Wau-Bun: The "Early Day" of the North-West

by Mrs. John H. Kinzie

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

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

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

[N] Between two of these lakes is now situated the town of Madison—the capital of the State of Wisconsin.

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

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

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

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

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