The Bay State Monthly. Volume 2, No. 1, October, 1884

We sat in silence a long time after; no one was disposed to speak. It came to us with power there on the moonlit lake, a realization of the hard-fought battle, the gallant bearing of the young commander, his daring passage in an open boat through the enemy's fire to the Niagara, the motto on his flag, the manner in which he carried his vessel alone through the enemy's line, and then closed in half pistol-shot, his laconic account of the victory to his superior officer, the ships stripped of their spars and canvas, the groans of the wounded, and the mournful spectacle of the burial on the lake shore.

Our next stopping-place was at Detroit, the metropolis of Michigan, on the river of the same name, the colony of the old Frenchman De la Mothe Cadillac, the colonial Pontchartrain, the scene of Pontiac's defeat and of Hull's treachery, cowardice, or incapacity, grandly seated on the green Michigan shore, overlooking the best harbor on the Great Lakes, and with a population of more than one hundred thousand. Two stormy days kept us within doors most of the time. The third day we were again "on board," steaming up Detroit River into Lake St. Clair. On and on we kept, till the green waters of Huron sparkled beneath the keel of our steamer. All the way over the lake we kept the shores of Michigan in sight, beaches of white sand alternating with others of limestone shingle, and the forests behind, a tangled growth of cedar, fir, and spruce in impenetrable swamps, or a scanty, scrubby growth upon a sandy soil. Two hours were spent at Thunder Bay, where the steamer stopped for a supply of wood, and we went steaming on toward Mackinaw, a hundred miles away. At sunset of that day the shores of the green rocky island dawned upon us. The steamer swept up to an excellent dock, as the sinking sun was pouring a stream of molten gold across the flood, out of the amber gates of the west.

"At last Mackinaw, great in history and story," announced the Historian leaning on the taffrail and gazing at the clear pebbly bottom and through forty feet of water.

"My history consists of a series of statues and tableaux—statues of the great men, tableaux of the great events," said Vincent. "Were there any such at Mackinaw?"

"Yes," answered Hugh, "two statues and one tableau—the former Marquette and Mae-che-ne-mock-qua, the latter the massacre at Fort Michilimakinack."

"The event happened during Pontiac's war, I believe," I hastened to observe. "The Indians took the place by stratagem, did they not?"

"They did. It was on the fourth of July, 1763. The fort contained a hundred soldiers under the command of Major Etherington. In the neighborhood were four hundred Indians apparently friendly. On the day specified the savages played a great game of ball or baggatiway on the parade before the fort. Many of the soldiers went out to witness it and the gate was left open. During the game the ball was many times pitched over the pickets of the fort. Instantly it was followed by the whole body of players, in the unrestrained pursuit of a rude athletic exercise. The garrison feared nothing; but suddenly the Indians drawing their concealed weapons began the massacre. No resistance was offered, so sudden and unexpected was the surprise. Seventy of the soldiers were murdered, the remainder were sold for slaves. Only one Englishman escaped. He was a trader named Henry. He was in his own house writing a letter to his Montreal friends by the canoe which was just on the eve of departure, when the massacre began. Only a low board fence separated his grounds from those of M. Longlade, a Frenchman, who had great influence with the savages. He obtained entrance into the house, where he was concealed by one of the women, and though the savages made vigorous search for him, he remained undiscovered. You can imagine the horrible sight the fort presented when the sun went down, the soldiers in their red uniforms lying there scalped and mangled, a ghastly heap under the summer sky. And to just think it was only a short time ago, a little more than a hundred years."

We could hardly realize it as we gazed up the rocky eminence at the United States fort, one hundred and fifty feet high, overlooking the little village. And yet Mackinaw's history is very little different from that of most Western settlements and military Stations. Dark, sanguinary, and bloody tragedies were constantly enacted upon the frontiers for generations. As every one acquainted with our history must know, the war on the border has been an almost interminable one. As the tide of emigration has rolled westward it has ever met that fiery counter-surge, and only overcome it by incessant battling and effort. And even now, as the distant shores of the Pacific are wellnigh reached, that resisting wave still gives forth its lurid flashes of conflict.

Mackinaw Island is only about three miles long and two in breadth, with a circuit of nine miles in all. It rises out of the lake to an average height of three hundred feet, and is heavily wooded with cedar, beech, maple, and yew. Three of its sides are bold and rocky, the fourth slopes down gradually toward the north to meet the blue waters of the lake. The island is intersected in all directions with carriage-roads and paths, and in the bay are always to be seen the row and sail boats belonging to pleasure-seekers. From four to seven steamers call at the wharf daily, while fleets of sailing-vessels may at any time be descried from old Fort Holmes, creeping noiselessly on to the commercial marts of those great inland seas.

Tradition lends its enchantment to the isle. According to the Indian legend it rose suddenly from the calm bosom of the lake at the sunset hour. In their fancy it took the form of a huge turtle, and so they bestowed upon it the name of Moc-che-ne-nock-e-nung. In the Ojibway mythology it became the home of the Great Fairies, and to this day it is said to be a sacred spot to all Indians who preserve the memory of the primal times. The fairies lived in a subterranean abode under the island, and an old sagamore, Chees-a-kee, is related to have been conducted a la Æneus, in Virgil, to the halls of the spirits and to have seen them all assembled in the spacious wigwam. Had some bard taken up the tale of this fortunate individual, the literature of the red man might have boasted an epic ranking perhaps with the Æneid or the Iliad.

From the walls of old Fort Holmes, two hundred feet above the lake, a fine view is obtained of the island and its surroundings. Westward is Point St. Ignace, a sharply defined cape running out from the mainland into the strait. There rest the bones of good Father Marquette, who, in 1671, erected a chapel on the island and began to Christianize the wild natives of this region. On the northwest we see the "Sitting Rabbits," two curious-looking rockhills which bear a singular resemblance to our common American hare. Eastward stretches away the boundless inland sea, a beautiful greenish-blue, to the horizon. The mountains of St. Martin, and the hills from which flow Carp and Pine Rivers meet the northern vision. To the south is Boisblanc Island, lying like an emerald paradise on the bosom of Lake Huron, and close beside it, as if seeking protection, is lovely Round Island. Among all these islands, and laving the shores of the adjacent mainland, are the rippling waves of the lake, now lying as if asleep in the flooding light, anon white-capped and angry, driven by the strong winds. Beneath us are the undulations of billowy green foliage, calm and cool, intersected with carriage-roads, and showing yonder the white stones of the soldiers' and citizens' graves. Here, down by the water, and close under the fort, the white, quaint houses lie wrapped in light and quiet. Breezes cool and delightful, breezes that have traversed the broad expanse of the lakes, blow over your face softly, as in Indian myth blows the wind from the Land of Souls. The scene and the hour lulls you into a sense of delicious quietude. You are aroused by the shrill whistle of a steamer, and you descend dockward to note the fresh arrivals.

Several days' excursions do not exhaust the island. One day we go to see Arch Rock, a beautiful natural bridge of rock spanning a chasm some eighty feet in height and forty in width. The summit is one hundred and fifty feet above the level. Another day we visit Sugar-loaf Rock, an isolated conical shape one hundred and forty feet high, rising from a plateau in the centre of the island. A hole half-way up its side is large enough to hold a dozen persons, and has in it the names of a hundred eager aspirants after immortality. On the southwest side of the island is a perpendicular rock bluff, rising one hundred and fifty feet from the lake and called "Lover's Leap." The legend was told us one afternoon by Hugh, as follows:—

"In the ancient time, when the red men held their councils in this heart of the waters, and the lake around rippled to the canoe fleets of warrior tribes going and returning, a young Ojibway girl had her home on this sacred isle. Her name was Mae-che-ne-mock-qua, and she was beautiful as the sunrise of a summer morning. She had many lovers, but only to one brave did the blooming Indian girl give her heart. Often would Mae-che-ne-mock-qua wander to this solitary rock and gaze out upon the wide waters after the receding canoes of the combined Ojibway and Ottawa bands, speeding south for scalps and glory. There, too, she always watched for their return, for among them was the one she loved, an eagle-plumed warrior, Ge-win-e-gnon, the bravest of the brave. The west wind often wafted the shouts of the victorious braves far in advance of them as they returned from the mainland, and highest above all she always heard the voice of Ge-win-e-gnon. But one time, in the chorus of shouts, the maiden heard no longer the voice of her lover. Her heart told her that he had gone to the spirit-land behind the sunset, and she should no more behold his face among the chieftains. So it was: a Huron arrow had pierced his heart, and his last words were of his maiden in the Fairy Isle. Sad grew the heart of the lovely Mae-che-ne-mock-qua. She had no wish to live. She could only stand on the cliff and gaze at the west, where the form of her lover appeared beckoning her to follow him. One morning her mangled body was found at the foot of the cliff; she had gone to meet her lover in the spirit-land. So love gained its sacrifice and a maiden became immortal."

A well-earned night's sleep, bathed in this highly ozoned lake atmosphere, which magically soothes every nerve and refreshes every sense like an elixir, and we are off again on the broad bosom of the Mackinaw strait, threading a verdant labyrinth of emerald islets and following the course of Father Jacques Marquette, who two hundred years before us had set off from the island in two canoes, with his friend Louis Joliet, to explore and Christianize the region of the Mississippi. We looked back upon the Fairy Island with regretful eyes, and as it sunk into the lake Hugh repeated the lines of the poet:—

"A gem amid gems, set in blue yielding waters,
Is Mackinac Island with cliffs girded round,
For her eagle-plumed braves and her true-hearted daughters;
Long, long ere the pale face came widely renowned.

"Tradition invests thee with Spirit and Fairy;
Thy dead soldiers' sleep shall no drum-beat awake,
While about thee the cool winds do lovingly tarry
And kiss thy green brows with the breath of the lake.

"Thy memory shall haunt me wherever life reaches,
Thy day-dreams of fancy, thy night's balmy sleep,
The plash of thy waters along the smooth beaches,
The shade of thine evergreens, grateful and deep.

"O Mackinac Island! rest long in thy glory!
Sweet native to peacefulness, home of delight!
Beneath thy soft ministry, care and sad worry
Shall flee from the weary eyes blessed with thy sight."

"That poet had taste," remarked our friend when he had concluded. "Beautiful Isle! No wonder the great missionary wished his bones to rest within sight of its shores. Marquette never seemed to me so great as now. He was one of those Jesuits like Zinzendorf and Sebastian Ralle, wonderful men, all of them, full of energy and adventure and missionary zeal, and devoted to the welfare of their order. At the age of thirty he was sent among the Hurons as a missionary. He founded the mission of Sault de Ste. Marie in Lake Superior, in 1668, and three years later that of Mackinaw. In 1673, in company with Joliet and five other Frenchmen, the adventurous missionary set out on a voyage toward the South Sea. They followed the Mississippi to the Gulf, and returning, arrived at Green Bay in September. In four months they had traveled a distance of twenty-five hundred miles in an open canoe. Marquette was sick a whole year, but in 1674, at the solicitation of his superior, set out to preach to the Kaskaskia Indians. He was compelled to halt on the way by his infirmities, and remained all winter at the place, with only two Frenchmen to minister to his wants. As soon as it was spring, knowing full well that he could not live, he attempted to return to Mackinaw. He died on the way, on a small river that bears his name, which empties into Lake Michigan on the western shore. His memory en-wreathes the very names of Superior and Michigan with the halo of romance."

"Thank you," said Vincent, looking out over the dark water. "I can fancy his ghost haunting the lake at midnight."

"Speak not of that down at the Queen City," returned Hugh, with a tragic air. "Pork and grain are more substantial things than ghosts at Chicago, and they might look on you as an escaped lunatic. Nathless, it was a pretty idea to promulgate among the Indians two centuries ago. Observe how civilization has changed. Two hundred years ago we sent missionaries among them: now we send soldiers to shoot them down, after we have plundered them of their lands."

Neither of us were disposed to discuss the Indian question with Hugh Warren, and the conversation dropped after a while.

At noon of the next day the steamer made Milwaukee, and the evening of the day after Chicago. These two cities are excellent types of the Western city, and both show, in a wonderful degree, the rapid growth of towns in the great West. Neither had an inhabitant before 1825, and now one has a population of one hundred thousand, and the other of five hundred thousand. Chicago is, in fact, a wonder of the world. Its unparalleled growth, its phoenix-like rise from the devastation of the great fire of 1871, and its cosmopolitan character, all contribute to render it a remarkable city.

The city looks out upon the lake like a queen, as in fact she is, crowned by the triple diadem of beauty, wealth, and dignity. She is the commercial metropolis of the whole Northwest, an emporium second only to New York in the quantity of her imports and exports. The commodious harbor is thronged with shipping. Her water communication has a vast area. Foreign consuls from Austria, France, Great Britain, Belgium, Italy, Sweden, Germany, and the Netherlands, have their residence in the city. It is an art-centre, and almost equally with Brooklyn is entitled to be called a city of churches.

A week is a short time to devote to seeing all that this queen city has that is interesting, and that included every day we spent there. Neither in a sketch like the present shall we have space to give more than we have done—a general idea of the city. One day about noon we steamed out of the harbor, on a magnificent lake-steamer, bound for Duluth. We were to have a run of over seven hundred miles with but a single stopping-place the whole distance. It would be three days before we should step on land again.

"Farewell, a long farewell, to the city of the Indian sachem," said Hugh, as the grand emporium and railway-centre grew dim in the distance. "By the way," continued he, "are you aware that the correct etymology of the name Chicago is not generally known?"

Vincent and I confessed that we did not even know the supposed etymology of the name.

"No matter about that," went on the Historian. "The name is undoubtedly Indian, corrupted from Chercaqua, the name of a long line of chiefs, meaning strong, also applied to a wild onion. Long before the white men knew the region the site of Chicago was a favorite rendezvous of several Indian tribes. The first geographical notice of the place occurs in a map dated Quebec, Canada, 1683, as 'Fort Chicagon.' Marquette camped on the site during the winter of 1674-5. A fort was built there by the French and afterward abandoned. So you see that Chicago has a history that is long anterior to the existence of the present city. Have a cigar, Montague?"

Clouds of fragrant tobacco-smoke soon obscured the view of the Queen City of the Northwest, busy with life above the graves of the Indian sagamores whose memories she has forgotten.

On the third day we steamed past Mackinaw, and soon made the ship-canal which was constructed for the passage of large ships, a channel a dozen miles long and half a mile wide. And now, hurrah! We are on the waters of Lake Superior, the "Gitche Gumee, the shining Big Sea-Water," of Longfellow's musical verse. The lake is a great sea. Its greatest length is three hundred and sixty miles, its greatest breadth one hundred and forty miles; the whole length of its coast is fifteen hundred miles. It has an area of thirty-two thousand square miles, and a mean depth of one thousand feet. These dimensions show it to be by far the largest body of fresh water on the globe.

Nothing can be conceived more charming than a cruise on this lake in summer. The memories of the lake are striking and romantic in the extreme. There is a background of history and romance which renders Superior a classic water. It was a favorite fishing-ground for several tribes of Indians, and its aboriginal name Ojibwakechegun, was derived from one of these, the Ojibways, who lived on the southern shore when the lake first became known to white men. The waters of the lake vary in color from a dazzling green to a sea-blue, and are stocked with all kinds of excellent fish. Numerous islands are scattered about the lake, some low and green, others rocky and rising precipitately to great heights directly up from the deep water. The coast of the lake is for the most part rocky. Nowhere upon the inland waters of North America is the scenery so bold and grand as around Lake Superior. Famous among travelers are those precipitous walls of red sandstone on the south coast, described in all the earlier accounts of the lake as the "Pictured Rocks." They stand opposite the greatest width of the lake and exposed to the greatest force of the heavy storms from the north. The effect of the waves upon them is not only seen in their irregular shape, but the sand derived from their disintegration is swept down the coast below and raised by the winds into long lines of sandy cliffs. At the place called the Grand Sable these are from one hundred to three hundred feet high, and the region around consists of hills of drifting sand.

Half-way across the lake Keweenaw Point stretches out into the water. Here the steamer halted for wood. We landed on the shore in a beautiful grove. "What a place for a dinner!" cried one of the party.

"Glorious! glorious!" chimed in a dozen voices.

"How long has the boat to wait?" asked Hugh.

"One hour," was the answer of the weather-beaten son of Neptune.

"That gives us plenty of time," was the general verdict. So without more ado lunch-baskets were brought ashore. The steamer's steward was prevailed upon, by a silver dollar thrust slyly into his hand, to help us, and presently the whole party was feasting by the lakeside. And what a royal dining-room was that grove, its outer pillars rising from the very lake itself, its smooth brown floor of pine-needles, arabesqued with a flitting tracery of sun shadows and fluttering leaves, and giving through the true Gothic arches of its myriad windows glorious views of the lake that lay like an enchanted sea before us! And whoever dined more regally, more divinely, even, though upon nectar and ambrosia, than our merry-makers as they sat at their well-spread board, with such glowing, heaven-tinted pictures before their eyes, such balmy airs floating about their happy heads, and such music as the sunshiny waves made in their glad, listening ears? It was like a picture out of Hiawatha. At least it seemed to strike our young lady so, who in a voice of peculiar sweetness and power recited the opening of the twenty-second book of that poem:—

"By the shore of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.

All the air was full of freshness.
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him, through the sunshine,
Westward toward the neighboring forest
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,
Passed the bees, the honey-makers,
Burning, singing in the sunshine.

Bright above him shone the heavens,
Level spread the lake before him;