XVII The Great Council at Prairie du Chien
St. Louis was a cold place in those prairie years; a great deal of snow fell, and sleighbells rang beside the Great River. No Indians came during the cold weather, but with the springing grass and blossoming trees, each year the Indians camped around the twin lakes at Maracasta, Clark’s farm west of St. Louis.
There were wigwams all over Maracasta. James Kennerly, Clark’s Indian deputy, busy ever with the ruddy aborigines, dealing out annuities, arranging for treaties and instructing the tribes, kept open house for the chiefs at Côte Plaquemine, the Persimmon Hill. Clark’s boys shot bows and arrows with the little Indians, Kennerly’s little girls made them presents of “kinnikinick,” dried leaves of the sumac and red osier dogwood, to smoke in their long pipes.
Every delegation came down laden with gifts for the Red Head,—costly furs, buffalo robes, bows, arrows, pipes, moccasins.
Tragedies of the plains came daily to the ears of General Clark, far, far beyond the reach of government in the wild battle-ground of the West.
In 1822 the Sioux and Cheyennes combined against the Crows and fell upon their villages. In the slaughter of that day five thousand defenceless men, women, and children were butchered on the prairie. All their lodges and herds of horses and hundreds of captive girls were carried away. As a people the Crows never recovered.
Drunk with victory the triumphant Sioux rolled back on the Chippewas, Sacs, Foxes, and Iowas.
“If continued, these wars will embroil all the tribes of the West,” said Clark. “We must do something more to promote peace. They must become civilised.”
President Monroe was working up a new Indian policy, with Clark as a chief adviser.
“Go, Paul Louise, take this talk to my Osages. I am coming up to their country. Tell them to meet me on the first of June.”
In his canoe, with his squaw and his babies, the wizened little Frenchman set out. He could not read, he could not write, he could only make his mark, but the Indians loved and trusted Paul Louise.
“And you, Baronet Vasquez, take this to the Kansas nation.”
Vasquez belonged to the old Spanish régime. As a youth he had gone out with the Spanish garrison at the cession of St. Louis, to return a fur trader.
Then came Lafayette from the memories of Monticello. Escorted by a troop of horse, he had ascended that historic mountain. The alert lithe figure of the little Marquis leaped from the carriage; at the same moment the door opened, revealing the tall, bent, wasted figure of Jefferson in the pillared portico. The music ceased, and every head uncovered. Slowly the aged Jefferson descended the steps, slowly the little Marquis approached his friend, then crying, with outstretched arms, “Ah, Jefferson!” “Ah, Lafayette!” each fell upon the other’s bosom. The gentlemen of the cavalcade turned away with tears, and the two were left to solitude and recollection.
Long and often had Jefferson and Lafayette laboured together in anxious and critical periods of the past. It was in chasing “the boy” Lafayette that the British came to Charlottesville. When Jefferson was minister in Paris, the young and popular nobleman assisted the unaccustomed American at the Court of France. Together they had seen the opening of the French Revolution. What memories came back as they sat in the parlour at Monticello, discussing the momentous events of two continents in which they had been actors!
“What would I have done with the Queen?” asked the aged Jefferson. “I should have shut her up in a convent, putting harm out of her power. I have ever believed if there had been no Queen there would have been no French Revolution.”
Lafayette went to Montpelier to see Madison, and then to Yorktown, over the same road which he himself had opened in 1781 in the retreat before Cornwallis. One long ovation followed his route. Even old ladies who had seen him in their youth pressed forward with the plea, “Let me see the young Marquis again!” forgetful of the flight of years. Echoes of his triumphal tour had reached the border. St. Louis, a city and a State not dreamed of in Revolutionary days, begged the honour of entertaining Lafayette.
Far down the river they saw the smoke of his steamer, coming up from New Orleans.
“Welcome!” the hills echoed. “Vive Lafayette!”
The Marquis lifted his eyes,—white stone houses gay with gardens and clusters of verdure arose before him in a town of five thousand inhabitants. Below stood the massive stone forts of the Spanish time, and on the brow of the bluff frowned the old round tower, the last fading relic of feudalism in North America.
Every eye was fixed upon the honoured guest. A few were there who could recall the pride of Lafayette in his American troops, with their helmets and flowing crests and the sabres he himself had brought from France. The banquet, the toasts, the ball, all these have passed into tradition.
The Marquis visited Clark’s cabinet of Indian curios.
“I present you this historic cloak of an Indian chief,” said the General, offering a robe like a Russian great coat.
In turn, Lafayette presented his mess chest, carried through the Revolution, and placed on the Governor’s finger a ring of his hair. Later Clark sent him the live cub of a grizzly bear, that grew to be a wonder in the Jardin des Plantes of Paris.
“And your great brother, George Rogers Clark?” inquired the Marquis.
“He died seven years ago at Louisville,” answered the Governor.
“In securing the liberties of this country I esteem him second only to Washington,” said Lafayette.
“Those thieving Osages have taken six more of my horses,” complained Chouteau the next morning at the office of Governor Clark.
“And four blankets and three axes of me,” added Baptiste Dardenne.
“Worse yet, they have stolen my great-coat and razor case,” said Manuel Roderique.
Two thousand dollars’ worth of claims were paid in that summer of 1825.
“We must get them out of the way,” persisted the exasperated whites.
“Acts and acts of Congress regulating trade and intercourse with the tribes are of no avail. They must be removed, and as far as possible. They are banditti, robbers!” said Benton.
In spite of all proclamations clothes disappeared from the line, silk stockings and bed-quilts and ladies’ hats mysteriously went into the wigwams of the vagrants.
“This state of affairs is intolerable!” exclaimed Benton. “Governor Clark, if you will conclude a treaty removing those tribes to the West I will stake my honour on putting a ratification through Congress. I’ll present the case!”
Again the great senator ground out the words between his teeth, “I’ll present the case. It will be a kindness to both parties. The poor Indians have lost all,—we must reimburse them, we must take care of them, they must have a home,—but far away, far away!” shaking his fingers and closing his eyes with the significant shrug so well known to the friends of Colonel Benton.
“Not so bad as eet once was,” urged the kind-hearted Creoles. “Not so bad by far. In de old Spanish days dey once left St. Genevieve wit’out a horse to turn a mill. Dey came in to de village in de night and carried away everyt’ing dey could find. Nobody ever pursue dem. But les Américains, dey chase dem. But den,” commented the tolerant Creoles, “de Osage do not kill, like de Kickapoo and de Cherokee. Dey take de goods, steal de furs, beat with ramrods, drive him off,—but dey don’t kill!”
So in May, after the departure of Lafayette, Governor Clark steamed up the Missouri, met the Kansas and Osage Indians, and made treaties for the cession of all their lands within the present boundary of Missouri.
“You shall have lands, hogs, fowls, cattle, carts, and farming tools to settle farther west.”
This was wealth to the poor Osages, whose hunting fields had become exhausted.
“Go to the earth and till it, it will give you bread and meat and clothes and comfort and happiness. You may talk about your poverty always, and it will never make you better off. You must be industrious,” said Clark. “And your old friend, Boone, shall be your farmer.”
For almost forty years now they had known Daniel M. Boone, the son of the great pioneer,—since, indeed, those days when as a boy of eighteen he trapped on the Kansas. Two springs later the removal was made, and Boone, as “farmer for the Kansas Indians,” took up his residence in the Kaw Valley where his chimney stacks may yet be seen near the present Lecompton. The next year was born Napoleon Boone, the first white child in Kansas.
All this time the northern clans were gathering at Prairie du Chien, a work of months. June 30 Governor Clark’s barge started north from St. Louis, laden with presents, provisions, interpreters.
“We are afraid to come,” said the Omahas. “We are afraid to cross the hostile territory.”
William Preston Clark, in looks and dress the blonde double of the poet Byron, said, “Let me bring them, father.”
So young Clark, intimate with Indians, went after the Omahas and brought them safely in. But Big Elk left his medal with his son, “I never expect to reach home alive,” he said. “We cross the country of the Sacs!”
The Yanktons refused. “Shall we be butchered by the Sacs?” But later they came to St. Louis, smoked with the Sacs and shook hands. Even the Sioux feared the Sacs, the warriors of the central valley.
Mahaska, head chief of the Iowas, with his braves went up with Clark, and Rant-che-wai-me, the Flying Pigeon. Rant-che-wai-me had been to Washington. A year ago, when her husband left her alone at the wigwam on the Des Moines, she set out for St. Louis. The steamer was at the shore, the chief was about to embark, when he felt a blow upon his back. Shaking his plumes in wrath, Mahaska turned,—to behold the Flying Pigeon, with uplifted tomahawk in her hand.
“Am I your wife?” she cried.
“You are my wife,” answered the surprised chief.
“Are you my husband?”
“I am your husband.”
“Then will I, too, go with you to shake the Great Father by the hand.”
Mahaska smiled,—“You are my pretty wife, Flying Pigeon; you shall go to Washington.” Clark, too, smiled,—“Yes, she can go.”
The pretty Rant-che-wai-me was feted at the White House, and had her picture painted by a great artist as a typical Iowa Princess. And now she was going to Prairie du Chien.
Not for ten years had Clark visited his northern territory. Few changes had come on the Mississippi. Twice a year Colonel George Davenport brought a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of goods to his trading post at Rock Island.
Beyond, Julien Dubuque lay in perpetual state on his hills, wrapped only in a winding sheet in his tomb, exposed to the view of every traveller that cared to climb the grassy height to gaze through the grated windows of his lonely mausoleum.
“The Great Chief, the Red Head is coming,” whispered all the Indians, as Clark’s barges hove in sight.
Prairie du Chien was alive with excitement. Governor Cass of Michigan was already there. Not only the village, but the entire banks of the river for miles above and below were covered with high-pointed buffalo tents. Horses browsed upon the bluffs in Arabian abandon. Below, tall and warlike, Chippewas and Winnebagoes from Superior and the valley of St. Croix jostled Menomonees, Pottawattamies, and Ottawas from Lake Michigan and Green Bay.
“Whoop-oh-hoo-oh!”
Major Taliferro from the Falls of St. Anthony made the grand entry with his Sioux and Chippewas, four hundred strong, drums beating, flags flying. Taliferro was very popular with the Sioux,—even the squaws said he was “Weechashtah Washtay,”—a handsome man.
Over from Sault Ste. Marie the learned agent Schoolcraft had brought one hundred and fifty Chippewas, brothers of Hiawatha.
Keokuk, the Watchful Fox, with his Sacs and Iowas, was the last to arrive. Leagued against the Sioux, they had camped on an island below to paint and dress, and came up the Mississippi attired in full war costume singing their battle-song. It was a thrilling sight when they came upon the scene with spears, battle-lances, and crested locks like Roman helmets, casting bitter glances at their ancient foe, the Sioux. Nearly nude, with feather war-flags flying, and beating tambourines, the Sacs landed in compact ranks, breathing defiance. From his earliest youth Keokuk had fought the Sioux.
“Bold, martial, flushed with success, Keokuk landed, majestic and frowning,” said Schoolcraft, “and as another Coriolanus spoke in the council and shook his war lance at the Sioux.”
At the signal of a gun, every day at ten o’clock, the chiefs assembled.
“Children,” said Governor Clark to the assembled savages, “your Great Father has not sent us here to ask anything from you—we want nothing—not the smallest piece of your land. We have come a great way to meet for your own good. Your Great Father the President has been informed that war is carried on among his red children,—the Sacs, Foxes, and Chippewas on one side and the Sioux on the other,—and that the wars of some of you began before any of you were born.”
“Heigh! heigh!” broke forth the silent smokers. “Heigh! heigh!” exclaimed the warriors. “Heigh! heigh!” echoed the vast and impatient concourse around the council.
“Your father thinks there is no cause for continuation of war between you. There is land enough for you to live and hunt on and animals enough. Why, instead of peaceably following the game and providing for your families, do you send out war parties to destroy each other? The Great Spirit made you all of one colour and placed you upon the land. You ought to live in peace as brothers of one great family. Your Great Father has heard of your war songs and war parties,—they do not please him. He desires that his red children should bury the tomahawk.”
“Heigh! heigh!”
“Children! look around you. See the result of wars between nations who were once powerful and are now reduced to a few wandering families. You have examples enough before you.
“Children, your wars have resulted from your having no definite boundaries. You do not know what belongs to you, and your people follow the game into lands claimed by other tribes.”
“Heigh! heigh!”
“Children, you have all assembled under your Father’s flag. You are under his protection. Blood must not be spilt here. Whoever injures one of you injures us, and we will punish him as we would punish one of our own people.”
“Heigh! heigh! heigh!” cried all the Indians.
“Children,” said General Cass, “your Great Father does not want your land. He wants to establish boundaries and peace among you. Your Great Father has strong limbs and a piercing eye, and an arm that extends from the sea to Red River.
“Children, you are hungry. We will adjourn for two hours.”
“Heigh! heigh! heigh-h!” rolled the chorus across the Prairie.
As to an army, rations were distributed, beef, bread, corn, salt, sugar, tobacco. Each ate, ate, ate,—till not a scrap was left to feed a humming-bird.
Revered of his people, Wabasha and his pipe-bearers were the observed of all.
“I never yet was present at so great a council as this,” said Wabasha. Three thousand were at Prairie du Chien.
The Sioux? Far from the northwest they said their fathers came,—the Tartar cheek was theirs. Wabasha and his chiefs alone had the Caucasian countenance.
Three mighty brothers ruled the Sioux in the days of Pontiac,—Wabasha, Red Wing, and Little Crow. Their sons, Wabasha, Red Wing, and Little Crow ruled still.
“Boundaries?” they knew not the meaning of the word. Restless, anxious, sharp-featured Little Crow fixed his piercing hazel eye upon the Red Head,—
“Taku-wakan!—that is incomprehensible!”
“Heigh! What does this mean?” exclaimed the Chippewas.
“We are all one people,” sagely observed Mahaska, the Iowa. “My father, I claim no lands in particular.”
“I never yet heard that any one had any exclusive right to the soil,” said Chambler, the Ottawa.
“I have a tract of country. It is where I was born and now live,” said Red Bird, the Winnebago. “But the Foxes claim it and the Sacs, the Menomonees, and Omahas. We use it in common.”
Red Bird was a handsome Indian, dressed Yankton fashion in white unsoiled deerskin and scarlet, and glove-fitting moccasins,—the dandy of his tribe.
The debate grew animated. “Our tract is so small,” cried the Menomonees, “that we cannot turn around without touching our neighbours.” Then every Indian began to describe his boundaries, crossing and recrossing each other.
“These are the causes of all your troubles,” said Clark. “It is better for each of you to give up some disputed claim than to be fighting for ever about it.”
That night the parties two by two discussed their lines, the first step towards civilisation. They drew maps on the ground,—“my hunting ground,” and “mine,” and “mine.” After days of study the boundary rivers were acknowledged, the belt of wampum was passed, and the pipe of peace.
Wabasha, acknowledged by every chief to be first of the Seven Fires of the Sioux, was treated by all with marked distinction and deference. And yet Wabasha, dignified and of superior understanding, when asked, “Wabasha? What arrangement did you make with the Foxes about boundaries?” replied, “I never made any arrangement about the line. The only arrangement I made was about peace!”
“When I heard the voice of my Great Father,” said Mongazid, the Loon’s Foot, from Fond du Lac, “when I heard the voice of my Father coming up the Mississippi, calling to this treaty, it seemed as a murmuring wind. I got up from my mat where I sat musing, and hastened to obey. My pathway has been clear and bright. Truly it is a pleasant sky above our heads this day. There is not a cloud to darken it. I hear nothing but pleasant words. The raven is not waiting for his prey. I hear no eagle cry, ‘Come, let us go,—the feast is ready,—the Indian has killed his brother.’”
Shingaba Wassin of Sault Ste. Marie, head chief of the Chippewas, had fought with Britain in the War of 1812 and lost a brother at the battle of the Thames. He and a hundred other chiefs with their pipe bearers signed the treaty. Everybody signed. And all sang, even the girls, the Witcheannas of the Sioux.
“We have buried our bad thoughts in the ashes of the pipe,” said Little Crow.
“I always had good counsel from Governor Clark,” observed Red Wing.
“You put this medal on my neck in 1812,” said Decorah, the Winnebago, “and when I returned I gave good advice to the young men of our village.”
After a fierce controversy and the rankling of a hundred wrongs, the warring tribes laid down their lances and buried the tomahawk. Sacs and Sioux shook hands; the dividing lines were fixed; all the chiefs signed, and the tribes were at peace for the first time in a thousand years.
“Pray God it may last,” said Clark, as his boat went away homeward along with the Sacs down the Mississippi.
The great Council at Prairie du Chien was over.