compelled to betake themselves to their oars, until they reached the island.