VI

But the chief’s and Skenedonk’s nursing and Indian remedies brought me face earthward again, reviving the surgeon’s hope.

When blood and life mounted, and my torn side sewed up its gap in a healthy scar, adding another to my collection, autumn was upon us.  From the hunting lodges on Lake George, and the Williamses of Longmeadow, I went to the scorched capital of Washington.  In the end the Government helped me with my Indian plan, though when Skenedonk and I pushed out toward Illinois Territory we had only my pay and a grant of land.  Peace was not formally made until December, but the war ended that summer.

Man’s success in the world is proportioned to the number of forces he can draw around himself to work with him.  I have been able to draw some forces; though in matters where most people protect themselves, I have a quality of asinine patience which the French would not have tolerated.

The Oneidas were ready to follow wherever I led them.  And so were many families of the Iroquois federation.  But the Mohawk tribe held back.  However, I felt confident of material for an Indian state when the foundation should be laid.

We started lightly equipped upon the horse paths.  The long journey by water and shore brought us in October to the head of Green Bay.  We had seen Lake Michigan, of a light transparent blueness, with fire ripples chasing from the sunset.  And we had rested at noon in plum groves on the vast prairies, oases of fertile deserts, where pink and white fruit drops, so ripe that the sun preserves it in its juice.  The freshness of the new world continually flowed around us.  We shot deer.  Wolves sneaked upon our trail.  We slept with our heels to the campfire, and our heads on our saddles.  Sometimes we built a hunter’s shed, open at front and sloping to ground at back.  To find out how the wind blew, we stuck a finger in our mouths and held it up.  The side which became cold first was the side of the wind.

Physical life riots in the joy of its revival.  I was so glad to be alive after touching death that I could think of Madame de Ferrier without pain, and say more confidently—­“She is not dead,” because resurrection was working in myself.

Green Bay or La Baye, as the fur hunters called it, was a little post almost like a New England village among its elms:  one street and a few outlying houses beside the Fox River.  The open world had been our tavern; or any sod or log hut cast up like a burrow of human prairie dogs or moles.  We did not expect to find a tavern in Green Bay.  Yet such a place was pointed out to us near the Fur Company’s block warehouse.  It had no sign post, and the only visible stable was a pen of logs.  Though negro slaves were owned in the Illinois Territory, we saw none when a red-headed man rushed forth shouting: 

“Sam, you lazy nigger, come here and take the gentleman’s horses!  Where is that Sam?  Light down, sir, with your Indian, and I will lead your beasts to the hostler myself.”