"General Gaines visited the Black Hawk and his party this season, with a force of regulars and militia, and compelled them to remove to the west side of the Mississippi River, on their own lands.
"When the Black Hawk and party recrossed to the east side of the Mississippi River in 1832, they numbered three hundred and sixty-eight men. They were hampered with many women and children, and had no intention to make war. When attacked by General Stillman's detachment, they defended themselves like men; and I would ask, who would not do so, likewise? Thus the war commenced.
"The Indians had been defeated, dispersed, and some of the principal chiefs are now in prison and in chains, at Jefferson Barracks....
"It is very well known, by all who know the Black Hawk, that he has always been considered a friend to the whites. Often has he taken into his lodge the wearied white man, given him good food to eat, and a good blanket to sleep on before the fire. Many a good meal has _the Prophet_ given to people travelling past his village, and very many stray horses has he recovered from the Indians and restored to their rightful owners, without asking any recompense whatever....
"What right have we to tell any people, 'You shall not cross the Mississippi River on any pretext whatever'? When the Sauk and Fox Indians wish to cross the Mississippi, to visit their relations among the Pottowattamies of Fox River, Illinois, they are prevented by us, _because we have the power_!"
I omit the old gentleman's occasional comments upon the powers that dictated, and the forces which carried on, the warfare of this unhappy summer. There is every reason to believe that had his suggestions been listened to, and had he continued the Agent of the Sauks and Foxes, a sad record might have been spared,--we should assuredly not have been called to chronicle the untimely fate of his successor, the unfortunate M. St. Vrain, who, a comparative stranger to his people, was murdered by them, in their exasperated fury, at Kellogg's Grove, soon after the commencement of the campaign.
II.
It seems appropriate to notice in this place the subsequent appearance before the public of one of the personages casually mentioned in the foregoing narrative.
In the autumn of 1864 we saw advertised for exhibition at Wood's Museum, Chicago, "The most remarkable instance of longevity on record--the venerable Joseph Crely, born on the 13th of September, 1726, and having consequently reached, at this date, the age of ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINE YEARS!" Sundry particulars followed of his life and history, and, above all, of his recollections.
"Well done for old Crely!" said my husband, when he had gone through the long array. "Come, let us go over to Wood's Museum and renew our acquaintance with the venerable gentleman."
I did not need a second invitation, for I was curious to witness the wonders which the whirligig of time had wrought with our old _employe_.
We chose an early hour for our visit, that we might pay our respects to both him and the granddaughter who had him in charge, unembarrassed by the presence of strangers.
In a large room on the second floor of the building, among cages of birds and animals, some stuffed, others still living, we perceived, seated by a window, a figure clad in bright cashmere dressing-gown and gay tasselled cap, tranquilly smoking a tah-nee-hoo-rah, or long Indian pipe. His form was upright, his face florid, and less changed than might have been expected by the thirty-one years that had elapsed since we had last seen him. He was alone, and my husband addressed him at first in English:--
"Good-morning, M. Crely. Do you remember me?"
He shook his head emphatically. "Je ne comprends pas. Je ne me ressouviens de rien--je suis vieux, vieux--le treize Septembre, mil sept cent vingt-six, je suis ne. Non, non," with a few gentle shakes of the head, "je ne puis rappeler rien--je suis vieux, vieux."[61]
My husband changed his inquiries to the patois which Crely could not feign not to comprehend.
"Where is your granddaughter? I am acquainted with her, and would like to speak with her."
The old man sprang up with the greatest alacrity, and, running to a door in the wooden partition which cut off a corner of the room and thus furnished an apartment for the ancient phenomenon, he rapped vigorously, and called, in accents quite unlike his former feeble, drawling tones,--
"Therese, Therese--il y a icite un monsieur qui voudrait vous voir."[62]
The granddaughter presently made her appearance. She looked shyly at my husband from under her brows.
"Do you know me, Therese?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. It is Mr. Kinzie."
"And do you know me also?" I said, approaching. She looked at me and shook her head.
"No, I do not," she replied.
"What, Therese! Have you forgotten Madame John, who taught you to read--you and all the little girls at the Portage?"
"Oh, my heavens, Mrs. Kinzie!--but you have changed so!"
"Yes, Therese, I have grown old in all these years; but I have not grown old quite so fast as your grandpapa here."
There was a flash in her eye that told she felt my meaning. She hung her head without speaking, while the color deepened over her countenance.
"Now," said I, in French, to the grandfather, "you remember me--"
He interrupted me with a protest, "Non, non--je ne puis rappeler rien--je suis vieux, vieux--le treize Septembre, mil sept cent vingt-six, je suis ne a Detroit."
"And you recollect," I went on, not heeding his formula, "how I came to the Portage a bride, and lived in the old cabins that the soldiers had occupied--"
"Eh b'an! oui--oui--"
"And how you helped make the garden for me--and how Plante and Manaigre finished the new house so nicely while Monsieur John was away for the silver--and how there was a feast after it was completed--"
"Ah! oui, oui--pour le sur."
"And where are all our people now?" I asked, turning to Therese. "Louis Frum _dit_ Manaigre--is he living?"
"Oh, Madame Kinzie! You remember that--Manaigre having two names?"
"Yes, Therese--I remember everything connected with those old times at the Portage. Who among our people there are living?"
"Only Manaigre is left," she said.
"Mais, mais, Therese," interposed the old man, "Manaigre's daughter Genevieve is living." It was a comfort to find our visit of such miraculous benefit to his memory.
"And the Puans--are any of them left?" I asked.
"Not more than ten or twelve, I think--" Again her grandfather promptly contradicted her:--
"Mais, mais, je compte b'an qu'il y en a quinze ou seize, Therese;" and he went quite glibly over the names of such of his red friends as still hovered around their old home in that vicinity.
He was in the full tide of gay reminiscence, touching upon experiences and adventures of long ago, and recalling Indian and half-breed acquaintances of former days, when footsteps approached, and the entrance of eager, curious visitors suddenly reminded him of his appointed role. It was marvellous how instantaneously he subsided into the superannuated driveller who was to bear away the bell from Old Parr and all the Emperor Alexander's far-sought fossils.
"Je suis vieux, vieux--l'an mil sept cent vingt-six--le treize Septembre, a Detroit--- je ne puis rappeler rien."
Not another phrase could "all the King's armies, or all the King's men,"
have extorted from him.
So we left him to the admiring comments of the new-comers. I think it should be added, in extenuation of what would otherwise seem a gross imposture, that his granddaughter was really ignorant of Crely's exact age--that he, being ever a gasconading fellow, was quite ready to personate that certain Joseph Crely whose name appears on the baptismal records of the Church in Detroit of the year 1726. He was, moreover, pleased with the idea of being gaily dressed and going on a tour to see the world, and doubtless rejoiced, also, in the prospect of relieving his poor granddaughter of a part of the burden of his maintenance. He was probably at this time about ninety-five years of age. There are those that knew him from 1830, who maintain that his age was a few years less; but I take the estimate of Mr. Kinzie and H.L. Dousman, of Prairie du Chien, who set him down, in 1864, at about the age I have assigned to him.