An opportunity for doing this soon occurred.  Paquette, the Interpreter, who was likewise an agent of the American Fur Company, had occasion to send a boat-load of furs to Green Bay, on their way to Mackinac.  Mr. Kinzie, having seen it as comfortably fitted up as an open boat of that description could be, with a tent-cloth fastened on a frame-work of hoop-poles over the centre and lined with a dark-green blanket, and having placed on board an abundant store of provisions and other comforts, committed us to the joint care of my brother Arthur and our faithful blacksmith, Mata.

This latter was a tall, gaunt Frenchman, with a freckled face, a profusion of crisp, sandy hair, and an inveterate propensity to speak English.  His knowledge of the language was somewhat limited, and he burlesqued it by adding an s to almost every word, and giving out each phrase with a jerk.

“Davids,” he was wont to say to the little yellow fiddler, after an evening’s frolic at the Interpreter’s, “Davids, clear away the tables and the glasses, and play fishes-hornspikes."[55] He was a kind, affectionate creature, and his devotion to “Monsieur Johns” and “Madame Johns” knew no bounds.

Besides these two protectors, three trusty Indians, the chief of whom was called Old Smoker, were engaged to escort our party.  The crew of the boat consisted entirely of French engages in the service of the Fur Company.  They were six gay-hearted, merry fellows, lightening their labor with their pipe and their songs, in which latter they would have esteemed it a great compliment to be joined by the ladies who listened to them; but our hearts, alas! were now too heavy to participate in their enjoyment.

The Fourth of July, the day on which we left our home, was a gloomy one indeed to those who departed and to the one left behind.  Who knew if we should ever meet again?  The experience which some of the circle had had in Indian warfare was such as to justify the saddest forebodings.  There was not even the consolation of a certainty that this step would secure our safety.  The Sauks might, possibly, be on the other side of us, and the route we were taking might perhaps, though not probably, carry us into their very midst.  It was no wonder, then, that our leave-taking was a solemn one—­a parting which all felt might be for this world.

Not all, however; for the gay, cheerful Frenchmen laughed and sang and cracked their jokes, and “assured Monsieur John that they would take Madame John and Madame Alum safe to the bay, spite of Sauks or wind or weather.”

Thus we set out on our journey.  For many miles the Fort was in sight, as the course of the river alternately approached and receded from its walls, and it was not until nearly mid-day that we caught the last glimpse of our home.