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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.
 [Q] Probably at what is now Oswego. The name of a portion of the wood
is since corrupted, into Specie’s Grove.

I had put into my pocket, on leaving home, a roll of scarlet ribbon, in case a
stout string should be wanted, and I now drew it forth, and with the knife which
hung around my neck I cut off a couple of yards for each of the little girls. They
received it with great delight, and their mother, dividing each portion into two,
tied a piece to each of the little clubs into which their hair was knotted on the
temples. They laughed, and exclaimed “Saum!” as they gazed at each other, and
their mother joined in their mirth, although, as I thought, a little unwilling to
display her maternal exultation before a stranger.
The tent being all in order, my husband came for me, and we took leave of
our friends in the wigwam with grateful hearts.
The storm was raging without. The trees were bending and cracking around
us, and the air was completely filled with the wild-fowl screaming and quacking
as they made their way southward before the blast. Our tent was among the
trees not far from the river. My husband took me to the bank to look for a
moment at what we had escaped. The wind was sweeping down from the north
in a perfect hurricane. The water was filled with masses of snow and ice, dancing
along upon the torrent, over which were hurrying thousands of wild-fowl, making
the woods resound to their deafening clamor.
Had we been one hour later, we could not possibly have crossed the stream,
and there seems to have been nothing for us but to have remained and starved
in the wilderness. Could we be sufficiently grateful to that kind Providence that
had brought us safely through such dangers?
The men had cut down an immense tree, and built a fire against it, but the
wind shifted so continually that every five minutes the tent would become
completely filled with smoke, so that I was driven into the open air for breath.
Then I would seat myself on one end of the huge log, as near the fire as
possible, for it was dismally cold, but the wind seemed actuated by a kind of
caprice, for in whatever direction I took my seat, just that way came the smoke
and hot ashes, puffing in my face until I was nearly blinded. Neither veil nor silk
handkerchief afforded an effectual protection, and I was glad when the arrival of
our huntsmen, with a quantity of ducks, gave me an opportunity of diverting my
thoughts from my own sufferings, by aiding the men to pick them and get them
ready for our meal.
We borrowed a kettle from our Indian friends. It was not remarkably clean;
but we heated a little water in it, and prairie-hay’d it out, before consigning our
birds to it, and with a bowl of Indian potatoes, a present from our kind
neighbors, we soon had an excellent soup.
What with the cold, the smoke, and the driving ashes and cinders, this was
the most uncomfortable afternoon I had yet passed, and I was glad when night
came, and I could creep into the tent and cover myself up in the blankets, out of
the way of all three of these evils.
The storm raged with tenfold violence during the night. We were continually
startled by the crashing of the falling trees around us, and who could tell but that
the next would be upon us? Spite of our fatigue, we passed an almost sleepless
night. When we arose in the morning, we were made fully alive to the perils by
which we had been surrounded. At least fifty trees, the giants of the forest, lay
prostrate within view of the tent.
When we had taken our scanty breakfast, and were mounted and ready for
departure, it was with difficulty we could thread our way, so completely was it
obstructed by the fallen trunks.
Our Indian guide had joined us at an early hour, and after conducting us
carefully out of the wood, and pointing out to us numerous bee-trees,[R] for
which he said that grove was famous, he set off at a long trot, and about nine
o’clock brought us to Piché’s, a log-cabin on a rising ground, looking off over the
broad prairie to the east. We had hoped to get some refreshment here, Piché
being an old acquaintance of some of the party; but alas! the master was from
home. We found his cabin occupied by Indians and travellers—the latter few, the
former numerous.
[R] The honey-bee is not known in the perfectly wild countries of North
America. It is ever the pioneer of civilization, and the Indians call it “the white
man’s bird.”

There was no temptation to a halt, except that of warming ourselves at a

bright fire that was burning in the clay chimney. A man in Quaker costume
stepped forward to answer our inquiries, and offered to become our escort to
Chicago, to which place he was bound—so we dismissed our Indian friend, with a
satisfactory remuneration for all the trouble he had so kindly taken for us.
A long reach of prairie extended from Piché’s to the Du Page, between the
two forks of which, Mr. Dogherty, our new acquaintance, told us we should find
the dwelling of a Mr. Hawley, who would give us a comfortable dinner.
The weather was intensely cold. The wind, sweeping over the wide prairie
with nothing to break its force, chilled our very hearts. I beat my feet against the
saddle to restore the circulation, when they became benumbed with the cold,
until they became so bruised I could beat them no longer. Not a house or
wigwam, not even a clump of trees as a shelter, offered itself for many a weary
mile. At length we reached the west fork of the Du Page. It was frozen, but not
sufficiently so to bear the horses. Our only resource was to cut a way for them
through the ice. It was a work of time, for the ice had frozen to several inches in
thickness, during the last bitter night. Plante went first with an axe, and cut as
far as he could reach, then mounted one of the hardy little ponies, and with
some difficulty broke the ice before him, until he had opened a passage to the
opposite shore.
How the poor animals shivered as they were reined in among the floating ice!
And we, who sat waiting in the piercing wind, were not much better. Probably
Brunêt was of the same opinion; for with his usual perversity, he plunged in
immediately after Plante, and stood shaking and quaking behind him, every now
and then looking around him, as much as to say, “I’ve got ahead of you, this
time!” We were all across at last, and spurred on our horses, until we reached
Hawley’s[S]—a large, commodious dwelling, near the east fork of the river.
[S] It was near this spot that the brother of Mr. Hawley, a Methodist
preacher, was killed by the Sauks, in 1832, after having been tortured by
them with the most wanton barbarity.

The good woman welcomed us kindly, and soon made us warm and
comfortable. We felt as if we were in a civilized land once more. She proceeded
immediately to prepare dinner for us; and we watched her with eager eyes, as
she took down a huge ham from the rafters, out of which she cut innumerable
slices, then broke any quantity of fine fresh eggs into a pan, in readiness for
frying—then mixed a johnny-cake, and placed it against a board in front of the
fire to bake. It seemed to me that even with the aid of this fine bright fire, the
dinner took an unconscionable time to cook; but cooked it was, at last, and truly
might the good woman stare at the travellers' appetites we had brought with us.
She did not know what short commons we had been on for the last two days.
We found, upon inquiry, that we could, by pushing on, reach Lawton’s, on the
Aux Plaines, that night—we should then be within twelve miles of Chicago. Of
course we made no unnecessary delay, but set off as soon after dinner as
possible.
The crossing of the east fork of the Du Page was more perilous than the
former one had been. The ice had become broken, either by the force of the
current, or by some equestrians having preceded us and cut through it, so that
when we reached the bank, the ice was floating down in large cakes. The horses
had to make a rapid dart through the water, which was so high, and rushing in
such a torrent, that if I had not been mounted on Jerry, the tallest horse in the
cavalcade, I must have got a terrible splashing. As it was, I was well frightened,
and grasped both bridle and mane with the utmost tenacity. After this we
travelled on as rapidly as possible, in order to reach our place of destination
before dark.
Mr. Dogherty, a tall, bolt upright man, half Quaker, half Methodist, did his best
to entertain me, by giving me a thorough schedule of his religious opinions, with
the reasons from Scripture upon which they were based. He was a good deal of a
perfectionist, and evidently looked upon himself with no small satisfaction, as a
living illustration of his favorite doctrine.
“St. John says,” this was the style of his discourse, “St. John says, ‘He that is
born of God, doth not commit sin.’ Now, if I am born of God, I do not commit
sin.”
I was too cold and too weary to argue the point, so I let him have it all his
own way. I believe he must have thought me rather a dull companion; but at
least, he gave me the credit of being a good listener.

It was almost dark when we reached Lawton’s. The Aux Plaines[T] was frozen,
and the house was on the other side. By loud shouting, we brought out a man
from the building, and he succeeded in cutting the ice, and bringing a canoe over
to us; but not until it had become difficult to distinguish objects in the darkness.
[T] Rivière Aux Plaines was the original French designation, now changed
to Desplaines, pronounced as in English.

A very comfortable house was Lawton’s, after we did reach it—carpeted, and
with a warm stove—in fact, quite in civilized style. Mr. Weeks, the man who
brought us across, was the major-domo, during the temporary absence of Mr.
Lawton.
Mrs. Lawton was a young woman, and not ill-looking. She complained bitterly
of the loneliness of her condition, and having been “brought out there into the
woods; which was a thing she had not expected, when she came from the East.”
We did not ask her with what expectations she had come to a wild, unsettled
country; but we tried to comfort her with the assurance that things would grow
better in a few years. She said, "she did not mean to wait for that. She should go
back to her family in the East, if Mr. Lawton did not invite some of her young
friends to come and stay with her, and make it agreeable."
We could hardly realize, on rising the following morning, that only twelve
miles of prairie intervened between us and Chicago le Desiré, as I could not but
name it.
 We could look across the extended plain, and on its farthest verge were
visible two tall trees, which my husband pointed out to me as the planting of his
own hand, when a boy. Already they had become so lofty as to serve as
landmarks, and they were constantly in view as we travelled the beaten road. I
was continually repeating to myself, “There live the friends I am so longing to
see! There will terminate all our trials and hardships!”
A Mr. Wentworth joined us on the road, and of him we inquired after the
welfare of the family, from whom we had, for a long time, received no
intelligence. When we reached Chicago, he took us to a little tavern at the forks
of the river. This portion of the place was then called Wolf Point, from its having
been the residence of an Indian named “Moaway,” or “the Wolf.”
“Dear me,” said the old landlady, at the little tavern, “what dreadful cold
weather you must have had to travel in! Why, two days ago the river was all
open here, and now it’s frozen hard enough for folks to cross a-horseback!”
Notwithstanding this assurance, my husband did not like to venture, so he
determined to leave his horses and proceed on foot, to the residence of his
mother and sister, a distance of about half a mile.
We set out on our walk, which was first across the ice, then down the
northern bank of the river. As we approached the house we were espied by
Genéviève, a half-breed servant of the family. She did not wait to salute us, but
flew into the house crying.
“Oh! Madame Kinzie, who do you think has come? Monsieur John and
Madame John, all the way from Fort Winnebago on foot!”
Soon we were in the arms of our dear, kind friends. A messenger was
dispatched to “the garrison” for the remaining members of the family, and for
that day at least, I was the wonder and admiration of the whole circle, “for the
dangers I had seen.”
 CHICAGO IN 1820.
From a sketch by H. R. Schoolcraft, in “Indian Tribes,” vol. iv., p. 192.

Click on map to view enlarged version.

Copy of the First Map of Chicago. The Original, Made by
James Thompson August 4, 1830, was Destroyed in
Chicago Fire, October 9, 1871.
Copy in Possession of Chicago Historical Society.
 CHAPTER XVII

CHICAGO IN 1831
Fort Dearborn at that day consisted of the same buildings as at present.[62]
They were, of course, in a better state of preservation, though still considerably
dilapidated. They had been erected in 1816, under the supervision of Captain
Hezekiah Bradley, and there was a story current that, such was his patriotic
regard for the interests of the government, he obliged the soldiers to fashion
wooden pins, instead of spikes and nails, to fasten the timbers of the buildings,
and that he even called on the junior officers to aid in their construction along
with the soldiers, whose business it was. If this were true, the captain must have
labored under the delusion (excusable in one who had lived long on the frontier)
that the government would thank its servants for any excess of economical zeal.
The fort was inclosed by high pickets, with bastions at the alternate angles.
Large gates opened to the north and south, and there were small portions here
and there for the accommodation of the inmates. The bank of the river which
stretches to the west, now covered by the lighthouse buildings, and inclosed by
docks, was then occupied by the root-houses of the garrison. Beyond the parade-
ground which extended south of the pickets, were the company gardens, well
filled with currant-bushes and young fruit-trees.
The fort stood at what might naturally be supposed to be the mouth of the
river, yet it was not so, for in those days the latter took a turn, sweeping round
the promontory on which the fort was built, towards the south, and joined the
lake about half a mile below; so that these buildings, in fact, stood on the right
bank of the river, the left being formed by a long spit of land extending from the
northern shore, of which it formed a part. After the cutting through of tills portion
of the left bank in 1833 by the United States Engineers employed to construct a
harbor at this point, and the throwing out of the piers, the water overflowed this
long tongue of land, and continually encroaching on the southern bank, robbed it
of many valuable acres; while, by the same action of the vast body of the lake,
an accretion was constantly taking place on the north of the harbor.
The residence of Jean Baptiste Beaubien[63] stood at this period between the
gardens and the river-bank, and still further south was a rickety tenement, built
many years before by Mr. John Dean, the sutler of the post. A short time after
the commencement of the growth of Chicago, the foundations of this building
were undermined by the gradual encroachment of the lake, and it tumbled
backward down the bank, where it long lay, a melancholy spectacle.
 On the northern bank of the river, directly facing the fort, was the family
mansion of my husband. It was a long, low building, with a piazza extending
along its front, a range of four or five rooms. A broad green space was inclosed
between it and the river, and shaded by a row of Lombardy poplars. Two
immense cotton-wood trees stood in the rear of the building, one of which still
remains as an ancient landmark. A fine, well-cultivated garden extended to the
north of the dwelling, and surrounding it were various buildings appertaining to
the establishment—dairy, bake-house, lodging-house for the Frenchmen, and
stables.
A vast range of sand-hills, covered with stunted cedars, pines, and dwarf-
willow trees, intervened between the house and the lake, which was, at this time,
not more than thirty rods distant.
Proceeding from this point, along the northern bank of the river, we came first
to the Agency House, “Cobweb Castle,” as it had been denominated while long
the residence of a bachelor, and the sobriquet adhered to it ever after. It stood at
what is now the south-west corner of Wolcott and N. Water streets. Many will still
remember it, a substantial, compact little building of logs hewed and squared,
with a centre, two wings, and, strictly speaking, two tails, since, when there was
found no more room for additions at the sides, they were placed in the rear,
whereon a vacant spot could be found.
These appendages did not mar the symmetry of the whole, as viewed from
the front, but when, in the process of the town’s improvement, a street was
maliciously opened directly in the rear of the building, the whole establishment,
with its comical little adjuncts, was a constant source of amusement to the
passers-by. No matter. There were pleasant, happy hours passed under its odd-
shaped roof, as many of Chicago’s early settlers can testify.
Around the Agency House were grouped a collection of log-buildings, the
residences of the different persons in the employ of Government, appertaining to
that establishment—blacksmith, striker, and laborers. These were for the most
part Canadians or half-breeds, with occasionally a stray Yankee, to set all things
going by his activity and enterprise.
 CHICAGO IN 1831.
From a sketch by Mrs. Kinzie, in original edition.

There was still another house on the north side of the river, built by a former
resident of the name of Miller, but he had removed to “Rivière du Chemin,” or
Trail Creek, which about this time began to be called “Michigan City.”[U] This
house, which stood near the forks of the river, was at this time vacant.
[U] I can now recall a petition that was circulated at the garrison about
this period, for “building a brigg over Michigan City.” By altering the
orthography, it was found to mean, not the stupendous undertaking it would
seem to imply, but simply “building a bridge over at Michigan City.” An
accommodation much needed by travellers at that day.

There was no house on the southern bank of the river, between the fort and
“The Point,” as the forks of the river were then called. The land was a low wet
prairie, scarcely affording good walking in the dryest summer weather, while at
other seasons it was absolutely impassable. A muddy streamlet, or as it is called
in this country, a slew,[V] after winding around from about the present site of the
Tremont House, fell into the river at the foot of State street.[W]
[V] The proper orthography of this word is undoubtedly slough, as it
invariably indicates something like that which Christian fell into in flying from
the City of Destruction. I spell it, however, as it is pronounced.
[W] A gentleman who visited Chicago at that day, thus speaks of it: “I
passed over the ground from the fort to the point, on horseback. I was up to
my stirrups in water the whole distance. I would not have given sixpence an
acre for the whole of it.”
 At a point, on the south side, stood a house just completed by Mark
Beaubien, sen.[64] It was a pretentious white two-story building, with bright blue
wooden shutters, the admiration of all the little circle at Wolf Point. Here a canoe
ferry was kept to transport people across the south branch of the river.
Facing down the river from the west was, first a small tavern kept by Mr.
Wentworth, familiarly known as "Old Geese," not from any want of shrewdness
on his part, but in compliment to one of his own cant expressions. Near him were
two or three log-cabins occupied by Robinson, the Pottowattamie chief, and some
of his wife’s connexions. Billy Caldwell, the Sau-ga-nash, too, resided here
occasionally, with his wife, who was a daughter of Nee-scot-nee-meg, one of the
most famous chiefs of the nation. A little remote from these residences was a
small square log building, originally designed for a school-house, but occasionally
used as a place of worship whenever any itinerant minister presented himself.
The family of Clybourn had, previous to this time, established themselves near
their present residence on the North Branch—they called their place New Virginia.
Four miles up the South Branch was an old building which was at that time an
object of great interest as having been the theatre of some stirring events during
the troubles of 1812.[X] It was denominated Lee’s Place, or Hardscrabble. Here
lived, at this time, a settler named Heacock.
[X] See Narrative of the Massacre, p. 155.

Owing to the badness of the roads a greater part of the year, the usual mode
of communication between the fort and “The Point” was by a boat rowed up the
river, or by a canoe paddled by some skilful hand. By the latter means, too, an
intercourse was kept up between the residents of the fort and the Agency House.
There were, at this time, two companies of soldiers in the garrison, but of the
officers one. Lieutenant Furman, had died the autumn previous, and several of
the others were away on furlough. In the absence of Major Fowle and Capt.
Scott, the command devolved on Lieut. Hunter. Besides him, there were Lieuts.
Engle and Foster—the latter unmarried. Dr. Finley, the post surgeon, was also
absent, and his place was supplied by Dr. Harmon, a gentleman from Vermont.
 MARK BEAUBIEN.
From crayon portrait in possession of Chicago
Historical Society.

My husband’s mother, two sisters, and brother resided at the Agency House—
the family residence near the lake being occupied by J. N. Bailey, the postmaster.
In the Dean House lived a Mr. and Mrs. Forbes, who kept a school. Gholson
Kercheval had a small trading establishment in one of the log buildings at “Wolf
Point,” and John S. C. Hogan superintended the sutler’s store in the garrison.
There was also a Mr. Lee lately come into the country, living at the Point, who
sometimes held forth in the little school-house on a Sunday, less to the
edification of his hearers than to the unmerciful slaughter of the "King’s English."
[65]
I think this enumeration comprises all the white inhabitants of Chicago, at a
period less than a quarter of a century ago. To many who may read these pages
the foregoing particulars will, doubtless, appear uninteresting. But to those who
visit Chicago, and still more, to those who come to make it their home, it may be
not without interest to look back to its first beginnings; to contemplate the
almost magical change which a few years have wrought; and from the past to
augur the marvellous prosperity of the future.
The origin of the name Chicago is a subject of discussion, some of the Indians
deriving it from the fitch or pole-cat, others from the wild onion with which the
woods formerly abounded; but all agree that the place received its name from an
old chief, who was drowned in the stream in former times. That this event,
although so carefully preserved by tradition, must have occurred in a very remote
period, is evident from an old French manuscript brought by Gen. Cass from
France.
In this paper, which purports to be a letter from M. de Ligney, at Green Bay,
to M. de Siette, among the Illinois, dated as early as 1726, the place is
designated as “Chicagoux.” This orthography is also found in old family letters of
the beginning of the present century.[66]

In giving the early history of Chicago, the Indians say, with great simplicity,
“the first white man who settled here was a negro.”
This was Jean Baptiste Point-au-Sable, a native of St. Domingo, who, about
the year 1796, found his way to this remote region, and commenced a life among
the Indians. There is usually a strong affection between these two races, and
Jean Baptiste imposed upon his new friends by making them believe that he had
been a “great chief” among the whites. Perhaps he was disgusted at not being
elected to a similar dignity by the Pottowattamies, for he quitted this vicinity, and
finally terminated his days at Peoria, under the roof of his friend “Glamorgan,”
another St. Domingo negro, who had obtained large Spanish grants in St. Louis
and its environs, and who, at one time, was in the enjoyment of an extensive
landed estate.
Point-au-Sable had made some improvements at Chicago, which were taken
possession of by a Frenchman named Le Mai, who commenced trading with the
Indians. After a few years Le Mai’s establishment was purchased by John Kinzie,
Esq.,[67] who at that time resided at Bertrand, or Parc aux Vaches, as it was then
called, near Niles, in Michigan. As this gentleman was, for nearly twenty years,
with the exception of the military, the only white inhabitant of Northern Illinois,
some particulars of his early life may not be uninteresting.
 Click on map to view enlarged version.
Map of Chicago Portage, from the First U. S. Government Survey,
Circa 1820.
In Possession of Chicago Historical Society.

He was born in Quebec (L. C.) in 1763. His mother had been previously
married to a gentleman of the name of Haliburton. The only daughter of this
marriage was the mother of Gen. Fleming and Nicholas Low, Esq., of New York.
She is described as a lady of remarkable beauty and accomplishments. Mr. Kinzie
was the only child of the second marriage. His father died in his infancy, and his
mother married a third time a Mr. Forsyth, after which they removed to the city of
New York.
At the age of ten or eleven years he was placed at school with two of his half-
brothers at Williamsburg, L. I. A negro servant was sent from the city every
Saturday, to bring the children home, to remain until the following Monday
morning. Upon on occasion, when the messenger arrived at the school he found
all things in commotion. Johnny Kinzie was missing! Search was made in all
directions; every place was ransacked. It was all in vain; no Johnny Kinzie could
be found.
The heavy tidings were carried home to his mother. By some it was supposed
the lad was drowned; by others that he had strayed away, and would return.
Weeks passed by, and months, and he was at length given up and mourned as
lost. In the meantime the boy was fulfilling a determination he had long formed,
to visit his native city of Quebec, and make his way in life for himself.
He had by some means succeeded in crossing from Williamsburg to the city of
New York, and finding at one of the docks on the North River a sloop bound for
Albany, he took passage on board of her. While on his way up the river, he was
noticed by a gentleman, who, taking an interest in the little lonely passenger,
questioned him about his business.
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