“I? Oh, no! to escape this desolate place I will go gladly. Have men really lived here?”
“Ay, more than once,” replied De Artigny. “’Tis said the engagés of Père Marquette built this hut, and that it sheltered him an entire winter. Twice I have been here before, once for weeks, waiting the arrival of the Griffin, alone with Sieur de la Salle.”
“The Griffin?”
“The ship which was to bring us provisions and men. ’Twas a year later we learned that she went down in the sea, with all aboard. How long was M. de la Durantaye on station here?” he turned to Barbeau.
“’Tis three months since we came from St. Ignace––a dreary time enough, and for what purpose I could never guess. In that time all we have seen has been Indian hunters. I cannot bear to remain even for another night. Are we ready, Madame? Shall we go?”
The Des Plaines was a narrow stream, flowing quietly through prairie land, although bordered along its shores by a thin fringe of trees. We moved down along its eastern bank for perhaps a half league, when we came to the edge of a swamp and made camp. De Artigny built a fire, and prepared my tent of boughs, while Barbeau waded out around a point in search of the wrecked canoe. He came back just at dusk towing it behind him through the shallow water, and the two men managed to drag it far enough up 257 the bank to enable the water to drain out. Later, aided by a flaming torch, we looked it over, and decided the canoe could be made to float again. It required two days’ work, however, before we ventured to trust ourselves to its safety.
But the dawn of the third day saw us afloat on the sluggish current, the two men plying improvised paddles to increase our speed, while I busied myself in keeping the frail craft free from water by constant use of a tin cup. This oozed in through numerous ill-fitting seams, but not fast enough to swamp us in midstream, although the amount gained steadily on me in spite of every effort, and we occasionally had to make shore to free us of the encumbrance.
Yet this voyage south along the Des Plaines was far from unpleasant, despite the labor involved and the discomfort of the leaking canoe. The men were full of cheer and hope, some of it possibly assumed to strengthen my courage, but no less effective––Barbeau telling many an anecdote of his long service in strange places, exhibiting a sense of humor which kept us in continuous laughter. He was, indeed, a typical adventurer, gay and debonair in presence of peril, and apparently without a care in the world. De Artigny caught something of the fellow’s spirit, being young enough himself to love excitement, and related in turn, to the music of the splashing paddles, numerous incidents 258 of his wild exploits with La Salle and De Tonty along the great rivers of the West.
It all interested me, these glimpses of rough forest life, and I questioned them both eagerly, learning many a truth the histories fail to tell. Particularly did I listen breathlessly to the story of their adventurous first voyage along the Illinois, following the trail of raiding Iroquois, amid scenes of death and destruction. The very horrors pictured fascinated me even, although the grim reality was completely beyond my power of imagination.