Children of the Market Place | Page 7

docked at Erie and at Cleveland, both small places. We came to
Detroit, the capital of Michigan. On the way some one pointed out the
scene of Perry's victory over the hated British. We passed into Lake
Huron.
Then later I was privileged to see Mackinac, an Indian trading post. I
viewed the smoking wigwams from the deck of the Illinois. Here were
the savages buying powder, blankets, and whisky. The squaws were
selling beaded shoes. The shore was wooded and high.... I looked
below into the crystalline depths of the water. I could see great fish
swimming in the transparent calms, which mirrored the clouds, the
forests, and the boats and canoes of the Indians.... We ran down to
Green Bay, Wisconsin. Here too there were Indian traders.... We went
on to Milwaukee. As there was no harbor here a small steamer came
out to take us off. I went ashore with some others. A creek flowed from
the land to the lake. But the town was nothing. Only a storehouse and a
few wooden buildings. Soon we proceeded to Chicago. I was told that
the northern boundary of Illinois had been pushed north, in order to
give the state the southern shores of the great lake, with the idea of
capturing a part of the emigration and trade of the East. This fact
eventually influenced my life, and the history of the nation, as will be
seen.
Chicago had been a trading post, and to an extent was yet. The
population was less than 1000 people. There was a fort here, too, built
in place of one which had been destroyed in a massacre by the Indians.
There was much activity here, particularly in land speculation. Not a
half mile from the place where we landed there was a forest where
some Indians were camping. I heard that an Indian war was just over.
The Black Hawks had been defeated and driven off. But some friendly
remnants of other breeds were loitering about the town.

Carrying my valise, I began to look for a hotel for the night. Also, how
and when was I to get to Jacksonville? A man came by. I hailed him
and asked to be driven to a hotel. He walked with me north toward the
river, past the fort and landed me at a hostelry built partly of logs and
partly of frames. Surely this was not New York or Buffalo! As I came
to the hotel I saw a man standing at the door, holding the bridle bits of
an Indian pony. He came into the hotel soon, evidently after disposing
of his charge. At that moment I was asking Mr. Wentworth, the hotel
manager, how to get to Jacksonville. The man came forward and in the
kindest of voices interrupted to tell me what the manager evidently
could not. "I am going there myself to-morrow," he said. "You can ride
behind. The pony can carry both of us." I looked at my new-found
friend. He had deep blue eyes, a noble face, a musical and kindly voice.
He looked like the people I had known in England. I was drawn to him
at once in confidence and friendship. He went on to tell me later that he
had been in the Black Hawk War; that he had been spending some time
in Chicago trying to decide whether he would locate there or return to
Jacksonville. He had been offered forty acres of land about a mile south
of the river for the pony. But what good was the land? It was nothing
but sand and scrub oaks. Unless the town grew and made the land
valuable as building property, it would never be of value. For farming it
was worthless. But around Jacksonville the soil was incomparably
fertile and beautiful. He had decided, therefore, to return to
Jacksonville. His eyes deepened. "You see that I am attached to that
country." He smiled. "Yes, I must go back. Some one is waiting for me.
You are heartily welcome to ride behind." How long would it take? A
matter of five days. Meanwhile he had told me how to reach there
independently: by stage to a place 90 miles south on the Illinois River,
then by boat to a town on the river called Bath, then cross country to
Jacksonville. I began to balance the respective disadvantages. "My
name is Reverdy Clayton," he said, extending his hand in the most
cordial way. I could not resist him. "My name is James Miles," I
returned with some diffidence. "James Miles," he echoed. "James
Miles ... there was a man of that name in Jacksonville, poor fellow ...
now gone." "Perhaps he was my father ... did you know my father?" I
felt a thrill go