The Audubon Reader (8 page)

Double lines of a hundred fair ones extended along the ground in the most shady part of the woods, while here and there smaller groups awaited the merry trills of reels and cotillions. A burst of music from violins, clarinets and bugles gave the welcome notice, and presently the whole assemblage seemed to be gracefully moving through the air. The “hunting shirts” now joined in the dance, their fringed skirts keeping time with the gowns of the ladies, and the married people of either sex stepped in and mixed with their children. Every countenance beamed with joy, every heart leaped with gladness; no pride, no pomp, no affectation, were there; their spirits brightened as they continued their exhilarating exercise and
care and sorrow were flung to the winds. During each interval of rest refreshments of all sorts were handed round, and while the fair one cooled her lips with the grateful juice of the melon, the hunter of Kentucky quenched his thirst with ample draughts of well-tempered punch.

I know, reader, that had you been with me on that day you would have richly enjoyed the sight of this national
fête champetre
[country festival]. You would have listened with pleasure to the ingenuous tale of the lover, the wise talk of the elder on the affairs of the state, the accounts of improvement in stock and utensils and the hopes of continued prosperity to the country at large and to Kentucky in particular. You would have been pleased to see those who did not join the dance shooting at distant marks with their heavy rifles or watched how they shewed off the superior speed of their high bred “old Virginia” horses while others recounted their hunting exploits and at intervals made the woods ring with their bursts of laughter. With me the time sped like an arrow in its flight, and although more than twenty years have elapsed since I joined a Kentucky barbecue, my spirit is refreshed every 4th of July by the recollection of that day’s merriment.

But now the sun has declined and the shades of evening creep over the scene. Large fires are lighted in the woods, casting the long shadows of the live columns far along the trodden ground and flaring on the happy groups, loath to separate. In the still clear sky began to sparkle the distant lamps of heaven. One might have thought that Nature herself smiled on the joy of her children. Supper now appeared on the tables and after all had again refreshed themselves preparations were made for departure. The lover hurried for the steed of his fair one, the hunter seized the arm of his friend, families gathered into loving groups and all returned in peace to their happy homes.

About the end of December, some eighteen years ago, I left my family at a village near Henderson, in the lower part of Kentucky, being bound on an expedition to the upper parts of the Mississippi. I started with my friend Ferdinand Rozier in a vessel there termed a keelboat: an open boat with a covered stern which forms the cabin, over which projects the slender trunk of some tree (about sixty feet long) as a steering oar; the boat being impelled by four oars worked in the bow, at the rate of about five miles an hour, going with the current. The banks of the Ohio were already very dreary; indeed nothing green remained except the hanging canes that here and there bordered its shores, and the few dingy grape leaves, which hardly invited the eye to glance towards them.

We started in a heavy snowstorm, and our first night was indeed dismal; but as day began to appear, the storm ceased, and we found ourselves opposite the mouth of the
Cumberland River, which flows from the state of Tennessee, passing Nashville, and is a tolerably navigable stream for many hundred miles. Here the Ohio spreads to a considerable width and forms in summer a truly magnificent river, and is even at this season broad and beautifully transparent, though so shallow that it is often fordable from the Illinois shore to Cumberland Island. Vast trees overhang both banks, and their immense masses of foliage are reflected in the clear mirror.

Ere long we passed the mouth of the Tennessee River and Fort Massacre [i.e., Fort Massiac] and could easily perceive that the severe and sudden frost which had just set in had closed all the small lakes and lagoons in the neighborhood, as thousands of wild waterfowl were flying and settling themselves on the borders of the Ohio. Suffering our boat to drift with the stream whenever large flocks approached us, we shot a great number of them.

About the third day of our journey we entered the mouth of
Cache Creek, a very small stream, but at all times a sufficient deep and good harbor. Here I met a French count, a celebrated traveler, bound like ourselves to St. Genevieve, Upper Louisiana (now the State of Missouri). We soon learned that the Mississippi was covered by thick ice, and that it was therefore impossible to ascend it. Cache Creek is about six miles above the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi. The stream flows from some hills to the northward of its mouth, which are covered with red and black oak, sumac and locust trees; and were formerly said to contain valuable minerals, of which they have since proved to be totally destitute. The point of land between the creek and the junction of the two rivers is all alluvial and extremely rich soil covered with heavy black walnut, ash and pecan trees and closely tangled canes and nettles that are in summer at least six feet high. It is overflowed by both rivers during their freshes.

The creek, now filled by the overplus of the Ohio, abounded with fish of various sorts and innumerable ducks driven by winter to the south from the Polar Regions. Though the trees were entirely stripped of their verdure, I could not help raising my eyes towards their tops and admiring their grandeur. The large
sycamores with white bark formed a lively contrast with the canes beneath them; and the thousands of
paroquets that came to roost in their hollow trunks at night were to me objects of interest and curiosity. About fifty families of Shawnee
Indians had moreover chosen this spot for an encampment, to reap the benefit of a good harvest of pecan nuts; and to hunt the innumerable deer, bears and raccoons which the same cause had congregated there. These were not the first natives (for I cannot, like many Europeans, call them savages) that I had seen; I understand their habits and a few words of their language, and as many of them spoke French passably, I easily joined both their “talks” and their avocations.

An apparent sympathy connects those fond of the same pursuit, with a discernment almost intuitive, whatever be their nation. All those hunters who loved fishing and pursuits of enterprise ere long crowded round me; and as soon as they learned my anxiety for curiosities of natural history, they discovered the most gratifying anxiety to procure them for me. Even the squaws set small traps
for the smaller animals, and when, in return, I presented them with a knife, a pair of scissors, &c., they expressed their gratitude as gracefully as the most educated female would have done. My friend
Ferdinand Rozier, neither hunter nor naturalist, sat in the boat all day, brooding in gloomy silence over the loss of time &c. entailed by our detention. The Count kept a valuable journal, since published, hunted a great deal, and was as careless of the weather as myself; but his companion and father-in-law, like my partner, sat in his boat, pining with chagrin and ennui. Their case, however, was hopeless; here we were, and were forced to remain, until liberated by a thaw.

On the second morning after our arrival I heard a movement in the Indian camp, and having hastily risen and dressed myself, I discovered that a canoe containing half a dozen squaws and as many hunters was about to leave the Illinois for the Tennessee side of the river. I learned also that their object was to proceed to a large lake opposite, to which immense flocks of
swans resorted every morning. These flocks were so numerous and strong that it is, however incredible it may at first seem, a well-known fact that they keep the lakes which they frequent open merely by swimming upon them night and day.

Having obtained permission to join the party, I seated myself in the canoe, well supplied with ammunition and whiskey. In a few moments the paddles were at work and we swiftly crossed to the opposite shore. I was not much astonished during our passage to see all the labor of paddling performed by the squaws, for this feature of Indian manners was not new to me; but I was surprised to see that upon entering the canoe the hunters laid down and positively slept during the whole passage. On landing, the squaws, after securing the boat, proceeded to search for nuts, while the
gentlemen
hunters made the best of their way through the “thick and thin” to the lake.

Those who have never seen anything of what I call “thick and thin” may perhaps think I allude to something like the furze which covers some of the moors of Scotland. But they must imagine the shores of the Ohio, at its junction with the great muddy river called the Mississippi, to be fairly overgrown with a kind of thick-set cotton tree [i.e., willows] that rise as closely from the muddy soil
of the bank as can well be conceived. They are not to be beaten down; you must slide yourself between them, and in summer you have a pretty task to keep off the mosquitoes that abound amongst them. After these thickets there are small nasty lagoons, which you must either swim across, jump over or leap into and be drowned, according to your taste or capability.

But when the task of reaching the lake
is
accomplished—what a feast for a sportsman! There they lie, by hundreds, of a white or rich cream color—either dipping their black bills in the water, or leaning backwards and gently resting with one leg expanded, floating along and basking in the sunshine. The moment that these beautiful birds saw our
vedettes
[i.e., scouts], they started up in immediate apprehension. But the plan of our Indians drove the poor
swans the nearer to their fate, the farther they retreated from either shore. Men were placed behind the trees who knew how to take a dead aim, and every shot told. Being divided, three on one side and four on the other, the former hid themselves, and when the birds flew from the latter, they alighted within a good distance of those who had first alarmed them.

What would those English sportsmen—who, after walking a whole day and exploding a pound of powder, march home in great glee holding a partridge by the legs, with a smile on their lips and a very empty stomach—say to this day’s devastation amongst the swans? I saw these beautiful birds floating on the water, their backs downwards, their heads under the surface and their legs in the air, struggling in the last agonies of life to the number of at least fifty, their beautiful skins all intended for the ladies of Europe.

The sport was now over, the sun was nearly even with the tops of the trees, a conch was sounded, and after awhile the squaws appeared, dragging the canoe and moving about in quest of the dead game. It was at last all transported to the river’s edge and we were landed upon the Illinois bank again before dark. The fires were lighted. Each man ate his mess of pecan nuts and bear’s fat and then stretched himself out with feet close to the small heap of coal intended for the night. The females then began their work—it was their duty to skin the birds. I observed them for some time and then retired to rest, very well satisfied with the sports of this day, the 25th of December.

On the following morning I found that a squaw had given birth to beautiful twins during the night. She was at work tanning deerskins. She had cut two vines at the roots of opposite trees, which, having their upper branches twined in the tops of the trees, made a kind of swing; and framed a cradle of bark in which the infants were swung to and fro by a gentle push of her hand. From time to time she gave them the breast and to all appearance seemed as unconcerned as if nothing had taken place. What a difference between this Indian mother and a lady of fashion!

An Indian camp upon a
hunting expedition is not, I assure you, a place of idleness, and although the men do little more than hunt, they pursue this task with a degree of eagerness bordering upon enthusiasm. One of their party, a tall and robust man, assured us one morning that he would have some good sport that day, as he had found the
gite
[i.e., the den] of a bear of some size and wished to combat him singly. We all started with him to see him fulfill his bold promise. When we had gone about half a mile from the camp, he said he discerned the bear’s track, although I could positively perceive nothing, and he went on rambling through the thick canebrake until we reached a large decaying log of timber of an immense size. In this he said that the bear was concealed.

I have rarely seen a finer object than this Indian at the moment when he prepared to encounter his prey. His eyes sparkled with joy, the rusty blanket was thrown in an instant from his shoulders, his brawny arms seemed swelling with the blood that rushed through their prominent veins, and he drew his scalping knife with a fantastic gesture that plainly declared
la guerre à l’outrance
[i.e., war to the death]. He ordered me to mount a delicate sapling, which would, he said, be secure from the bear, who could easily ascend a larger tree with the activity of a squirrel, whilst the other two Indians stood at the entrance of the hollow log, which the hero entered with the most resolute determination.

All was still for some minutes. He then emerged and said the bear was slain and that I could safely descend. His companions entered the log, and having tied the animal to a long vine which they had cut, our united strength drew him out. This exploit was in fact less dangerous than it appeared, for the bear, when attacked in a confined spot like the trunk of a hollow tree, makes no
resistance, but retires further and further back until he is killed. As we returned to camp, one of our Indians broke the twigs in our way from time to time, and on our reaching the camp, two squaws were sent on the track of the broken twigs, who returned at night with the flesh and skin of the animal.