Harrison had not enjoyed the trip to St. Louis. Winter had come early this year, and what he’d expected to be a pleasant fall float down the Wabash to the Ohio and up the Mississippi, watching the leaves change along the banks, had been nothing but cold. There had been no ice to impede their progress, but the temperatures were freezing and the wind even worse. Still he was pleased to be here. Until last October, and ratification of the purchase of the Louisiana Territory from France, his presence here as an official of the US government would have had to be either very public or very secretive. And there had never really been an occasion or cause for either, so he’d never come. But after spending almost ten years in places where a muddy village of no more than a thousand people and five thousand hogs counted for a city, it was a pleasure to be in a place with raised sidewalks, multistory buildings, a theater that also served as a banquet hall, and thousands of acres around under cultivation. It was still frontier, but it was a city—or almost so.
As governor of the neighboring Territory of Indiana, Harrison would have to attend receptions, banquets, and perhaps a ball. And while Harrison’s frequent visits to Washington had kept him familiar with current trends in the niceties of society, his attendance at these events would be his first such on the frontier.
But none of that was why he was here. Harrison had come to St. Louis to capitalize on Johnny Logan’s great find. Johnny had found Paskepaho. Paskepaho, the only Illini to get off Starved Rock alive, was now the leader of a small group of surviving Illini living in three cabins at Portage des Sioux just north of St. Louis. His father, Quaqui, had been chief of the small Illini village at Mascouten Bay on the Illinois. But even more than that, he’d been the only village chief to survive the initial attack on his village by the Ottawa. He and his son had made their way to Starved Rock. Quaqui had led the defense there, and as such had become the last principal chief of the Illini. That gave his son, Paskepaho, legitimate claim to be the principal chief of the Illini nation and the legitimate negotiator for its land claims. At least, that was the story Harrison would send with the Treaty of St. Louis to the US Congress. That they would accept it, he had no doubt.
* * * *
It had been cold but not wet during their morning ride to Portage des Sioux. There was smoke coming out of the chimney of one of the cabins, which made Harrison smile. It would be miserable in there, he was certain, but at least not cold.
Harrison and Johnny Logan and the ten soldiers who accompanied him were greeted at the door of the cabin by three old men wrapped in blankets and staring sternly toward them.
“Greetings, Paskepaho,” Johnny said as their party came to a stop.
Paskepaho nodded solemnly and raised a hand palm up in a sign of friendship. “Greetings, Johnny Logan. We are pleased to have you join us again. Please get down and come into the warmth.”
As the entire party dismounted, Harrison spoke to the captain leading his escort. “Bring one other man into the cabin with you. The rest will have to stay out here with the horses.”
The captain gave the necessary commands, nodded to a grizzled old sergeant to join them, and followed Harrison and Johnny into the cabin.
Harrison had been correct. The cabin was mean but warm. The floor was dirt. There was no furniture, simply blankets rolled against the wall and some clothing hung on pegs. A large iron pot hung from a fireplace crane with a swivel arm. A section of butchered deer hung from the rafter nearest the fire.
In addition to the three Indian men and four whites, two Indian women stood beside the fireplace. Paskepaho motioned to his guest to sit. Harrison, who strongly preferred a chair, did so awkwardly and slowly. The other men eased down with practiced grace. Harrison studied Paskepaho. His was the face of an old man. It was thin, not from a natural character but from the deprivation of too many days with too little to eat. The skin had the texture of leather wrinkled and split by long days in the sun. It was hard to believe this man was fifty and not eighty.
As Harrison studied him, Paskepaho produced a ceremonial pipe that had already been filled. He lit it with a twig from the fire. Once it was going, Paskepaho passed the pipe to Harrison, who took a single puff and passed it back. Paskepaho then offered the pipe to Johnny. Then the pipe went around among all the men, but none spoke. When the tobacco was smoked, Paskepaho motioned to one of the women, who produced a bottle of whiskey and tin cups. Paskepaho poured into each cup. Harrison indulged a small smile when he saw that Paskepaho filled his own almost to the brim with the last of the bottle.
“We have smoked to peace and mutual understanding. Let us drink to long friendship,” Paskepaho said and took a long drink.
After the ritual Harrison set his cup down and spoke as Johnny Logan translated. “Chief Paskepaho, it is good of you to invite us here to join you. While I, and the government I represent, are pleased to be here, it saddens me that we must meet on this side of the river when all on the other side belongs to you.”
“Perhaps it did,” Paskepaho responded, “but it was taken from us long ago.”
“But you believe it was wrongly taken and is still yours, do you not?” Harrison asked.
“Kitchesmanetoa gave the land between the rivers to the Illini. It is ours, though I do not know how we are ever to recover it. It was my vow to my father that I would see the Potawatomi removed from what was ours.”
Harrison let silence fill the cabin before he spoke. “Paskepaho, we both want the same thing. Perhaps together we can make it happen.”
“How is that, Governor Harrison? How can we make that happen?”
“Chief Paskepaho, the Potawatomi are strong and many. The Illini have been reduced to a handful of warriors who will never be able to take back what is theirs. But we whites are stronger, and far more numerous, than the Potawatomi. Let us be your strong right arm; let us avenge the wrong done to you so long ago. We will remove them. We will either force them back to the lands from which they emerged or kill them. It is a thing our soldiers can do and will do with the permission of the Illini.”
“And all you wish is our agreement?” Paskepaho seemed confused.
“It is not quite that simple,” Harrison continued. “We Americans are a just people. We are not like the Shawnee, mercenaries who fight for a fee. We only fight for what is ours. So, we would have to call the land ours before we would send our soldiers. But that does not mean that we could not give our friends, the Illini, something in return for the land.”
Paskepaho sat motionless and expressionless for long moments.
Harrison began to feel his knees ache. He wanted to get this over. But he waited because he knew he must.
“Governor Harrison, if we the Illini give up our claim to the land, what will we have?”
Harrison had to struggle not to smile. It was over. He would have the Illinois land. Now they were just talking price.
“Paskepaho, how many are you? How many people are in your charge, how many must you care for?”
The aging Indian looked squarely into Harrison’s eyes, and even to Harrison’s avaricious soul the pain there was almost overwhelming. “The native speakers of our language? The five you see here and only six others. There are only eleven Illini left in this world.”
Harrison was taken aback by the impact of Paskepaho’s words. A nation reduced to eleven, and this man had been forced to watch it and live with it. Harrison chose gentle words. “And you, Paskepaho, are responsible for the care of them. So, from us you will receive two things. First, you will get wealth enough that these”—Harrison pointed to each Indian in the room one at a time—“who were kings of this land, will live the rest of their lives like the kings they are. Their end, your end, will no longer contain the pain of reduction.”
Paskepaho stared at Harrison but said nothing.
“And also this. Probably most important of all. You will die with the promise to your father fulfilled. You promised him you would see the Potawatomi removed from Illini lands. Your promise has just been fulfilled.”
* * * *
The ballroom was brilliant, the cut glass of the large chandelier twinkling with candlelight. Harrison, in a full dress military uniform, sat at an ornate white table with gold-painted trim in the middle of the room, all of his soldiers in formation behind him. The eleven Illini, the entire nation, standing before him.
“Chief Paskepaho, the paper before you on this table is a document that will be known as the Treaty of St. Louis. It gives you, the principal chief of the Illini nation, the sum of $1,000 today and every year hereafter, on the anniversary of this date, the same sum. You and your descendants will receive it so long as there is an Illini nation and a United States of America. It gives to the United States of America all claim of the Illini nation to all of the land between the Illinois River and the Mississippi River.
“If you and the other principal men of your nation will take this quill and mark your X there, at the bottom of the page, I will sign also.”
Harrison dipped the quill into the inkwell before him, handed it to Paskepaho, and pointed to the spot on the bottom of the page where he and the others should make their marks. They did and then Harrison turned the treaty around to face him and signed his name beside their marks.
And then with great ceremony Harrison picked up the fine kidskin purse on the edge of the desk and handed it to Paskepaho. Harrison stepped around the desk, stood in front of the chief, and took the old man’s hand in his. “The pledge of your lifetime is fulfilled. Rest in peace, Paskepaho.”