“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.

Two or three canoes of Winnebagoes had arrived at the same moment, and their owners immediately stepped forward with an offering of some sturgeon which they had caught in the lake. As this promised to be an agreeable variety to the noon-tide meal, (at least for the Frenchmen,) it was decided to stop and kindle a fire for the purpose of cooking it. We took advantage of this interval, to recommend to the boys to stroll to the opposite side of the island, where the clear, shallow water and pebbly beach offered temptation to a refreshing bath. While they availed themselves of this, under the supervision of Harry, the black boy, we amused ourselves with gathering the fine red raspberries with which the island abounded.

Our enjoyment was cut short, however, by discovering that the whole place, vines, shrubs, and even, apparently, the earth itself, was infested with myriads of the wood-tick, a little insect, that, having fastened to the skin, penetrates into the very flesh, causing a swelling and irritation exceedingly painful, and even dangerous. The alarm was sounded to bring the boys back in all haste, to the open and more frequented part of the island. But we soon found we had not left our tormentors behind. Throughout the day, we continued to be sensible of their proximity. From the effects of their attacks we were not relieved for several succeeding days; those which had succeeded in burying themselves in the flesh, having to be removed with the point of a penknife, or a large needle. After partaking of our dinner, we stepped on board our boat, and the wind having risen, we were carried by the breeze to the opposite verge of the lake, and into the entrance of the river, or, as it was called, the Winnebago rapids.

On the point of land to the right stood a collection of neat bark wigwams—this was Four-Legs' village.

It was an exciting and somewhat hazardous passage down the rapids and over the Grande Chûte, a fall of several feet; but it was safely passed, and at the approach of evening the boat reached the settlement of the Wau-bee-na-kees at the head of the Little Chûte. These are the Stockbridge or Brothertown Indians, the remains of the old Mohicans, who had, a few years before, emigrated from Oneida County in the State of New York, to a tract granted them by the United States, on the fertile banks of the Fox River.[106] They had already cleared extensive openings in the forest, and built some substantial and comfortable houses near the banks of the river, which were here quite high, and covered for the most part with gigantic trees.

It was determined to ask hospitality of these people, to the extent of borrowing a corner of their fire to boil our tea kettle, and bake the short-cake which had been now, for nearly two days, our substitute for bread. Its manufacture had been a subject of much merriment. The ingredients, consisting of Powell’s black flour, some salt and a little butter, were mixed in the tin box which had held our meat. This was then reversed, and having been properly cleansed, supplied the place of a dough-board. The vinegar bottle served the office of rolling-pin, and a shallow tin dish, set upon the coals at our previous encamping places, had formed the appliance for baking. The Wau-bee-na-kees were so good as to lend us an iron bake-kettle, and superintend the cooking of our cake after Harry had carried it up to their dwelling.

So kind and hospitable did they show themselves, that the crew of the boat took the resolution of asking a lodging on shore, by way of relief, after their crowded quarters in the boat for the last three nights. Arthur and Mâtâ soon adopted the same idea, and we were invited to follow their example, with the assurance that the houses were extremely neat and orderly.

We preferred, however, at it was a fine night, and all things were so comfortably arranged in the centre of the boat, to remain on board, keeping Edwin and Josette with us.

The boat was tightly moored, for the Little Chûte was just below, and if our craft should work loose in the rapid current, and drift down over the falls, it would be a very serious matter. As an additional precaution, one man was left on board to keep all things safe and in order, and these arrangements having been made, the others ascended the bank, and took up their night’s lodgings in the Wau-bee-na-kee cabins.

It was a beautiful, calm, moonlight night, the air just sufficiently warm to be agreeable, while the gentle murmur of the rapids and of the fall at no great distance, soon lulled our party to repose. How long we had slumbered we knew not, when we were aroused by a rushing wind. It bent the poles supporting the awning, snapped them, and another gust succeeding, tent and blanket were carried away on the blast down the stream. The moonlight was gone, but a flash of lightning showed them sailing away like a spectre in the distance.

The storm increased in violence. The rain began to pour in torrents, and the thunder and lightning to succeed each other in fearful rapidity. My sister sprang to waken the Frenchman. “Get up Vitelle, quick,” cried she, in French, “run up the bank for Mâtâ and Mr. Arthur—tell them to come and get us instantly.”

The man made her no reply, but fell upon his knees, invoking the Virgin most vociferously.

“Do not wait for the Virgin, but go as quickly as possible. Do you not see we shall all be killed?”

“Oh! not for the world, Madame, not for the world,” said Vitelle, burying his head in a pack of furs, “would I go up that bank in this storm.” And here he began crying most lustily to all the saints in the calendar.

It was indeed awful. The roaring of the thunder and the flashing of the lightning around us, were like the continued discharge of a park of artillery. I had with difficulty drawn forth my cloak, and enveloped myself and Josette—sister Margaret had done the same with Edwin.

“Oh! Madame,” said the poor little girl, her teeth chattering with cold and fright, “won’t we be drowned?”

“Very well,” said my sister to the Frenchman, “you see that Madame John is at the last agony—if you will not go for help I must, and Monsieur John must know that you left his wife to perish.”

This was too much for Vitelle. “If I must, I must,” said he, and with a desperate bound he leapt on shore and sped up the hill with might and main.

In a few minutes, though it seemed ages to us, a whole posse came flying down the hill. The incessant lightning made all things appear as in the glare of day. Mâtâ’s hair fairly stood on end, and his eyes rolled with ghastly astonishment at the spectacle.

“Oh! my God, Madame Johns! what would Monsieur Johns say, to see you nows?” exclaimed he, as he seized me in his arms and bore me up the hill. Arthur followed with sister Margaret, and two others with Edwin and Josette. Nobody carried Vitelle, for he had taken care not to risk his precious life by venturing again to the boat.

On arriving at the cabin where Arthur and Mâtâ had been lodged, a fire was, with some difficulty, kindled, and our trunks having been brought up from the boat, we were at length able to exchange our drenched garments, and those of the children, for others more comfortable, after which we laid ourselves upon the clean, but homely bed, and slept until daylight.

As it was necessary to ascertain what degree of damage the cargo of furs had sustained, an early start was proposed. Apparently, the inhabitants of the cottages had become weary in well doing, for they declined preparing breakfast for us, although we assured them they should be well compensated for their trouble. We, consequently, saw ourselves compelled to depart with very slender prospects of a morning meal.

When we reached the boat, what a scene presented itself! Bed-clothes, cloaks, trunks, mess-basket, packs of furs, all bearing the marks of a complete deluge! The boat ankle-deep in water—literally no place on board where we could either stand or sit. After some bailing out, and an attempt at disposing some of the packs of furs, which had suffered least from the flood, so as to form a sort of divan in the centre of the boat, nothing better seemed to offer than to re-embark, and endure what “could not be cured.”

Our position was not an enviable one. Wherever a foot or hand was placed, the water gushed up, with a bubbling sound, and, oh! the state of the bandboxes and work-baskets! Breakfast there was none, for on examining the mess-basket everything it contained was found mingled in one undistinguishable mass. Tea, pepper, salt, short-cake, all floating together—it was a hopeless case.

But this was not the worst. As the fervid July sun rose higher in the heavens, the steam which exhaled from every object on board was nearly suffocating. The boat was old—the packs of skins were old—their vicinity in a dry day had been anything but agreeable—now, it was intolerable. There was no retreating from it, however, so we encouraged the children to arm themselves with patience, for the short time that yet remained of our voyage.

Seated on our odoriferous couch, beneath the shade of a single umbrella, to protect our whole party from the scorching sun, we glided wearily down the stream, through that long, tedious day. As we passed successively the Kakalin, the Rapids, Dickinson’s, the Agency, with what longing eyes did we gaze at human habitations, where others were enjoying the shelter of a roof, and the comforts of food, and how eagerly did we count the hours which must elapse before we could reach Fort Howard.

There were no songs from the poor Frenchmen this day. Music and fasting do not go well together. At length we stopped at Shanteetown,[107] where the boat was to be unloaded. All hands fell to work to transfer the cargo to the warehouse of the Fur Company, which stood near the landing. It was not a long operation, for all worked heartily. This being accomplished, the voyageurs, one and all, prepared to take their leave. In vain Mâtâ stormed and raved, in vain Arthur remonstrated.

“No,” they said, “they had brought the boat and cargo to the warehouse—that was all of their job,” and they turned to go.

“Guardapie,” said I, “do you intend to leave us here?”

“Bien, Madame! it is the place we always stop at.”

“Does Monsieur John pay you for bringing his family down?”

“Oh, yes; Monsieur John has given us an order on the sutler, at the fort down below.”

“To be paid when you deliver us safe at the fort down below. It seems I shall be there before you, and I shall arrange that matter. Monsieur John never dreamed that this would be your conduct.”

The Frenchmen consulted together, and the result was that Guardapie and two others jumped into the boat, took their oars, and rather sulkily rowed us the remaining two miles to Fort Howard.

CHAPTER XXXIV

FORT HOWARD—OUR RETURN HOME

We soon learned that a great panic prevailed at Green Bay on account of the Sauks.[108] The people seemed to have possessed themselves with the idea that the enemy would visit this place on their way to Canada to put themselves under the protection of the British Government. How they were to get there from this point—whether they were to stop and fabricate themselves bark canoes for the purpose, or whether they were to charter one of Mr. Newberry’s schooners for the trip, the good people did not seem fully to have made up their minds. One thing is certain, a portion of the citizens were nearly frightened to death, and were fully convinced that there was no safety for them, but within the walls of the old dilapidated fort, from which nearly all the troops had been withdrawn and sent to Fort Winnebago, some time previous.

Their fears were greatly aggravated by a report, brought by some traveller, that he had slept at night on the very spot where the Sauks breakfasted the next morning. Now, as the Sauks were known to be reduced to very short commons, there was every reason to suppose that if the man had waited half an hour longer, they would have eaten him; so he was considered to have made a wonderful escape.

Our immediate friends and acquaintances were far from joining in these fears. The utter improbability of such a movement was obvious to all who considered the nature of the country to be traversed, and the efficient and numerous body of whites by whom they must be opposed on their entrance into that neighborhood. There were some, however, who could not be persuaded that there was even any security but in flight, and eagerly was the arrival of the “Mariner” looked for, as the anxiety grew more and more intense.

The “Mariner” appeared at last. It was early in the morning. In one hour from that time, the fearful news she brought had spread the whole length of “the bay.” The cholera was in this country! It was in Detroit—it was among the troops who were on their way to the seat of war! Whole companies had died of it in the river St. Clair, and the survivors had been put on shore at Fort Gratiot, to save their lives as best they might! We were shut in between the savage foe on one hand and the pestilence on the other![109]

To those who had friends “at the East,” the news was most appalling. It seemed to unman every one who heard it. A relative, an officer who had exhibited the most distinguished courage in the battle-field, and also in some private enterprises demanding unequalled courage and daring, was the first to bring us the news. When he had communicated it, he laid his head against the window sill and wept like a child.

Those who wished to rejoin friends near and dear, left “the bay” in the “Mariner”; all others considered their present home the safest, and so it proved, for the dreadful scourge did not visit Green Bay that season.

The weather was intensely hot, and the musquitoes so thick that we did not pretend to walk on the parade after sunset, unless armed with two fans, or green branches to keep constantly in motion, in order to disperse them. This, by the way, was the surest method of attracting them. We had somehow forgotten the apathetic indifference which had often excited our wonder in old Smoker, when we had observed him calmly sitting and allowing his naked arms and person to become literally gray with the tormenting insects. Then he would quietly wipe off a handful, the blood following the movement of the hand over his skin, and stoically wait for an occasion to repeat the movement. It is said that the mosquito, if undisturbed until he has taken his fill, leaves a much less inflamed bite than if brushed away in the midst of his feast.

By day, the air was at this season filled with what is called the Green Bay fly, a species of dragon-fly, with which the outer walls of the houses are at times so covered that their color is hardly distinguishable. Their existence is very ephemeral, scarcely lasting more than a day. Their dead bodies are seen adhering to the walls and windows within, and they fall without in such numbers that after a high wind has gathered them into rows along the sides of the quarters, one may walk through them and toss them up with their feet like the dry leaves in autumn.

As we walked across the parade, our attention was sometimes called to a tapping upon the bars of the dungeon in which a criminal was confined—it was the murderer of Lieutenant Foster.

It may be remembered that this amiable young officer had been our travelling companion in our journey from Chicago the preceding year. Some months after his arrival at Fort Howard, he had occasion to order a soldier of his company, named Doyle, into confinement for intoxication. The man, a few days afterward, prevailed on the Sergeant of the Guard to escort him to Lieutenant Foster’s quarters on the plea that he wished to speak to him. He ascended the stairs to the young officer’s room, while the sergeant and another soldier remained at the foot, near the door.

Doyle entered, and addressing Lieutenant Foster, said, “Will you please tell me. Lieutenant, what I am confined for?”

“No, sir,” replied the officer, “you know your offence well enough; return to your place of confinement.”

The man ran down stairs, wrenched the gun from the sergeant’s hand, and rushing back, discharged it at the heart of Lieutenant Foster.

He turned to go to his inner apartment, but exclaiming, “Ah! me,” he fell dead before the entrance.

Doyle, having been tried by a civil court, was now under sentence, awaiting his execution. He was a hardened villain, never exhibiting the slightest compunction for his crime.

The commanding officer. Major Clark,[110] sent to him one day to inquire if he wanted anything for his comfort.

“If the Major pleased,” he replied, “he should like to have a light and a copy of Byron’s Works.”

Some fears were entertained that he would contrive to make way with himself before the day of execution, and to guard against it, he was deprived of everything that could furnish him a weapon. His food was served to him in a wooden bowl, lest a bit of broken crockery might be used as a means of self-destruction.

One morning he sent a little package to the commanding officer as a present. It contained a strong rope, fabricated from strips of his blanket, that he had carefully separated, and with a large stout spike at the end of it. The message accompanying it was: "He wished Major Clark to see that if he chose to put an end to himself, he could find means to do it in spite of him."

And this hardened frame of mind continued to the last. When he was led out for execution, in passing beyond the gate, he observed a quantity of lumber recently collected for the construction of a new Company’s store.

“Ah! Captain, what are you going to build here?” inquired he of Captain Scott,[111] who attended him.

“Doyle,” replied his Captain, “you have but a few moments to live—you had better employ your thoughts about something else.”

“It is for that very reason, Captain,” said he, “that I am enquiring—as my time is short, I wish to gain all the information I can while it lasts.”

We were not suffered to remain long in suspense in regard to the friends we had left behind. In less than two weeks Old Smoker again made his appearance. He was the bearer of letters from my husband, informing me that Gen. Dodge was then with him at Fort Winnebago—that Generals Henry and Alexander[112] were likewise at the fort, and that as soon as they had recruited their men and horses, which were pretty well worn out with scouring the country after Black Hawk, they would march again in pursuit of him towards the head waters of the Rock river, where they had every reason, from information lately brought in by the Winnebagoes, to believe he would be found.

As he charged us to lay aside all uneasiness on his account, and moreover held forth the hope of soon coming or sending for us, our minds became more tranquil.

Not long after this, I was told one morning, that “a lady” wished to see me at the front door. I obeyed the summons, and, to my surprise, was greeted by my friend, Madame Four-Legs. After much demonstration of joy at seeing me, such as putting her two hands together over her forehead, and then parting them in a waving kind of gesture—laughing and patting me on my arms, she drew from her bosom a letter from my husband, of which she was the bearer, to this effect—"Generals Dodge and Henry left here a few days since, accompanied by Paquette; they met the Sauks near the Wisconsin, on the 21st. A battle ensued in which upwards of fifty of the enemy were killed—our loss was one killed, and eight wounded. The citizens are well pleased that all this has been accomplished without any aid from Old White Beaver.[BB] The war must be near its close, for the militia and regulars together will soon finish the remaining handful of fugitives."

The arrival of Lieut. Hunter, who had obtained leave of absence in order to escort us, soon put all things in train for our return to Fort Winnebago. No Mackinac boat was to be had, but in lieu of it a Durham boat was procured. This is of a description longer and shallower than the other, with no convenience for rigging up an awning, or shelter of any kind over the centre; but its size was better fitted to accommodate our party, which consisted of Mr. and Mrs. H., the wife of another officer now stationed at Fort Winnebago, and our cousin. Miss Forsyth, in addition to our own immediate family. We made up our minds, as will be supposed, to pretty close quarters.

Our crew was composed partly of Frenchmen, and partly of soldiers, and all things being in readiness, we set off one fine, bright morning, in the latter part of July.

Our second day’s rowing and poling brought us to the Grande Chûte[113] early in the afternoon.

Here, it is the custom to disembark at the foot of the rapids, and, ascending the high bank, walk around the fall, while the men pull the boat up, through the foaming waters.

Most of our party had already stepped on shore, when a sudden thought seized one of the ladies and myself.

“Let us stay in the boat,” said we, “and be pulled up the Chûte.” The rest of the company went on, while we sat and watched with great interest the preparations the men were making. They were soon overboard in the water, and attaching a strong rope to the bow of the boat, all lent their aid in pulling as they marched slowly along with their heavy load. The cargo, consisting only of our trunks and stores, which were of no very considerable weight, had not been removed.

We went on, now and then getting a tremendous bump against a hidden rock, and frequently splashed by a shower of foam as the waves roared and boiled around us.

The men kept as closely as possible to the high, precipitous bank, where the water was smoothest. At the head of the cordel was a merry simpleton of a Frenchman, who was constantly turning to grin with delight at our evident enjoyment and excitement.

We were indeed in high glee. “Is not this charming?” cried one—“I only wish—”

The wish, whatever it was, was cut short by a shout and a crash. “Have a care, Robineau! Mind where you are taking the boat!” was the cry, but it came too late. More occupied with the ladies than with his duty, the leader had guided us into the midst of a sharp, projecting tree that hung from the bank. The first tug ripped out the side of the boat, which immediately began to fill with water.

My companion and I jumped upon the nearest rocks that showed their heads above the foam. Our screams and the shouts of the men brought Lieut. Hunter and some Indians, who were above on the bank, dashing down to our rescue. They carried us in their arms to land, while the men worked lustily at fishing up the contents of the boat, now thoroughly saturated with water.

We scrambled up the high bank, in a miserable plight, to join in the general lamentation over the probable consequences of the accident.

“Oh! my husband’s new uniform!” cried one, and

“Oh! the miniatures in the bottom of my trunk!” sighed another—while, “Oh! the silk dresses, and the ribbons, and the finery,” formed the general chorus.

No one thought of the provisions, although we had observed in our progress to shore, the barrel of bread and the tub of ice, which Lieut. Hunter had providently brought for our refreshment, sailing away on the dancing waves. Among the boxes brought to land, and “toted” up the steep bank, was one containing some loaves of sugar and packages of tea, which I had bought for our winter’s supply, from the sutler at the post. The young Indian, who was the bearer of it, set it upon the ground, and soon called my attention to a thick, white stream that was oozing from the corners. I made signs for him to taste it. He dipped his finger in it, and exclaimed with delight to his companions, when he perceived what it was. I then pointed to his hatchet, and motioned him to open the box. He did not require a second invitation—it was soon hacked to pieces.