Beyond the rising ground which formed the opposite bank of the stream, extended a marsh of perhaps three hundred yards across. To this the men carried the canoe which was to bear us over. The water was not deep, so our attendants merely took off the pack from Brunêt and my side-saddle from Le Gris, for fear of accidents, and then mounted their own steeds, leading the two extra ones. My husband placed the furniture of the pack-horse and my saddle in the centre of the canoe, which he was to paddle across.

“Now, wifie,” said he, “jump in, and seat yourself flat in the bottom of the canoe.”

“Oh, no,” said I; “I will sit on the little trunk in the centre; I shall be so much more comfortable, and I can balance the canoe exactly.”

“As you please, but I think you will find it is not the best way.”

A vigorous push sent us a few feet from the bank. At that instant two favorite greyhounds whom we had brought with us, and who had stood whining upon the bank, reluctant to take to the water as they were ordered, gave a sudden bound, and alighted full upon me. The canoe balanced a moment—then yielded—and quick as thought, dogs, furniture, and lady were in the deepest of the water.

My husband, who was just preparing to spring into the canoe when the dogs thus unceremoniously took precedence of him, was at my side in a moment, and seizing me by the collar of my cloak, begged me not to be frightened. I was not, in the least, and only laughed as he raised and placed me again upon the bank.

The unfortunate saddle and little trunk were then rescued, but not until they had received a pretty thorough wetting. Our merriment was still further increased by the sight of the maladroit Pillon, who was attempting to ride my spirited Jerry across the marsh. He was clinging to the neck of the animal, with a countenance distorted with terror, as he shouted forth all manner of French objurgations. Jerry pranced and curvetted, and finally shot forward his rider, or rather his burden, headforemost, a distance of several feet into the water.

A general outcry of mirth saluted the unfortunate Frenchman, which was redoubled as he raised himself puffing and snorting from his watery bed, and waddled back to his starting-place, the horse, meanwhile, very sensibly making his way to join his companions, who had already reached the further bank.

“Well, wifie,” said Mr. Kinzie, “I cannot trust you in the canoe again. There is no way but to carry you across the marsh like a pappoose. Will you take a ride on my shoulders?”

“With all my heart, if you will promise to take me safely”—and I was soon mounted.

I must confess that the gentleman staggered now and then under his burden, which was no slight one, and I was sadly afraid, more than once, that I should meet a similar fate to old Pillon, but happily we reached the other side in safety.

There my husband insisted on my putting on dry shoes and stockings, and (must I confess it) drinking a little brandy, to obviate the effects of my icy bath. He would fain have made a halt to kindle a fire and dry my apparel and wardrobe properly, but this I would not listen to. I endeavored to prove to him that the delay would expose me to more cold than riding in my wet habit and cloak, and so indeed it might have been, but along with my convictions upon the subject there was mingled a spice of reluctance that our friends at the fort should have an opportunity, as they certainly would have done, of laughing at our inauspicious commencement.

Soon our horses were put in order, and our march recommenced. The day was fine for the season. I felt no inconvenience from my wet garments, the exercise of riding taking away all feeling of chilliness. It was to me a new mode of travelling, and I enjoyed it the more from having been secluded for more than five months within the walls of the fort, scarcely varying the tenor of our lives by an occasional walk of half a mile into the surrounding woods.

We had still another detention upon the road, from meeting Lapierre, the blacksmith, from Sugar Creek, who with one of his associates was going into the Portage for supplies, so that we had not travelled more than twenty-three miles when we came to our proposed encamping ground. It was upon a beautiful, stream, a tributary of one of the Four Lakes,[N] that chain whose banks are unrivalled for romantic loveliness.

I could not but admire the sagacity of the horses, who seemed, with human intelligence, to divine our approach to the spot where their toils were to cease. While still remote from the “point of woods” which foretold a halt, they pricked up their ears, accelerated their pace, and finally arrived at the spot on a full gallop.

We alighted at an open space, just within the verge of the wood, or, as it is called by western travellers, “the timber.” My husband recommended to me to walk about until a fire should be made, which was soon accomplished by our active and experienced woodsmen, to whom the felling of a large tree was the work of a very few minutes. The dry grass around furnished an excellent tinder, which soon ignited by the sparks from the flint (there were no loco-focos in those days), and aided by the broken branches and bits of light-wood, soon produced a cheering flame. “The bourgeois,” in the meantime, busied himself in setting up the tent, taking care to place it opposite the fire, but in such a direction that the wind would carry the smoke and flame away from the opening or door. Within upon the ground were spread, first a bearskin, then two or three blankets (of which each equestrian had carried two, one under the saddle and one above it), after which, the remainder of the luggage being brought in, I was able to divest myself of all my wet clothing and replace it with dry. Some idea of the state of the thermometer may be formed from the fact that my riding-habit, being placed over the end of the huge log against which our fire was made, was, in a very few minutes, frozen so stiff as to stand upright, giving the appearance of a dress out of which a lady had vanished in some unaccountable manner.

It would be but a repetition of our experience upon the Fox River to describe the ham broiled upon the “broches,” the toasted bread, the steaming coffee—the primitive table furniture. There is, however, this difference, that of the latter we carry with us in our journeys on horseback only a coffeepot, a teakettle, and each rider his tin cup and hunting-knife. The deportment at table is marked by an absence of ceremony. The knife is drawn from the scabbard—those who remember to do so, vouchsafe it a wipe upon the napkin. Its first office is to stir the cup of coffee—next, to divide the piece of ham which is placed on the half of a travelling biscuit, which is held in the left hand, and fulfils the office of a plate. It is an art only to be acquired by long practice, to cut the meat so skilfully as not at the same time to destroy the dish.

We take our places around the mat to enjoy what, after our fatiguing ride, we find delicious food. The Frenchmen are seated at a little distance, receiving their supplies of coffee, meat, and bread, and occasionally passing jokes with “the bourgeois,” who is their demigod, and for whom their respect and devotion are never lessened by any affability or condescension.

The meal being finished, the table furniture is rinsed in hot water and set aside until morning. A wisp of dry prairie-grass is supposed, in most cases, to render the knife fit to be restored to the scabbard, and there being, at this season of the year, no amusement but that of watching the awkward movements of the spancelled horses, in their progress from spot to spot in search of pasturage, we are usually soon disposed to arrange our blankets and retire to rest.

At break of day we are aroused by the shout of “the bourgeois.”

“How! how! how!”

All start from their slumbers. The fire which has been occasionally replenished through the night, is soon kindled into a flame. The horses are caught and saddled, while a breakfast, similar in kind to the meal of the preceding evening is preparing—the tent is struck—the pack-horse loaded—“tout démanché,” as the Canadian says. The breakfast finished, we rinse our kettles and cups, tie them to our saddle-bows, and then mount and away, leaving our fire, or rather our smoke, to tell of our visit.

March 9th. Our journey this day led us past the first of the Four Lakes.[53] Scattered along its banks was an encampment of Winnebagoes. They greeted their “father” with vociferous joy—“Bon-jour, bon-jour, Shawnee-aw-kee.” “Hee-nee-karray-kay-noo?” (how do you do?) To this succeeded the usual announcement, “Wys-kap-rah thsoonsh-koo-nee-no!” (I have no bread.)

This is their form of begging, but we could not afford to be generous, for the uncertainty of obtaining a supply, should our own be exhausted, obliged us to observe the strictest economy.

How beautiful the encampment looked in the morning sun! The matted lodges, with the blue smoke curling from their tops—the trees and bushes powdered with a light snow which had fallen through the night—the lake, shining and sparkling, almost at our feet—even the Indians, in their peculiar costume, adding to the picturesque!

I was sorry to leave it, as we were compelled to do, in all haste, Souris, the pack-horse, having taken it into his head to decamp while we were in conversation with our red friends. As he had, very sensibly, concluded to pursue his journey in the right direction, we had the good fortune to overtake him after a short race, and having received much scolding and some blows from young Roy, whose charge he specially was, he was placed in the middle of the cavalcade, as a mark of disgrace for his breach of duty.

Our road, after leaving the lake, lay over a “rolling prairie,” now bare and desolate enough. The hollows were filled with snow, which, being partly thawed, furnished an uncertain footing for the horses, and I could not but join in the ringing laughter of our Frenchmen, as occasionally Brunêt and Souris, the two ponies, would flounder, almost imbedded, through the yielding mass. Even the vain-glorious Plante, who piqued himself on his equestrian skill, was once or twice nearly unhorsed, from having chosen his road badly. Sometimes the elevations were covered with a thicket or copse, in which our dogs would generally rouse up one or more deer. Their first bound, or “lope,” was the signal for a chase. The horses seemed to enter into the spirit of it, as “halloo” answered “halloo;” but we were never so fortunate as to get a shot at one, for although the dogs once or twice caught, they were not strong enough to hold them. It was about the middle of the afternoon when we reached the "Blue Mound." I rejoiced much to have got so far, for I was sadly fatigued, and every mile now seemed two to me. In fact, the miles are unconscionably long in this country. When I was told that we had still seven miles to go, to “Morrison’s,” where we proposed stopping for the night, I was almost in despair. It was my first journey on horseback, and I had not yet become inured to the exercise.

When we reached Morrison’s[54] I was so much exhausted that, as my husband attempted to lift me from the saddle, I fell into his arms.

“This will never do,” said he. “To-morrow we must turn our faces towards Fort Winnebago again.”

The door opened hospitably to receive us. We were welcomed by a lady with a most sweet, benignant countenance, and by her companion, some years younger. The first was Mrs. Morrison—the other, Miss Elizabeth Dodge, daughter of General Dodge.

My husband laid me upon a small bed, in the room where the ladies had been sitting at work. They took off my bonnet and riding-dress, chafed my hands, and prepared me some warm wine and water, by which I was soon revived. A half hour’s repose so refreshed me that I was able to converse with the ladies, and to relieve my husband’s mind of all anxiety on my account. Tea was announced soon after, and we repaired to an adjoining building, for Morrison’s, like the establishment of all settlers of that period, consisted of a group of detached log-houses or cabins, each containing one or at most two apartments.

The table groaned with good cheer, and brought to mind some that I had seen among the old-fashioned Dutch residents on the banks of the Hudson.

I had recovered my spirits, and we were quite a cheerful party. Mrs. Morrison told us that during the first eighteen months she passed in this country she did not speak with a white woman, the only society she had being that of her husband and two black servant-women.

A Tennessee woman had called in with her little son just before tea, and we amused Mr. Kinzie with a description of the pair. The mother’s visit was simply one of courtesy. She was a little dumpy woman, with a complexion burned perfectly red by the sun—hair of an exact tow-color, braided up from her forehead in front and from her neck behind, then meeting on the top of her head, was fastened with a small tin comb. Her dress was of checkered homespun, a “very tight fit,” and as she wore no ruff or handkerchief around her neck, she looked as if just prepared for execution. She was evidently awe-struck at the sight of visitors, and seemed inclined to take her departure at once; but the boy, not so easily intimidated, would not understand her signs and pinches until he had sidled up to Mrs. Morrison, and drawing his old hat still farther over his eyes, begged for a whang, meaning a narrow strip of deer-skin. The lady very obligingly cut one from a large smoked skin, which she produced from its receptacle, and mother and son took their leave, with a smiling but rather a scared look.

After tea we returned to Mrs. Morrison’s parlor, where she kindly insisted on my again reposing myself on the little bed, to recruit me, as she said, for the ensuing day’s journey. My husband, in the meantime, went to look after the accommodation of his men and horses.

During the conversation that ensued, I learned that Mrs. Morrison had passed much time in the neighborhood of my recent home in Oneida county—that many of the friends I had loved and valued were likewise her friends, and that she had even proposed to visit me at Fort Winnebago on hearing of my arrival there, in order to commence an acquaintance which had thus been brought about by other and unexpected means.

Long and pleasant was the discourse we held together until a late hour, and mutual was the satisfaction with which we passed old friends and by-gone events in review, much to the edification of Miss Dodge, and of the gentlemen when they once more joined us.

CHAPTER XIV

WILLIAM S. HAMILTON—KELLOGG’S GROVE

The next morning, after a cheerful breakfast, at which we were joined by the Rev. Mr. Kent, of Galena,[55] we prepared for our journey. I had reconciled my husband to continuing our route towards Chicago, by assuring him that I felt as fresh and bright as when I first set out from home.

There seemed some apprehension, however, that we might have difficulty in “striking the trail” to Hamilton’s diggings, our next point of destination.

The directions we received were certainly obscure. We were to pursue a given trail for a certain number of miles, when we should come to a crossing into which we were to turn, taking an easterly direction—after a time, this would bring us to a deep trail leading straight to “Hamilton’s.” In this open country there are no landmarks. One elevation is so exactly like another, that if you lose your trail there is almost as little hope of regaining it as of finding a pathway in the midst of the ocean.[O]

The trail, it must be remembered, is not a broad highway, but a narrow path, deeply indented by the hoofs of the horses on which the Indians travel in single file. So deeply is it sunk in the sod which covers the prairies, that it is difficult, sometimes, to distinguish it at a distance of a few rods.[56]

It was new ground to Mr. Kinzie, whose journeys from the Portage to Chicago had hitherto been made in the direct route by Kosh-ko-nong. He therefore obliged Mr. Morrison to repeat the directions again and again, though Plante, our guide, swaggered and talked big, averring that “he knew every hill and stream, and point of woods from that spot to Chicago.”

We had not proceeded many miles on our journey, however, before we discovered that Monsieur Plante was profoundly ignorant of the country, so that Mr. Kinzie was obliged to take the lead himself, and make his way as he was best able, according to the directions he had received. Nothing, however, like the “cross trails” we had been promised met our view, and the path on which we had set out diverged so much from what we knew to be the right direction, that we were at length compelled to abandon it altogether.

We travelled the live-long day, barely making a halt at noon to bait our horses, and refresh ourselves with a luncheon. The ride was as gloomy and desolate as could well be imagined. A rolling prairie, unvaried by forest or stream—hillock rising after hillock, at every ascent of which we vainly hoped to see a distant fringe of “timber.” But the same cheerless, unbounded prospect everywhere met the eye, diversified only here and there by the oblong openings, like gigantic graves, which marked an unsuccessful search for indications of a lead mine.

So great was our anxiety to recover our trail, for the weather was growing more cold, and the wind more sharp and piercing, that we were not tempted to turn from our course even by the appearance, more than once, of a gaunt prairie-wolf, peering over the nearest rising ground, and seeming to dare us to an encounter. The Frenchmen, it is true, would instinctively give a shout and spur on their horses, while the hounds, Kelda and Cora, would rush to the chase, but the “bourgeois” soon called them back, with a warning that we must attend strictly to the prosecution of our journey. Just before sunset we crossed, with some difficulty, a muddy stream, which was bordered by a scanty belt of trees, making a tolerable encamping-ground; and of this we gladly availed ourselves, although we knew not whether it was near or remote from the place we were in search of.

We had ridden at least fifty miles since leaving “Morrison’s,” yet I was sensible of very little fatigue; but there was a vague feeling of discomfort at the idea of being lost in this wild, cold region, altogether different from anything I had ever before experienced. The encouraging tones of my husband’s voice, however, “Cheer up, wifie—we will find the trail to-morrow,” served to dissipate all uneasiness.

The exertions of the men soon made our “camp” comfortable, notwithstanding the difficulty of driving the tent-pins into the frozen ground, and the want of trees sufficiently large to make a rousing fire. The place was a stony side-hill, as it would be called in New England, where such things abound; but we were not disposed to be fastidious, so we ate our salt ham and toasted our bread, and lent a pleased ear to the chatter of our Frenchmen, who could not sufficiently admire the heroism of “Madame John,” amid the vicissitudes that befell her.

The wind, which at bed-time was sufficiently high to be uncomfortable, increased during the night. It snowed heavily, and we were every moment in dread that the tent would be carried away; but the matter was settled in the midst by the snapping of the poles, and the falling of the whole, with its superincumbent weight of snow, in a mass upon us.

Mr. Kinzie roused up his men, and at their head he sallied into the neighboring wood to cut a new set of poles, leaving me to bear the burden of the whole upon my shoulders, my only safety from the storm being to keep snugly housed beneath the canvas.

With some difficulty a sort of support was at length adjusted for the tent covering, which answered our purpose tolerably well until the break of day, when our damp and miserable condition made us very glad to rise and hang round the fire until breakfast was dispatched, and the horses once more saddled for our journey.

The prospect was not an encouraging one. Around us was an unbroken sheet of snow. We had no compass, and the air was so obscured by the driving sleet, that it was often impossible to tell in which direction the sun was. I tied my husband’s silk pocket handkerchief over my veil, to protect my face from the wind and icy particles with which the air was filled, and which cut like a razor; but although shielded in every way that circumstances rendered possible, I suffered intensely from the cold.

We pursued our way, mile after mile, entering every point of woods, in hopes of meeting with, at least, some Indian wigwam at which we could gain intelligence. Every spot was solitary and deserted, not even the trace of a recent fire, to cheer us with the hope of human beings within miles of us.

Suddenly, a shout from the foremost of the party made each heart bound with joy.

“Une cloture! une cloture!”—(a fence, a fence).

It was almost like life to the dead.

We spurred on, and indeed perceived a few straggling rails crowning a rising ground at no great distance.

Never did music sound so sweet as the crowing of a cock which at this moment saluted our ears.

Following the course of the inclosure down the opposite slope, we came upon a group of log-cabins, low, shabby, and unpromising in their appearance, but a most welcome shelter from the pelting storm.

“Whose cabins are these?” asked Mr. Kinzie, of a man who was cutting wood at the door of one.

“Hamilton’s,” was the reply; and he stepped forward at once to assist us to alight, hospitality being a matter of course in these wild regions.

We were shown into the most comfortable-looking of the buildings. A large fire was burning in the clay chimney, and the room was of a genial warmth, notwithstanding the apertures, many inches in width, beside the doors and windows. A woman in a tidy calico dress, and shabby black silk cap, trimmed with still shabbier lace, rose from her seat beside a sort of bread-trough, which fulfilled the office of cradle to a fine, fat baby. She made room for us at the fire, but was either too timid or too ignorant to relieve me of my wrappings and defences, now heavy with the snow.

I soon contrived, with my husband’s aid, to disembarrass myself of them; and having seen me comfortably disposed of, and in a fair way to be thawed after my freezing ride, he left me to see after his men and horses.

He was a long time absent, and I expected he would return accompanied by our host; but when he reappeared, it was to tell me, laughing, that Mr. Hamilton hesitated to present himself before me, being unwilling that one who had been acquainted with some of his family at the east, should see him in his present mode of life. However, this feeling apparently wore off, for before dinner he came in and was introduced to me, and was as agreeable and polite as the son of Alexander Hamilton would naturally be.[57]

The housekeeper, who was the wife of one of the miners, prepared us a plain, comfortable dinner, and a table as long as the dimensions of the cabin would admit was set out, the end nearest the fire being covered with somewhat nicer furniture and more delicate fare than the remaining portion.

The blowing of a horn was the signal for the entrance of ten or twelve miners, who took their places below us at the table. They were the roughest-looking set of men I ever beheld, and their language was as uncouth as their persons. They wore hunting-shirts, trowsers, and moccasins of deer-skin, the former being ornamented at the seams with a fringe of the same, while a colored belt around the waist, in which was stuck a large hunting-knife, gave each the appearance of a brigand.

Mr. Hamilton, although so much their superior, was addressed by them uniformly as “Uncle Billy;” and I could not but fancy there was something desperate about them, that it was necessary to propitiate by this familiarity. This feeling was further confirmed by the remarks of one of the company who lingered behind, after the rest of the gang had taken their departure. He had learned that we came from Fort Winnebago, and having informed us that “he was a discharged soldier, and would like to make some inquiries about his old station and comrades,” he unceremoniously seated himself and commenced questioning us.

The bitterness with which he spoke of his former officers made me quite sure he was a deserter, and I rather thought he had made his escape from the service in consequence of some punishment. His countenance was fairly distorted as he spoke of Captain H., to whose company he had belonged. “There is a man in the mines,” said he, “who has been in his hands, and if he ever gets a chance to come within shot of him, I guess the Captain will remember it. He knows well enough he darsn’t set his foot in the diggings. And there’s T. is not much better. Everybody thought it a great pity that fellow’s gun snapped when he so nearly had him at Green Bay.”

Having delivered himself of these sentiments, he marched out, to my great relief.

Mr. Hamilton passed most of the afternoon with us; for the storm raged so without that to proceed on our journey was out of the question. He gave us many pleasant anecdotes and reminiscences of his early life in New York, and of his adventures since he had come to the western wilderness. When obliged to leave us for a while, he furnished us with some books to entertain us, the most interesting of which was the biography of his father.

Could this illustrious man have foreseen in what a scene—the dwelling of his son—this book was to be one day perused, what would have been his sensations?

The most amusing part of our experience was yet to come. I had been speculating, as evening approached, on our prospects for the night’s accommodation. As our pale, melancholy-looking landlady and her fat baby were evidently the only specimens of the feminine gender about the establishment, it was hardly reasonable to suppose that any of the other cabins contained wherewithal to furnish us a comfortable lodging, and the one in which we were offered nothing of the sort to view, but two beds, uncurtained, extended against the farther wall. My doubts were after a time resolved, by observing the hostess stretch a cord between the two, on which she hung some petticoats and extra garments, by way of a partition, after which she invited us to occupy one of them.

My only preparation was, to wrap my cloak around me and lie down with my face to the wall; but the good people were less ceremonious, for at the distance of scarcely two feet, we could not be mistaken in the sound of their garments being, not “laid aside,” but whipped over the partition wall between us.

Our waking thoughts, however, were only those of thankfulness for so comfortable a lodging after the trials and fatigues we had undergone; and even these were of short duration, for our eyes were soon closed in slumber.

The next day’s sun rose clear and bright. Refreshed and invigorated, we looked forward with pleasure to a recommencement of our journey, confident of meeting no more mishaps by the way. Mr. Hamilton kindly offered to accompany us to his next neighbor’s, the trifling distance of twenty-five miles. From Kellogg’s to Ogie’s Ferry, on the Rock River, the road being much travelled, we should be in no danger, Mr. H. said, of again losing our way.

The miner who owned the wife and baby, and who, consequently, was somewhat more humanized than his comrades, in taking leave of us “wished us well out of the country, and that we might never have occasion to return to it!”

“I pity a body,” said he, “when I see them making such an awful mistake as to come out this way, for comfort never touched this western country.”

We found Mr. Hamilton as agreeable a companion as on the preceding day, but a most desperate rider. He galloped on at such a rate that had I not exchanged my pony for the fine, noble Jerry, I should have been in danger of being left behind.

Well mounted as we all were, he sometimes nearly distanced us. We were now among the branches of the Pickatonick,[58] and the country had lost its prairie character, and become more rough and broken. We went dashing on, sometimes down ravines, sometimes through narrow passes, where, as I followed, I left fragments of my veil upon the projecting and interwoven branches. Once my hat became entangled, and had not my husband sprung to my rescue, I must have shared the fate of Absalom, Jerry’s ambition to keep his place in the race making it probable he would do as did the mule who was under the unfortunate prince.

There was no halting upon the route, and as we kept the same pace until three o’clock in the afternoon, it was beyond a question that when we reached “Kellogg’s,” we had travelled at least thirty miles. One of my greatest annoyances during the ride had been the behavior of the little beast Brunêt. He had been hitherto used as a saddle-horse, and had been accustomed to a station in the file near the guide or leader. He did not relish being put in the background as a pack-horse, and accordingly, whenever we approached a stream, where the file broke up to permit each horseman to choose his own place of fording, it was invariably the case that just as I was reining Jerry into the water, Brunêt would come rushing past and throw himself into our very footsteps. Plunging, snorting, and splashing me with water, and sometimes even startling Jerry into a leap aside, he more than once brought me into imminent danger of being tossed into the stream. It was in vain that, after one or two such adventures, I learned to hold back and give the vexatious little animal the precedence. His passion seemed to be to go into the water precisely at the moment Jerry did, and I was obliged at last to make a bargain with young Roy to dismount and hold him at every stream until I had got safely across.

“Kellogg’s”[P] was a comfortable mansion, just within the verge of a pleasant “grove of timber,” as a small forest is called by western travellers. We found Mrs. Kellogg a very respectable-looking matron, who soon informed us she was from the city of New York. She appeared proud and delighted to entertain Mr. Hamilton, for whose family, she took occasion to tell us, she had, in former days, been in the habit of doing needlework.

The worthy woman provided us an excellent dinner, and afterwards installed me in a rocking-chair beside a large fire, with the “Life of Mrs. Fletcher” to entertain me, while the gentlemen explored the premises, visited Mr. Kellogg’s “stock,” and took a careful look at their own. We had intended to go to Dixon’s the same afternoon, but the snow beginning again to fall, obliged us to content ourselves where we were.

In the meantime, finding we were journeying to Chicago, Mr. Kellogg came to the determination to accompany us, having, as he said, some business to accomplish at that place, so Mrs. Kellogg busied herself in preparing him to set off with us the following morning. I pleaded hard to remain yet another day, as the following was Sunday, on which I objected to travel; but in view of the necessities of the case, the uncertainty of the weather, and the importance of getting as quickly as possible through this wild country, my objections were overruled, and I could only obtain a delay in starting until so late in the afternoon, as would give us just time to ride the sixteen miles to “Dixon’s” before sunset.

No great time was required for Mr. Kellogg’s preparations. He would take, he said, only two days' provisions, for at his brother-in-law Dixon’s we should get our supper and breakfast, and the route from there to Chicago could, he well knew, be accomplished in a day and a half.

Although, according to this calculation, we had sufficient remaining of our stores to carry us to the end of our journey, yet Mr. Kinzie took the precaution of begging Mrs. Kellogg to bake us another bag of biscuits, in case of accidents, and he likewise suggested to Mr. K. the prudence of furnishing himself with something more than his limited allowance; but the good man objected that he was unwilling to burden his horse more than was absolutely necessary, seeing that, at this season of the year, we were obliged to carry fodder for the animals, in addition to the rest of their load. It will be seen that we had reason to rejoice in our own foresight.

My experience of the previous night had rendered me somewhat less fastidious than when I commenced my journey, so that, when introduced to our sleeping apartment, which I found we were to share with six men, travellers like ourselves, my only feeling was one of thankfulness that each bed was furnished with a full suit of blue checked curtains, which formed a very tolerable substitute for a dressing-room.

CHAPTER XV

ROCK RIVER—HOURS OF TROUBLE

It was late on the following day (March 13th), when we took leave of our kind hostess. She loaded us with cakes, good wishes, and messages to her sister Dixon and the children. We journeyed pleasantly along through a country, beautiful, in spite of its wintry appearance.

There was a house at "Buffalo Grove,"[59] at which we stopped for half an hour, and where a nice-looking young girl presented us with some maple-sugar of her own making. She entertained us with the history of a contest between two rival claimants for the patronage of the stage wagon, the proprietors of which had not decided whether to send it by Buffalo Grove or by another route, which she pointed out to us, at no great distance. The driver, she took care to inform us, was in favor of the former; and the blush with which she replied in the affirmative to our inquiry, “Was he a young man?” explained the whole matter satisfactorily.

At length, just at sunset, we reached the dark, rapid waters of the Rock River. The “ferry” which we had travelled so far out of our way to take advantage of, proved to be merely a small boat or skiff, the larger one having been swept off into the stream, and carried down in the breaking up of the ice, the week previous.

My husband’s first care was to get me across. He placed me with the saddles, packs, &c., in the boat, and as, at that late hour, no time was to be lost, he ventured, at the same time, to hold the bridles of the two most docile horses, to guide them in swimming the river.

When we had proceeded a few rods from the shore, we were startled by a loud puffing and blowing near us, and looking around, to our great surprise, discovered little Brunêt just upon our “weather-bow.” Determined not to be outdone by his model, Jerry, he had taken to the water on his own responsibility, and arrived at the opposite shore as soon as any of the party.

All being safely landed, a short walk brought us to the house of Mr. Dixon.[60] Although so recently come into the country, he had contrived to make everything comfortable around him, and when he ushered us into Mrs. Dixon’s sitting-room, and seated us by a glowing wood fire, while Mrs. Dixon busied herself in preparing us a nice supper, I felt that the comfort overbalanced the inconvenience of such a journey.

Mrs. Dixon was surrounded by several children. One leaning against the chimney-piece was dressed in the full Indian costume—calico shirt, blanket, and leggings. His dark complexion, and full, melancholy eyes, which he kept fixed upon the ashes in which he was making marks with a stick, rarely raising them to gaze on us, as children are wont to do, interested me exceedingly, and I inquired of an intelligent little girl, evidently a daughter of our host:

“Who is that boy?”

“Oh! that is John Ogie,” answered she.

“What is the matter with him? he looks very sad.”

“Oh! he is fretting after his mother.”

“Is she dead then?”

“Some say she is dead, and some say she is gone away. I guess she is dead, and buried up in one of those graves yonder”—pointing to two or three little picketed inclosures upon a rising ground opposite the window.

I felt a strong sympathy with the child, which was increased when the little spokeswoman, in answer to my inquiry, “Has he no father?” replied—

“Oh, yes, but he goes away, and drinks, and don’t care for his children.”

“And what becomes of John, then?”

“He stays here with us, and we teach him to read, and he learns dreadful fast.”

When the boy at length turned his large dark eyes upon me, it went to my heart. It was such a motherless look. And it was explained, when long afterward, I learned his further history. His mother was still living, and he knew it, although with the reserve peculiar to his people, he never spoke of her to his young companions. Unable to endure the continued ill-treatment of her husband, a surly, intemperate Canadian, she had left him, and returned to his family among the Pottowattamies. Years after, this boy and a brother who had also been left behind with their father found their way to the Upper Missouri, to join their mother, who, with the others of her tribe, had been removed by the Government from the shores of Lake Michigan.

A most savoury supper of ducks and venison, with their accompaniments, soon smoked upon the board, and we did ample justice to it. Travelling is a great sharpener of the appetite, and so is cheerfulness, and the latter was increased by the encouraging account Mr. Dixon gave us of the remainder of the route yet before us.

“There is no difficulty,” said he, “if you keep a little to the north, and strike the great Sauk trail. If you get too far to the south, you will come upon the Winnebago Swamp, and once in that, there is no telling when you will ever get out again. As for the distance, it is nothing at all to speak of. Two young men came out here from Chicago, on foot, last fall. They got here the evening of the second day; and even with a lady in your party, you could go on horseback in less time than that. The only thing is to be sure and get on the great track that the Sauks have made in going every year from the Mississippi to Canada, to receive their presents from the British Indian Agent.”

The following morning, which was a bright and lovely one for that season of the year, we took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, in high spirits. We travelled for the first few miles along the beautiful, undulating banks of the Rock River, always in an easterly direction, keeping the beaten path, or rather road, which led to Fort Clark, or Peoria. The Sauk trail,[61] we had been told, would cross this road, at the distance of about six miles.

After having travelled, as we judged, fully that distance, we came upon a trail, bearing north-east, and a consultation was held as to the probability of its being the one we were in search of.

Mr. Kinzie was of opinion that it tended too much to the north, and was, moreover, too faint and obscure for a trail so much used, and by so large a body of Indians in their annual journeys.

Plante was positive as to its being the very spot where he and “Piché” in their journey to Fort Winnebago, the year before, struck into the great road. “On that very rising-ground at the point of woods, he remembered perfectly stopping to shoot ducks, which they ate for their supper.”

Mr. Kellogg was non-committal, but sided alternately with each speaker.

As Plante was “the guide,” and withal so confident of being right, it was decided to follow him, not without some demurring, however, on the part of the “bourgeois,” who every now and then called a halt, to discuss the state of affairs.

“Now Plante,” he would say, “I am sure you are leading us too far north. Why, man, if we keep on in this direction, following the course of the river, we shall bring up at Kosh-ko-nong, instead of Chicago.”

“Ah! mon bourgeois,” would the light-hearted Canadian reply, “would I tell you this is the road if I were not quite certain? Only one year ago I travelled it, and can I forget so soon? Oh! no—I remember every foot of it.”

But Monsieur Plante was convinced of his mistake when the trail brought us to the great bend of the river with its bold rocky bluffs.

“Are you satisfied, now, Plante?” asked Mr. Kinzie. “By your leave, I will now play pilot myself,” and he struck off from the trail, in a direction as nearly east as possible.

The weather had changed and become intensely cold, and we felt that the detention we had met with, even should we now be in the right road, was no trifling matter. We had not added to our stock of provisions at Dixon’s, wishing to carry as much forage as we were able for our horses, for whom the scanty picking around our encamping grounds afforded an insufficient meal. But we were buoyed up by the hope that we were in the right path at last, and we journeyed on until night, when we reached a comfortable “encampment,” in the edge of a grove near a small stream.

Oh! how bitterly cold that night was! The salted provisions, to which I was unaccustomed, occasioned me an intolerable thirst, and my husband was in the habit of placing the little tin coffeepot filled with water at my bed’s head when we went to rest, but this night it was frozen solid long before midnight. We were so well wrapped up in blankets that we did not suffer from cold while within the tent, but the open air was severe in the extreme.

March 15th. We were roused by the “bourgeois” at peep of day to make preparations for starting. We must find the Sauk trail this day at all hazards. What would become of us should we fail to do so? It was a question no one liked to ask, and certainly one that none could have answered.

On leaving our encampment, we found ourselves entering a marshy tract of country. Myriads of wild geese, brant, and ducks rose up screaming at our approach. The more distant lakes and ponds were black with them, but the shallow water through which we attempted to make our way was frozen by the severity of the night, to a thickness not sufficient to bear the horses, but just such as to cut their feet and ankles at every step as they broke through it. Sometimes the difficulty of going forward was so great that we were obliged to retrace our steps and make our way round the head of the marsh, thus adding to the discomforts of our situation by the conviction, that while journeying diligently, we were, in fact, making very little progress.

This swampy region at length passed, we came upon more solid ground, chiefly the open prairie. But now a new trouble assailed us. The weather had moderated, and a blinding snow storm came on. Without a trail that we could rely upon, and destitute of a compass, our only dependence had been the sun to point out our direction, but the atmosphere was now so obscure that it was impossible to tell in what quarter of the heavens he was.

We pursued our way, however, and a devious one it must have been. After travelling in this way many miles, we came upon an Indian trail, deeply indented, running at right angles with the course we were pursuing. The snow had ceased, and the clouds becoming thinner, we were able to observe the direction of the sun, and to perceive that the trail ran north and south. What should we do? Was it safest to pursue our easterly course, or was it probable that by following this new path we should fall into the direct one we had been so long seeking? If we decided to take the trail, should we go north or south? Mr. Kinzie was for the latter. He was of opinion we were still too far north—somewhere about the Grand Marais, or Kish-wau-kee. Mr. Kellogg and Plante were for taking the northerly direction. The latter was positive his bourgeois had already gone too far south—in fact, that we must now be in the neighborhood of the Illinois river. Finding himself in the minority, my husband yielded, and we turned our horses' heads north, much against his will. After proceeding a few miles, however, he took a sudden determination. “You may go north, if you please,” said he, “but I am convinced that the other course is right, and I shall face about—follow who will.”

So we wheeled round and rode south again, and many a long and weary mile did we travel, the monotony of our ride broken only by the querulous remarks of poor Mr. Kellogg. "I am really afraid we are wrong, Mr. Kinzie. I feel pretty sure that the young man is right. It looks most natural to me that we should take a northerly course, and not be stretching away so far to the south."

To all this, Mr. Kinzie turned a deaf ear. The Frenchmen rode on in silence. They would as soon have thought of cutting off their right hand as showing opposition to the bourgeois when he had once expressed his decision. They would never have dreamed of offering an opinion or remark unless called upon to do so.

The road, which had continued many miles through the prairie, at length, in winding round a point of woods, brought us suddenly upon an Indian village. A shout of joy broke from the whole party, but no answering shout was returned—not even a bark of friendly welcome—as we galloped up to the wigwams. All was silent as the grave. We rode round and round, then dismounted and looked into several of the spacious huts. They had evidently been long deserted. Nothing remained but the bare walls of bark, from which everything in the shape of furniture had been stripped by the owners and carried with them to their wintering-grounds; to be brought back in the spring, when they returned to make their cornfields and occupy their summer cabins.

Our disappointment may be better imagined than described. With heavy hearts, we mounted and once more pursued our way, the snow again falling and adding to the discomforts of our position. At length we halted for the night. We had long been aware that our stock of provisions was insufficient for another day, and here we were—nobody knew where—in the midst of woods and prairies—certainly far from any human habitation, with barely enough food for a slender evening’s meal.

The poor dogs came whining around us to beg their usual portion, but they were obliged to content themselves with a bare bone, and we retired to rest with the feeling that if not actually hungry then, we should certainly be so to-morrow.

The morrow came. Plante and Roy had a bright fire and a nice pot of coffee for us. It was our only breakfast, for on shaking the bag and turning it inside out, we could make no more of our stock of bread than three crackers, which the rest of the party insisted I should put in my pocket for my dinner. I was much touched by the kindness of Mr. Kellogg, who drew from his wallet a piece of tongue and a slice of fruitcake, which he said “he had been saving for the lady since the day before, for he saw how matters were a-going.”

Poor man! it would have been well if he had listened to Mr. Kinzie, and provided himself at the outset with a larger store of provisions. As it was, those he brought with him were exhausted early the second day, and he had been boarding with us for the last two meals.

We still had the trail to guide us, and we continued to follow it until about nine o’clock, when, in emerging from a wood, we came upon a broad and rapid river. A collection of Indian wigwams stood upon the opposite bank, and as the trail led directly to the water, it was fair to infer that the stream was fordable. We had no opportunity of testing it, however, for the banks were so lined with ice, which was piled up tier upon tier by the breaking-up of the previous week, that we tried in vain to find a path by which we could descend the bank to the water.

The men shouted again and again in hope some straggling inhabitant of the village might be at hand with his canoe. No answer was returned save by the echoes. What was to be done? I looked at my husband and saw that care was on his brow, although he still continued to speak cheerfully. “We will follow this cross-trail down the bank of the river,” said he. “There must be Indians wintering near in some of these points of wood.”

I must confess that I felt somewhat dismayed at our prospects, but I kept up a show of courage, and did not allow my despondency to be seen. All the party were dull and gloomy enough.

We kept along the bank, which was considerably elevated above the water, and bordered at a little distance with a thick wood. All at once my horse, who was mortally afraid of Indians, began to jump and prance, snorting and pricking up his ears as if an enemy were at hand. I screamed with delight to my husband, who was at the head of the file, “Oh, John! John! there are Indians near—look at Jerry!”

At this instant a little Indian dog ran out from under the bushes by the roadside, and began barking at us. Never were sounds more welcome. We rode directly into the thicket, and descending into a little hollow, found two squaws crouching behind the bushes, trying to conceal themselves from our sight.

They appeared greatly relieved when Mr. Kinzie addressed them in the Pottowattamie language—

“What are you doing here?”

“Digging Indian potatoes”—(a species of artichoke.)

“Where is your lodge?”

“On the other side of the river.”

“Good—then you have a canoe here. Can you take us across?”

“Yes—the canoe is very small.”

They conducted us down the bank to the water’s edge where the canoe was. It was indeed very small. My husband explained to them that they must take me across first, and then return for the others of the party.

“Will you trust yourself alone over the river?” inquired he. “You see that but one can cross at a time.”

“Oh! yes”—and I was soon placed in the bottom of the canoe, lying flat and looking up at the sky, while the older squaw took the paddle in her hand, and placed herself on her knees at my head, and the younger, a girl of fourteen or fifteen, stationed herself at my feet. There was just room enough for me to lie in this position, each of the others kneeling in the opposite ends of the canoe.

While these preparations were making, Mr. Kinzie questioned the woman as to our whereabout. They knew no name for the river but “Saumanong.” This was not definite, it being the generic term for any large stream. But he gathered that the village we had passed higher up, on the opposite side of the stream, was Wau-ban-see’s, and then he knew that we were on the Fox River, and probably about fifty miles from Chicago.

The squaw, in answer to his inquiries, assured him that Chicago was “close by.”

“That means,” said he, “that it is not so far off as Canada. We must not be too sanguine.”

The men sat about unpacking the horses, and I in the meantime was paddled across the river. The old woman immediately returned, leaving the younger one with me for company. I seated myself on the fallen trunk of a tree, in the midst of the snow, and looked across the dark waters. I am not ashamed to confess my weakness—for the first time on my journey I shed tears. It was neither hunger, nor fear, nor cold which extorted them from me. It was the utter desolation of spirit, the sickness of heart which “hope deferred” ever occasions, and which of all evils is the hardest to bear.

The poor little squaw looked into my face with a wondering and sympathizing expression. Probably she was speculating in her own mind what a person who rode so fine a horse, and wore so comfortable a broadcloth dress, could have to cry about. I pointed to a seat beside me on the log, but she preferred standing and gazing at me, with the same pitying expression. Presently she was joined by a young companion, and after a short chattering, of which I was evidently the subject, they both trotted off into the woods, and left me to my own solitary reflections.

“What would my friends at the East think,” said I to myself, “if they could see me now? What would poor old Mrs. Welsh say? She who warned me that if I came away so far to the West, I should break my heart? Would she not rejoice to find how likely her prediction was to be fulfilled?”

These thoughts roused me. I dried up my tears, and by the time my husband with his party, and all his horses and luggage, were across, I had recovered my cheerfulness, and was ready for fresh adventures.

CHAPTER XVI

BELIEF

We followed the old squaw to her lodge, which was at no great distance in the woods. I had never before been in an Indian lodge, although I had occasionally peeped into one of the many, clustered round the house of the interpreter at the Portage on my visits to his wife.

This one was very nicely arranged. Four sticks of wood placed to form a square in the centre, answered the purpose of a hearth, within which the fire was built, the smoke escaping through an opening in the top. The mats of which the lodge was constructed were very neat and new, and against the sides, depending from the poles or framework, hung various bags of Indian manufacture, containing their dried food and other household treasures. Sundry ladles, small kettles, and wooden bowls also hung from the cross-poles, and dangling from the centre, by an iron chain, was a large kettle, in which some dark, suspicious-looking substance was seething over the scanty fire. On the floor of the lodge, between the fire and the outer wall, were spread mats, upon which my husband invited me to be seated and make myself comfortable.

The first demand of an Indian on meeting a white man is for bread, of which they are exceedingly fond, and I knew enough of the Pottowattamie language to comprehend the timid “pe-qua-zhe-gun choh-kay-go” (I have no bread), with which the squaw commenced our conversation after my husband had left the lodge.

I shook my head, and endeavored to convey to her that, so far from being able to give, I had had no breakfast myself. She understood me, and instantly produced a bowl, into which she ladled a quantity of Indian potatoes from the kettle over the fire, and set them before me. I was too hungry to be fastidious, and owing partly, no doubt, to the sharpness of my appetite, I really found them delicious.

Two little girls, inmates of the lodge, sat gazing at me with evident admiration and astonishment, which was increased when I took my little prayer-book from my pocket and began to read. They had, undoubtedly, never seen a book before, and I was amused at the care with which they looked away from me, while they questioned their mother about my strange employment and listened to her replies.

While thus occupied, I was startled by a sudden sound of “hogh!” and the mat which hung over the entrance of the lodge was raised, and an Indian entered with that graceful bound which is peculiar to themselves. It was the master of the lodge, who had been out to shoot ducks, and was just returned. He was a tall, finely-formed man, with a cheerful, open countenance, and he listened to what his wife in a quiet tone related to him, while he divested himself of his accoutrements in the most unembarrassed, well-bred manner imaginable.

Soon my husband joined us. He had been engaged in attending to the comfort of his horses, and assisting his men in making their fire, and pitching their tent, which the rising storm made a matter of some difficulty.

From the Indian he learned that we were in what was called “the Big Woods,”[Q] or “Piché’s Grove,” from a Frenchman of that name living not far from the spot—that the river we had crossed was the Fox River—that he could guide us to Piché’s, from which the road was perfectly plain, or even into Chicago if we preferred—but that we had better remain encamped for that day, as there was a storm coming on, and in the meantime he would go and shoot some ducks for our dinner and supper. He was accordingly furnished with powder and shot, and set off again for game without delay.