I had at first been much astonished to hear an Indian woman speak French so well, and I was not less so in learning that she was a Christian; Mary perceived it, and to put an end to my surprise, she related to me her history, while her husband, and those who were to accompany her to Kaskaskia, hastily took their supper, of maize cooked in milk. She informed me that her father, who was a chief of one of the nations who inhabited the shores of the great lakes of the north, had formerly fought with a hundred of his followers under the orders of Lafayette, when the latter commanded an army on the frontiers. That he had acquired much glory, and gained the friendship of the Americans. A long time after, that is, about twenty years ago, he left the shores of the great lakes with some of his warriors, his wife and daughter; and after having marched a long time, he established himself on the shores of the river Illinois. “I was very young, then, but have not yet, however, forgotten the horrible sufferings we endured during this long journey, made in a rigorous winter, across a country peopled by nations with whom we were unacquainted; they were such, that my poor mother, who nearly always carried me on her shoulders, already well loaded with baggage, died under them some days after our arrival; my father placed me under the care of another woman, who also emigrated with us, and occupied himself in securing the tranquil possession of the lands on which we had come to establish ourselves, by forming alliances with our new neighbours. The Kickapoos were those who received us best, and we soon considered ourselves as forming a part of their nation. The year following my father was chosen by them, with some from among themselves, to go and regulate some affairs of the nation with the agent of the United States, residing here at Kaskaskia; he wished that I should be of the company; for, although the Kickapoos had shown themselves very generous and hospitable towards him, he feared that some war might break out in his absence, as he well knew the intrigues of the English to excite the Indians against the Americans. This same apprehension induced him to accede to the request made by the American agent, to leave me in his family, to be educated with his infant daughter. My father had much esteem for the whites of that great nation for whom he had formerly fought; he never had cause to complain of them, and he who offered to take charge of me inspired him with great confidence by the frankness of his manners, and above all, by the fidelity with which he treated the affairs of the Indians; he, therefore, left me, promising to return to see me every year after the great winter’s hunt; he came, in fact, several times afterwards; and I, notwithstanding the disagreeableness of a sedentary life, grew up, answering the expectations of my careful benefactor and his wife. I became attached to their daughter, who grew up with me, and the truths of the Christian religion easily supplanted in my mind the superstition of my fathers, whom I had scarcely known; yet, I confess to you, notwithstanding the influence of religion and civilization on my youthful heart, the impressions of infancy were not entirely effaced. If the pleasure of wandering conducted me into the shady forest, I breathed more freely, and it was with reluctance that I returned home; when, in the cool of the evening, seated in the door of my adopted father’s habitation, I heard in the distance, through the silence of the night, the piercing voice of the Indians, rallying to return to camp, I started with a thrill of joy, and my feeble voice imitated the voice of the savage with a facility that affrighted my young companion; and when occasionally some warriors came to consult my benefactor in regard to their treaties, or hunters to offer him a part of the produce of their chase, I was always the first to run to meet and welcome them; I testified my joy to them by every imaginable means, and I could not avoid admiring and wishing for their simple ornaments, which appeared to me far preferable to the brilliant decorations of the whites.
“In the meanwhile, for five years my father had not appeared at the period of the return from the winter’s hunting; but a warrior, whom I had often seen with him, came and found me one evening at the entrance of the forest, and said to me: ‘Mary, thy father is old and feeble, he has been unable to follow us here; but he wishes to see thee once more before he dies, and he has charged me to conduct thee to him.’ In saying these words he forcibly took my hand, and dragged me with him. I had not even time to reply to him, nor even to take any resolution, before we were at a great distance, and I saw well that there was no part left for me, but to follow him. We marched nearly all night, and at the dawn of day, we arrived at a bark hut, built in the middle of a little valley. Here I saw my father, his eyes turned towards the just rising sun. His face was painted as for battle. His tomahawk ornamented with many scalps, was beside him; he was calm and silent as an Indian who awaited death. As soon as he saw me he drew out of a pouch a paper wrapped with care in a very dry skin, and gave it me, requesting that I should preserve it as a most precious thing. ‘I wished to see thee once more before dying,’ said he, ‘and to give thee this paper, which is the most powerful charm (manitou) which thou canst employ with the whites to interest them in thy favour; for all those to whom I have shown it have manifested towards me a particular attachment. I received it from a great French warrior, whom the English dreaded as much as the Americans loved, and with whom I fought in my youth.’ After these words my father was silent, next morning he expired. Sciakape, the name of the warrior who came for me, covered the body of my father with the branches of trees, and took me back to my guardian.”
Here Mary suspended her narrative, and presented to me a letter a little darkened by time, but in good preservation. “Stay,” said she to me, smiling, “you see that I have faithfully complied with the charge of my father; I have taken great care of his manitou.” I opened the letter and recognized the signature and handwriting of General Lafayette. It was dated at head quarters, Albany, June, 1778, after the northern campaign, and addressed to Panisciowa, an Indian chief of one of the Six Nations, to thank him for the courageous manner in which he had served the American cause.
“Well,” said Mary, “now that you know me well enough to introduce me to General Lafayette, shall we go to him that I may also greet him whom my father revered as the courageous warrior and the friend of our nations?” “Willingly,” I replied, “but it seems to me that you have promised to inform us in what manner, after having tasted for some time the sweets of civilization, you came to return to the rude and savage life of the Indians?” At this question, Mary looked downwards and seemed troubled. However, after a slight hesitation, she resumed in a lower tone: “After the death of my father, Sciakape often returned to see me. We soon became attached to each other; he did not find it difficult to determine me to follow him into the forest, where I became his wife. This resolution at first very much afflicted my benefactors; but when they saw that I found myself happy, they pardoned me; and each year, during all the time that our encampment is established near Kaskaskia, I rarely pass a day without going to see them; if you wish, we can visit them, for their house is close by our way, and you will see by the reception they will give me, that they retain their esteem and friendship.” Mary pronounced these last words with a degree of pride, which proved to us that she feared that we might have formed a bad opinion of her, on account of her flight from the home of her benefactors with Sciakape. We accepted her proposition, and she gave the signal for departure. At her call, her husband and eight warriors presented themselves to escort us. M. de Syon offered her his arm, and we began our march. We were all very well received by the family of Mr. Mesnard; but Mary above all received the most tender marks of affection from the persons of the household. Mr. Mesnard, Mary’s adopted father, was at Kaskaskia, as one of the committee charged with the reception of Lafayette, and Mrs. Mesnard asked us if we would undertake to conduct her daughter to the ball which she herself was prevented from attending by indisposition. We assented with pleasure; and, while Mary assisted Miss Mesnard to complete her toilet, we seated ourselves round a great fire in the kitchen. Scarcely were we seated, when I saw moving in the corner, a black mass, of which I had at first a difficulty in recognising the nature and form; but, after an attentive examination, I found it was an old negro doubled by age. His face was so much wrinkled and deformed by time, that it was impossible to distinguish in it a single feature, and I guessed the place of his mouth by the little cloud of tobacco-smoke which escaped thence, from time to time. This man appeared to give great attention to the conversation which took place between us and a young man of Mr. Mesnard’s family; when he understood that we travelled with General Lafayette, and that we came from St. Louis, he asked if we had found many Frenchmen there. I replied that we had seen some, and, among others, Mr. Choteau, the founder of the town. “What!” cried he with a loud voice, which seemed not to belong to so decrepid a body—“What! you found the little Choteau? Oh! I know him well, so I do, that little Choteau; we have travelled a great deal together on the Mississippi, and that at a time when very few of the whites had come this far.” “But do you know,” said I, “that he whom you call the little Choteau is very old, that he is certainly more than ninety years of age?” “Oh! I believe that well! but what of that? that does not prevent that I should know him well, when a child.” “Of what age are you, then?” “Of that I know nothing, as they never taught me to count. All that I know is, that I left New Orleans with my master, who made part of the expedition sent by the Navigation Company of the Mississippi, under the orders of the young Choteau, to go and build a fort high up the river. Young Choteau was hardly seventeen, but he was commander of the expedition, because his father was, they said, one of the richest proprietors of the company. After having rowed a long time against the current and suffered great fatigue, we arrived at last not far from here, where we set about building Fort Chartres. It seems as if I was now there; I see from here the great stones which bore the great arches we built. Every one of us said, ‘Here is a fort will last longer than us all, and longer than our children.’ I also believed it well, and yet I have seen the last of it; for it is now in ruins, and I am yet living. Do you know, sir, how many years it is since we built Fort Chartres?” “At least eighty years, if I am not deceived.” “Well, count, and you will know very nearly my age. I was then at least thirty years old, for the little Choteau appeared to me a child; I have already served three masters, and I have suffered a great deal.” “According to that account, you are a hundred and ten years old, Daddy Francis.” “Yes, indeed, I believe I am at the least that, for it is a long time that I have laboured and suffered.” “How!” said the young man who was seated near him, “do you suffer now, Francis?” “Oh! pardon me, sir, I speak not of the time I have lived in this house. Since I belonged to Mr. Mesnard it is very different; I am now happy. Instead of serving others, they all serve me. Mr. Mesnard will not even allow me to go and bring in a little wood for the fire; he says I am too old for that. But I must tell the truth, Mr. Mesnard is not a master to me; he is a man—he is a friend.”
This homage of the old slave, rendered to the humanity of his master, gave us a high idea of the character of Mr. Mesnard. While we were yet listening to old Francis, Mary and Miss Mesnard came to inform us that they were ready, and asked us if we would be on our way, as it began to grow late. We took leave of Mrs. Mesnard, and found our Indian escort who had waited patiently for us at the door, and who resumed their position near us at some distance in front, to guide and protect our march, as if we had been crossing an enemy’s country. The night was quite dark, but the temperature was mild, and the fire-flies illuminated the atmosphere around us. M. de Syon conducted Miss Mesnard, and I gave my arm to Mary, who, notwithstanding the darkness, walked with a confidence and lightness which only a forest life could produce. The fire-flies attracted and interested me much; for, although this was not the first time I had observed them, I had never before seen them in such numbers. I asked Mary if these insects, which from their appearance seem so likely to astonish the imagination, had never given place among the Indians to popular beliefs or tales. “Not among the nations of these countries, where every year we are familiarised with their great numbers,” said she to me, “but I have heard that among the tribes of the north, they commonly believe that they are the souls of departed friends, who return to console them or demand the performance of some promise. I even know several ballads on this subject. One of them appears to have been made a long time since, in a nation which lives farther north and no longer exists. It is by songs that great events and popular traditions are ordinarily preserved among us, and this ballad, which I have often heard sung by the young girls of our tribe, leaves no doubt as to the belief of some Indians concerning the fire-fly.” I asked her to sing me this song, which she did with much grace. Although I did not comprehend the words, which were Indian, I observed a great harmony in their arrangement, and, in the very simple music in which they were sung, an expression of deep melancholy.
When she had finished the ballad, I asked her if she could not translate it for me into French, so that I might comprehend the sense. “With difficulty,” she said, “for I have always found great obstacles to translating exactly the expressions of our Indians into French, when I have served them as interpreter with the whites; but I will try.” And she translated nearly as follows:
“The rude season of the chase was over. Antakaya, the handsomest, the most skilful, and bravest of the Cherokee warriors, came to the banks of the Avolachy, where he was expected by Manahella, the young virgin promised to his love and bravery.
“The first day of the moon of flowers was to witness their union. Already had the two families, assembled round the same fire, given their assent; already had the young men and women prepared and ornamented the new cabin, which was to receive the happy couple, when, at the rising of the sun, a terrible cry, the cry of war, sent forth by the scout who always watches at the summit of the hill, called the old men to the council, and the warriors to arms.
“The whites appeared on the frontier. Murder and robbery accompanied them. The star of fertility had not reached its noontide height, and already Antakaya had departed at the head of his warriors to repel robbery, murder, and the whites.
“Go, said Manahella to him, endeavouring to stifle her grief, go fight the cruel whites, and I will pray to the Great Spirit to wrap thee with a cloud, proof against their blows. I will pray him to bring thee back to the banks of the Avolachy, there to be loved by Manahella.