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

Some after noon we steamed past a small city on the southern coast which had a large natural harbor.

"Erie and Presque Isle Bay," announced the Historian. "A famous place. From it sailed Oliver Hazard Perry with his fleet of nine sail to most unmercifully drub the British lion on that tenth day of September, 1813. The battle took place some distance from here over against Sandusky. I will tell you all about it when we get there. My grandfather was one of the actors."

He said no more, and for a long time the conversation was sustained by Vincent and myself. The steamer put in at Cleveland just at dusk. The stop was brief, however, and we left the beautiful and thriving city looking like a queen on the Ohio shore under the bridal veil of night. The evening was brilliant with moonlight. The lake was like a mirror or an enchanted sea. Hour after hour passed, and we still sat on deck gazing on the scene. Far to the south we saw the many lights of a city shining. It was Sandusky.

"How delightful it is!" murmured Vincent.

"Beautiful," I replied. "If it were only the Ionian Sea, now, or the clear Ægean"—

"Those classic waters cannot match this lake," interrupted Hugh. "The battle of Erie will outlive Salamis or Actium. The laurels of Themistokles and Augustus fade even now before those of Perry. He was a hero worth talking about, something more human altogether than any of Plutarch's men. I feel it to be so now at least. It was right here somewhere that the battle raged."

"He was quite a young man, I believe," said I, glad to show that I knew something of the hero. I had seen his house at Newport many times, one of the old colonial kind, and his picture, that of a tall, slim man, with dash and bravery in his face, was not unfamiliar to me.

"Yes; only twenty-seven, and just married," continued the Historian, settling down to work. "Before the battle he read over his wife's letters for the last time, and then tore them up, so that the enemy should not see those records of the heart, if victorious. 'This is the most important day of my life,' he said to his officers, as the first shot from the British came crashing among the sails of the Lawrence; 'but we know how to beat those fellows,' he added, with a laugh. He had nine vessels, with fifty-four guns and four hundred and ninety officers and men. The British had six ships mounting sixty-three guns, with five hundred and two officers and men.

"In the beginning of the battle the British had the advantage. Their guns were of longer range, and Perry was exposed to their fire half an hour before he got in position where he could do execution. When he had succeeded in this the British concentrated their fire on his flag-ship. Enveloped in flame and smoke, Perry strove desperately to maintain his ground till the rest of his ships could get into action. For more than two hours he sustained the unequal conflict without flinching. It was his first battle, and, moreover, he was enfeebled by a fever from which he had just risen; but he never lost his ease and confidence. When most of his men had fallen, when his ship lay an unmanageable wreck on the water, 'every brace and bowline shot away,' and all his guns were rendered ineffective, he still remained calm and unmoved.

"Eighteen men out of one hundred stood alive on his deck; many of those were wounded. Lieutenant. Yarnell, with a red handkerchief tied round his head and another round his neck to stanch the blood flowing from two wounds, stood bravely by his commander. But all seemed lost when, through the smoke, Perry saw the Niagara approaching uncrippled.

"'If a victory is to be won I will win it,' he said to the lieutenant. He tore down his flag with its glorious motto,—'Don't give up the ship,'—and leaping into a boat with half a dozen others, told the sailors to give way with a will. The Niagara was half a mile distant to the windward, and the enemy, as soon as they observed his movement, directed their fire upon his boat. Oars were splintered in the rowers' hands by musket-balls, and the men themselves covered with spray from the roundshot and grape that smote the water on every side. But they passed safely through the iron storm, and at last reached the deck of the Niagara, where they were welcomed with thundering cheers. Lieutenant Elliot of the Niagara, leaving his own ship, took command of the Somers, and brought up the smaller vessels of the fleet, which had as yet been little in the action. Perry ran up his signal for close action, and from vessel to vessel the answering signals went up in the sunlight and the cheers rang over the water. All together now bore down upon the enemy and, passing through his line, opened a raking crossfire. So close and terrible was that fire that the crew of the Lady Prevost ran below, leaving the wounded and stunned commander alone on the deck. Shrieks and groans rose from every side. In fifteen minutes from the time the signal was made Captain Barclay, the British commander, flung out the white flag. The firing then ceased; the smoke slowly cleared away, revealing the two fleets commingled, shattered, and torn, and the decks strewn with dead. The loss on each side was the same, one hundred and thirty-five killed and wounded. The combat had lasted about three hours. When Perry saw that victory was secure he wrote with a pencil on the back of an old letter, resting it on his navy cap, the despatch to General Harrison: 'We have met the enemy, and they are ours: two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop.'

"It was a great victory," concluded the eloquent narrator. "The young conqueror did not sleep a wink that night. Until the morning light he was on the quarter-deck of the Lawrence, doing what he could to relieve his suffering comrades, while the stifled groans of the wounded men echoed from ship to ship. The next day the dead, both the British and the American, were buried in a wild and solitary spot on the shore. And there they sleep the sleep of the brave, with the sullen waves to sing their perpetual requiem."

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 tarryAnd 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 worryShall 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.