



Produced by David Widger






THE COBBLER IN THE DEVIL'S KITCHEN

From "Mackinac And Lake Stories", 1899

By Mary Hartwell Catherwood


Early in the Mackinac summer Owen Cunning took his shoemaker's bench and
all his belongings to that open cavern on the beach called the Devil's
Kitchen, which was said to derive its name from former practices of
the Indians. They roasted prisoners there. The inner rock retained old
smoke-stains.

Though appearing a mere hole in the cliff to passing canoe-men, the
Devil's Kitchen was really as large as a small cabin, rising at least
seven feet from a floor which sloped down towards the water. Overhead,
through an opening which admitted his body, Owen could reach a natural
attic, just large enough for his bed if he contented himself with
blankets. And an Irishman prided himself on being tough as any French
voyageur who slept blanketed on snow in the winter wilderness.

The rock was full of pockets, enclosing pebbles and fragments. By
knocking out the contents of these, Owen made cupboards for his food. As
for clothes, what Mackinac-Islander of the working-class, in those days
of the Fur Company's prosperity, needed more than he had on? When his
clothes wore out, Owen could go to the traders' and buy more. He washed
his other shirt in the lake at his feet, and hung it on the cedars to
dry by his door. Warm evenings, when the sun had soaked itself in
limpid ripples until its crimson spread through them afar, Owen stripped
himself and went bathing, with strong snorts of enjoyment as he rose
from his plunge. The narrow lake rim was littered with fragments which
had once filled the cavern. Two large pieces afforded him a table and a
seat for his visitors.

Owen had a choice of water for his drinking. Not thirty feet away on his
right a spring burst from the cliff and gushed through its little pool
down the beach. It was cold and delicious.

In the east side of the Kitchen was a natural tiny fireplace a couple
of feet high, screened by cedar foliage from the lake wind. Here Owen
cooked his meals, and the smoke was generally carried out from his
flueless hearth. The straits were then full of fish, and he had not far
to throw his lines to reach deep water.

Dependent on the patronage of Mackinac village, the Irishman had chosen
the very shop which would draw notice upon himself. His customers
tramped out to him along a rough beach under the heights, which helped
to wear away the foot-gear Owen mended. They stood grinning amiably at
his snug quarters. It was told as far as Drummond Island and the Sault
that a cobbler lived in the Devil's Kitchen on Mackinac.

He was a happy fellow, his clean Irish skin growing rosier in air pure
as the air of mid-ocean. The lake spread in variegated copper lights
almost at his feet. He did not like Mackinac village in summer, when the
engages were all back, and Indians camped tribes strong on the beach, to
receive their money from the government. French and savages shouldered
one another, the multitude of them making a great hubbub and a gay show
of clothes like a fair. Every voyageur was sparring with every other
voyageur. A challenge by the poke of a fist, and lo! a ring is formed
and two are fighting. The whipped one gets up, shakes hands with
his conqueror, and off they go to drink together. Owen despised such
fighting. His way was to take a club and break heads, and see some
blood run on the ground. It was better for him to dwell alone than to be
stirred up and left unsatisfied.

It was late in the afternoon, and the fresh smell of the water cheered
him as he sat stitching on a pair of deer-hide shoes for one Leon
Baudette, an engage, who was homesick for Montreal. The lowering sun
smote an hour-glass of light across the strait which separated him from
St. Ignace on the north shore, the old Jesuit station. Mother-of-pearl
clouds hung over the southern mainland, and the wash of the lake, which
was as pleasant as silence itself, diverted his mind from a distant
thump of Indian