I return to the long-forgotten garrison of Detroit, which was left still

beleaguered by an increasing multitude of savages, and disheartened by the

defeat of Captain Dalzell's detachment. The schooner, so boldly defended

by her crew against a force of more than twenty times their number,

brought to the fort a much-needed supply of provisions. It was not,

however, adequate to the wants of the garrison; and the whole were put

upon the shortest possible allowance.

It was now the end of September. The Indians, with unexampled pertinacity,

had pressed the siege since the beginning of May; but at length their

constancy began to fail. The tidings had reached them that Major Wilkins,

with a strong force, was on his way to Detroit. They feared the

consequences of an attack, especially as their ammunition was almost

exhausted; and, by this time, most of them were inclined to sue for peace,

as the easiest mode of gaining safety for themselves, and at the same time

lulling the English into security.[346] They thought that by this means

they might retire unmolested to their wintering grounds, and renew the war

with good hope of success in the spring.

Accordingly, on the twelfth of October, Wapocomoguth, great chief of the

Mississaugas, a branch of the Ojibwas, living within the present limits of

Upper Canada, came to the fort with a pipe of peace. He began his speech

to Major Gladwyn, with the glaring falsehood that he and his people had

always been friends of the English. They were now, he added, anxious to

conclude a formal treaty of lasting peace and amity. He next declared that

he had been sent as deputy by the Pottawattamies, Ojibwas, and Wyandots,

who had instructed him to say that they sincerely repented of their bad

conduct, asked forgiveness, and humbly begged for peace. Gladwyn perfectly

understood the hollowness of these professions, but the circumstances in

which he was placed made it expedient to listen to their overtures. His

garrison was threatened with famine, and it was impossible to procure

provisions while completely surrounded by hostile Indians. He therefore

replied, that, though he was not empowered to grant peace, he would still

consent to a truce. The Mississauga deputy left the fort with this reply,

and Gladwyn immediately took advantage of this lull in the storm to

collect provisions among the Canadians; an attempt in which he succeeded

so well that the fort was soon furnished with a tolerable supply for the

winter.

The Ottawas alone, animated by Pontiac, had refused to ask for peace, and

still persisted in a course of petty hostilities. They fired at intervals

on the English foraging parties, until, on the thirty-first of October, an

unexpected blow was given to the hopes of their great chief. French

messengers came to Detroit with a letter from M. Neyon, commandant of Fort

Chartres, the principal post in the Illinois country. This letter was one

of those which, on demand of General Amherst, Neyon, with a very bad

grace, had sent to the different Indian tribes. It assured Pontiac that he

could expect no assistance from the French; that they and the English were

now at peace, and regarded each other as brothers; and that the Indians

had better abandon hostilities which could lead to no good result.[347]

The emotions of Pontiac at receiving this message may be conceived. His

long-cherished hopes of assistance from the French were swept away at

once, and he saw himself and his people thrown back upon their own slender

resources. His cause was lost. At least, there was no present hope for him

but in dissimulation. True to his Indian nature, he would put on a mask of

peace, and bide his time. On the day after the arrival of the message from

Neyon, Gladwyn wrote as follows to Amherst: "This moment I received a

message from Pondiac, telling me that he should send to all the nations

concerned in the war to bury the hatchet; and he hopes your Excellency

will forget what has passed."[348]

Having soothed the English commander with these hollow overtures, Pontiac

withdrew with some of his chiefs to the Maumee, to stir up the Indians in

that quarter, and renew the war in the spring.

About the middle of November, not many days after Pontiac's departure, two

friendly Wyandot Indians from the ancient settlement at Lorette, near

Quebec, crossed the river, and asked admittance into the fort. One of them

then unslung his powder-horn, and, taking out a false bottom, disclosed a

closely folded letter, which he gave to Major Gladwyn. The letter was from

Major Wilkins, and contained the disastrous news that the detachment under

his command had been overtaken by a storm, that many of the boats had been

wrecked, that seventy men had perished, that all the stores and ammunition

had been destroyed, and the detachment forced to return to Niagara. This

intelligence had an effect upon the garrison which rendered the prospect

of the cold and cheerless winter yet more dreary and forlorn.

The summer had long since drawn to a close, and the verdant landscape

around Detroit had undergone an ominous transformation. Touched by the

first October frosts, the forest glowed like a bed of tulips; and, all

along the river bank, the painted foliage, brightened by the autumnal sun,

reflected its mingled colors upon the dark water below. The western wind

was fraught with life and exhilaration; and in the clear, sharp air, the

form of the fish-hawk, sailing over the distant headland, seemed almost

within range of the sportsman's gun.

A week or two elapsed, and then succeeded that gentler season which bears

among us the name of the Indian summer; when a light haze rests upon the

morning landscape, and the many-colored woods seem wrapped in the thin

drapery of a veil; when the air is mild and calm as that of early June,

and at evening the sun goes down amid a warm, voluptuous beauty, that may

well outrival the softest tints of Italy. But through all the still and

breathless afternoon the leaves have fallen fast in the woods, like flakes

of snow; and every thing betokens that the last melancholy change is at

hand. And, in truth, on the morrow the sky is overspread with cold and

stormy clouds; and a raw, piercing wind blows angrily from the north-east.

The shivering sentinel quickens his step along the rampart, and the

half-naked Indian folds his tattered blanket close around him. The

shrivelled leaves are blown from the trees, and soon the gusts are

whistling and howling amid gray, naked twigs and mossy branches. Here and

there, indeed, the beech-tree, as the wind sweeps among its rigid boughs,

shakes its pale assemblage of crisp and rustling leaves. The pines and

firs, with their rough tops of dark evergreen, bend and moan in the wind;

and the crow caws sullenly, as, struggling against the gusts, he flaps his

black wings above the denuded woods.

The vicinity of Detroit was now almost abandoned by its besiegers, who had

scattered among the forests to seek sustenance through the winter for

themselves and their families. Unlike the buffalo-hunting tribes of the

western plains, they could not at this season remain together in large

bodies. The comparative scarcity of game forced them to separate into

small bands, or even into single families. Some steered their canoes far

northward, across Lake Huron; while others turned westward, and struck

into the great wilderness of Michigan. Wandering among forests, bleak,

cheerless, and choked with snow, now famishing with want, now cloyed with

repletion, they passed the dull, cold winter. The chase yielded their only

subsistence; and the slender lodges, borne on the backs of the squaws,

were their only shelter. Encamped at intervals by the margin of some

frozen lake, surrounded by all that is most stern and dreary in the

aspects of nature, they were subjected to every hardship, and endured all

with stubborn stoicism. Sometimes, during the frosty night, they were

gathered in groups about the flickering lodge-fire, listening to

traditions of their forefathers, and wild tales of magic and incantation.

Perhaps, before the season was past, some bloody feud broke out among

them; perhaps they were assailed by their ancient enemies the Dahcotah; or

perhaps some sinister omen or evil dream spread more terror through the

camp than the presence of an actual danger would have awakened. With the

return of spring, the scattered parties once more united, and moved

towards Detroit, to indulge their unforgotten hatred against the English.

Detroit had been the central point of the Indian operations; its capture

had been their favorite project; around it they had concentrated their

greatest force, and the failure of the attempt proved disastrous to their

cause. Upon the Six Nations, more especially, it produced a marked effect.

The friendly tribes of this confederacy were confirmed in their

friendship, while the hostile Senecas began to lose heart. Availing

himself of this state of things, Sir William Johnson, about the middle of

the winter, persuaded a number of Six Nation warriors, by dint of gifts

and promises, to go out against the enemy. He stimulated their zeal by

offering rewards of fifty dollars for the heads of the two principal

Delaware chiefs.[349] Two hundred of them, accompanied by a few

provincials, left the Oneida country during the month of February, and

directed their course southward. They had been out but a few days, when

they found an encampment of forty Delawares, commanded by a formidable

chief, known as Captain Bull, who, with his warriors, was on his way to

attack the settlements. They surrounded the camp undiscovered, during the

night, and at dawn of day raised the war-whoop and rushed in. The

astonished Delawares had no time to snatch their arms. They were all made

prisoners, taken to Albany, and thence sent down to New York, where they

were conducted, under a strong guard, to the common jail; the mob crowding

round them as they passed, and admiring the sullen ferocity of their

countenances. Not long after this success, Captain Montour, with a party

of provincials and Six Nation warriors, destroyed the town of Kanestio,

and other hostile villages, on the upper branches of the Susquehanna. This

blow, inflicted by supposed friends, produced more effect upon the enemy

than greater reverses would have done, if encountered at the hands of the

English alone.[350]

The calamities which overwhelmed the borders of the middle provinces were

not unfelt at the south. It was happy for the people of the Carolinas that

the Cherokees, who had broken out against them three years before, had at

that time received a chastisement which they could never forget, and from

which they had not yet begun to recover. They were thus compelled to

remain comparatively quiet; while the ancient feud between them and the

northern tribes would, under any circumstances, have prevented their

uniting with the latter. The contagion of the war reached them, however,

and they perpetrated numerous murders; while the neighboring nation of the

Creeks rose in open hostility, and committed formidable ravages. Towards

the north, the Indian tribes were compelled, by their position, to remain

tranquil, yet they showed many signs of uneasiness; and those of Nova

Scotia caused great alarm, by mustering in large bodies in the

neighborhood of Halifax. The excitement among them was temporary, and they

dispersed without attempting mischief.

CHAPTER XXIV.

1763.

THE PAXTON MEN.

Along the thinly settled borders, two thousand persons had been killed, or

carried off, and nearly an equal number of families driven from their

homes.[351] The frontier people of Pennsylvania, goaded to desperation by

long-continued suffering, were divided between rage against the Indians,

and resentment against the Quakers, who had yielded them cold sympathy and

inefficient aid. The horror and fear, grief and fury, with which these men

looked upon the mangled remains of friends and relatives, set language at

defiance. They were of a rude and hardy stamp, hunters, scouts, rangers,

Indian traders, and backwoods farmers, who had grown up with arms in their

hands, and been trained under all the influences of the warlike frontier.

They fiercely complained that they were interposed as a barrier between

the rest of the province and a ferocious enemy; and that they were

sacrificed to the safety of men who looked with indifference on their

miseries, and lost no opportunity to extenuate and smooth away the

cruelties of their destroyers.[352] They declared that the Quakers would

go farther to befriend a murdering Delaware than to succor a

fellow-countryman; that they loved red blood better than white, and a

pagan better than a Presbyterian. The Pennsylvania borderers were, as we

have seen, chiefly the descendants of Presbyterian emigrants from the

north of Ireland. They had inherited some portion of their forefathers'

sectarian zeal, which, while it did nothing to soften the barbarity of

their manners, served to inflame their animosity against the Quakers, and

added bitterness to their just complaints. It supplied, moreover, a

convenient sanction for the indulgence of their hatred and vengeance; for,

in the general turmoil of their passions, fanaticism too was awakened, and

they interpreted the command that Joshua should destroy the heathen[353]

into an injunction that they should exterminate the Indians.

The prevailing excitement was not confined to the vulgar. Even the clergy

and the chief magistrates shared it; and while they lamented the excess of

the popular resentment, they maintained that the general complaints were

founded in justice. Viewing all the circumstances, it is not greatly to be

wondered at that some of the more violent class were inflamed to the

commission of atrocities which bear no very favorable comparison with

those of the Indians themselves.

It is not easy for those living in the tranquillity of polished life fully

to conceive the depth and force of that unquenchable, indiscriminate hate,

which Indian outrages can awaken in those who have suffered them. The

chronicles of the American borders are filled with the deeds of men, who,

having lost all by the merciless tomahawk, have lived for vengeance alone;

and such men will never cease to exist so long as a hostile tribe remains

within striking distance of an American settlement.[354] Never was this

hatred more deep or more general than on the Pennsylvania frontier at this

period; and never, perhaps, did so many collateral causes unite to

inflame it to madness. It was not long in finding a vent.

Near the Susquehanna, and at no great distance from the town of Lancaster,

was a spot known as the Manor of Conestoga; where a small band of Indians,

speaking the Iroquois tongue, had been seated since the first settlement

of the province. William Penn had visited and made a treaty with them,

which had been confirmed by several succeeding governors, so that the band

had always remained on terms of friendship with the English. Yet, like

other Indian communities in the neighborhood of the whites, they had

dwindled in numbers and prosperity, until they were reduced to twenty

persons; who inhabited a cluster of squalid cabins, and lived by beggary

and the sale of brooms, baskets, and wooden ladles, made by the women. The

men spent a small part of their time in hunting, and lounged away the rest

in idleness. In the immediate neighborhood, they were commonly regarded as

harmless vagabonds; but elsewhere a more unfavorable opinion was

entertained, and they were looked upon as secretly abetting the enemy,

acting as spies, giving shelter to scalping-parties, and even aiding them

in their depredations. That these suspicions were not wholly unfounded is

shown by a conclusive mass of evidence, though it is probable that the

treachery was confined to one or two individuals.[355] The exasperated

frontiersmen were not in a mood to discriminate, and the innocent were

destined to share the fate of the guilty.[356]

On the east bank of the Susquehanna, at some distance above Conestoga,

stood the little town of Paxton; a place which, since the French war, had

occupied a position of extreme exposure. In the year 1755 the Indians had

burned it to the ground, killing many of the inhabitants, and reducing the

rest to poverty. It had since been rebuilt; but its tenants were the

relatives of those who had perished, and the bitterness of the

recollection was enhanced by the sense of their own more recent

sufferings. Mention has before been made of John Elder, the Presbyterian

minister of this place; a man whose worth, good sense, and superior

education gave him the character of counsellor and director throughout the

neighborhood, and caused him to be known and esteemed even in

Philadelphia. His position was a peculiar one. From the rough pulpit of

his little church, he had often preached to an assembly of armed men,

while scouts and sentinels were stationed without, to give warning of the

enemy's approach.[357] The men of Paxton, under the auspices of their

pastor, formed themselves into a body of rangers, who became noted for

their zeal and efficiency in defending the borders. One of their principal

leaders was Matthew Smith, a man who had influence and popularity among

his associates, and was not without pretensions to education; while he

shared a full proportion of the general hatred against Indians, and

suspicion against the band of Conestoga.

Towards the middle of December, a scout came to the house of Smith, and

reported that an Indian, known to have committed depredations in the

neighborhood, had been traced to Conestoga. Smith's resolution was taken

at once. He called five of his companions; and, having armed and mounted,

they set out for the Indian settlement. They reached it early in the

night; and Smith, leaving his horse in charge of the others, crawled

forward, rifle in hand, to reconnoitre; when he saw, or fancied he saw, a

number of armed warriors in the cabins. Upon this discovery he withdrew,

and rejoined his associates. Believing themselves too weak for an attack,

the party returned to Paxton. Their blood was up, and they determined to

extirpate the Conestogas. Messengers went abroad through the neighborhood;

and, on the following day, about fifty armed and mounted men, chiefly from

the towns of Paxton and Donegal, assembled at the place agreed upon. Led

by Matthew Smith, they took the road to Conestoga, where they arrived a

little before daybreak, on the morning of the fourteenth. As they drew

near, they discerned the light of a fire in one of the cabins, gleaming

across the snow. Leaving their horses in the forest, they separated into

small parties, and advanced on several sides at once. Though they moved

with some caution, the sound of their footsteps or their voices caught the

ear of an Indian; and they saw him issue from one of the cabins, and walk

forward in the direction of the noise. He came so near that one of the men

fancied that he recognized him. "He is the one that killed my mother," he

exclaimed with an oath; and, firing his rifle, brought the Indian down.

With a general shout, the furious ruffians burst into the cabins, and

shot, stabbed, and hacked to death all whom they found there. It happened

that only six Indians were in the place; the rest, in accordance with

their vagrant habits, being scattered about the neighborhood. Thus baulked

of their complete vengeance, the murderers seized upon what little booty

they could find, set the cabins on fire, and departed at dawn of day.[358]

The morning was cold and murky. Snow was falling, and already lay deep

upon the ground; and, as they urged their horses through the drifts, they

were met by one Thomas Wright, who, struck by their appearance, stopped to

converse with them. They freely told him what they had done; and, on his

expressing surprise and horror, one of them demanded if he believed in the

Bible, and if the Scripture did not command that the heathen should be

destroyed.

They soon after separated, dispersing among the farmhouses, to procure

food for themselves and their horses. Several rode to the house of Robert

Barber, a prominent settler in the neighborhood; who, seeing the strangers

stamping their feet and shaking the snow from their blanket coats, invited

them to enter, and offered them refreshment. Having remained for a short

time seated before his fire, they remounted and rode off through the

snowstorm. A boy of the family, who had gone to look at the horses of the

visitors, came in and declared that he had seen a tomahawk, covered with

blood, hanging from each man's saddle; and that a small gun, belonging to

one of the Indian children, had been leaning against the fence.[359]

Barber at once guessed the truth, and, with several of his neighbors,

proceeded to the Indian settlement, where they found the solid log cabins

still on fire. They buried the remains of the victims, which Barber

compared in appearance to half-burnt logs. While they were thus engaged,

the sheriff of Lancaster, with a party of men, arrived on the spot; and

the first care of the officer was to send through the neighborhood to

collect the Indians, fourteen in number, who had escaped the massacre.

This was soon accomplished. The unhappy survivors, learning the fate of

their friends and relatives, were in great terror for their own lives, and

earnestly begged protection. They were conducted to Lancaster, where, amid

great excitement, they were lodged in the county jail, a strong stone

building, which it was thought would afford the surest refuge.

An express was despatched to Philadelphia with news of the massacre; on

hearing which, the governor issued a proclamation denouncing the act, and

offering a reward for the discovery of the perpetrators. Undaunted by this

measure, and enraged that any of their victims should have escaped, the

Paxton men determined to continue the work they had begun. In this

resolution they were confirmed by the prevailing impression, that an

Indian known to have murdered the relatives of one of their number was

among those who had received the protection of the magistrates at

Lancaster. They sent forward a spy to gain intelligence, and, on his

return, once more met at their rendezvous. On this occasion, their nominal

leader was Lazarus Stewart, who was esteemed upon the borders as a brave

and active young man; and who, there is strong reason to believe,

entertained no worse design than that of seizing the obnoxious Indian,

carrying him to Carlisle, and there putting him to death, in case he

should be identified as the murderer.[360] Most of his followers, however,

hardened amidst war and bloodshed, were bent on indiscriminate slaughter;

a purpose which they concealed from their more moderate associates.

Early on the twenty-seventh of December, the party, about fifty in number,

left Paxton on their desperate errand. Elder had used all his influence to

divert them from their design; and now, seeing them depart, he mounted his

horse, overtook them, and addressed them with the most earnest

remonstrance. Finding his words unheeded, he drew up his horse across the

narrow road in front, and charged them, on his authority as their pastor,

to return. Upon this, Matthew Smith rode forward, and, pointing his rifle

at the breast of Elder's horse, threatened to fire unless he drew him

aside, and gave room to pass. The clergyman was forced to comply, and the

party proceeded.[361]

At about three o'clock in the afternoon, the rioters, armed with rifle,

knife, and tomahawk, rode at a gallop into Lancaster; turned their horses

into the yard of the public house, ran to the jail, burst open the door,

and rushed tumultuously in. The fourteen Indians were in a small yard

adjacent to the building, surrounded by high stone walls. Hearing the

shouts of the mob, and startled by the apparition of armed men in the

doorway, two or three of them snatched up billets of wood in self-defence.

Whatever may have been the purpose of the Paxton men, this show of

resistance banished every thought of forbearance; and the foremost,

rushing forward, fired their rifles among the crowd of Indians. In a

moment more, the yard was filled with ruffians, shouting, cursing, and

firing upon the cowering wretches; holding the muzzles of their pieces, in

some instances, so near their victims' heads that the brains were

scattered by the explosion. The work was soon finished. The bodies of men,

women, and children, mangled with outrageous brutality, lay scattered

about the yard; and the murderers were gone.[362]

When the first alarm was given, the magistrates were in the church,

attending the Christmas service, which had been postponed on the

twenty-fifth. The door was flung open, and the voice of a man half

breathless was heard in broken exclamations, "Murder--the jail--the Paxton

Boys--the Indians."

The assembly broke up in disorder, and Shippen, the principal magistrate,

hastened towards the scene of riot; but, before he could reach it, all was

finished, and the murderers were galloping in a body from the town.[363]

The sheriff and the coroner had mingled among the rioters, aiding and

abetting them, as their enemies affirm, but, according to their own

statement, vainly risking their lives to restore order.[364] A company of

Highland soldiers, on their way from Fort Pitt to Philadelphia, were

encamped near the town. Their commander, Captain Robertson, afterwards

declared that he put himself in the way of the magistrates, expecting that

they would call upon him to aid the civil authority; while, on the

contrary, several of the inhabitants testify, that, when they urged him to

interfere, he replied with an oath that his men had suffered enough from

Indians already, and should not stir hand or foot to save them. Be this as

it may, it seems certain that neither soldiers nor magistrates, with their

best exertions, could have availed to prevent the massacre; for so well

was the plan concerted, that, within ten or twelve minutes after the

alarm, the Indians were dead, and the murderers mounted to depart.

The people crowded into the jail-yard to gaze upon the miserable

spectacle; and, when their curiosity was sated, the bodies were gathered

together, and buried not far from the town, where they reposed three

quarters of a century; until, at length, the bones were disinterred in

preparing the foundation for a railroad.

The tidings of this massacre threw the country into a ferment. Various

opinions were expressed; but, in the border counties, even the most sober

and moderate regarded it, not as a wilful and deliberate crime, but as the

mistaken act of rash men, fevered to desperation by wrongs and

sufferings.[365]

When the news reached Philadelphia, a clamorous outcry rose from the

Quakers, who could find no words to express their horror and detestation.

They assailed not the rioters only, but the whole Presbyterian sect, with

a tempest of abuse, not the less virulent for being vented in the name of

philanthropy and religion. The governor again issued a proclamation,

offering rewards for the detection and arrest of the murderers; but the

latter, far from shrinking into concealment, proclaimed their deed in the

face of day, boasted the achievement, and defended it by reason and

Scripture. So great was the excitement in the frontier counties, and so

deep the sympathy with the rioters, that to arrest them would have

required the employment of a strong military force, an experiment far too

dangerous to be tried. Nothing of the kind was attempted until nearly

eight years afterwards, when Lazarus Stewart was apprehended on the charge

of murdering the Indians of Conestoga. Learning that his trial was to take

place, not in the county where the act was committed, but in Philadelphia,

and thence judging that his condemnation was certain, he broke jail and

escaped. Having written a declaration to justify his conduct, he called

his old associates around him, set the provincial government of

Pennsylvania at defiance, and withdrew to Wyoming with his band. Here he

joined the settlers recently arrived from Connecticut, and thenceforth

played a conspicuous part in the eventful history of that remarkable

spot.[366]

After the massacre at Conestoga, the excitement in the frontier counties,

far from subsiding, increased in violence daily; and various circumstances

conspired to inflame it. The principal of these was the course pursued by

the provincial government towards the Christian Indians attached to the

Moravian missions. Many years had elapsed since the Moravians began the

task of converting the Indians of Pennsylvania, and their steadfast energy

and regulated zeal had been crowned with success. Several thriving

settlements of their converts had sprung up in the valley of the Lehigh,

when the opening of the French war, in 1755, involved them in unlooked-for

calamities. These unhappy neutrals, between the French and Indians on the

one side, and the English on the other, excited the enmity of both; and

while from the west they were threatened by the hatchets of their own

countrymen, they were menaced on the east by the no less formidable

vengeance of the white settlers, who, in their distress and terror, never

doubted that the Moravian converts were in league with the enemy. The

popular rage against them at length grew so furious, that their

destruction was resolved upon. The settlers assembled and advanced against

the Moravian community of Gnadenhutten; but the French and Indians gained

the first blow, and, descending upon the doomed settlement, utterly

destroyed it. This disaster, deplorable as it was in itself, proved the

safety of the other Moravian settlements, by making it fully apparent that

their inhabitants were not in league with the enemy. They were suffered to

remain unmolested for several years; but with the murders that ushered in

Pontiac's war, in 1763, the former suspicion revived, and the expediency

of destroying the Moravian Indians was openly debated. Towards the end of

the summer, several outrages were committed upon the settlers in the

neighborhood, and the Moravian Indians were loudly accused of taking part

in them. These charges were never fully confuted; and, taking into view

the harsh treatment which the converts had always experienced from the

whites, it is highly probable that some of them were disposed to

sympathize with their heathen countrymen, who are known to have courted

their alliance. The Moravians had, however, excited in their converts a

high degree of religious enthusiasm; which, directed as it was by the

teachings of the missionaries, went farther than any thing else could have

done to soften their national prejudices, and wean them from their warlike

habits.

About three months before the massacre at Conestoga, a party of drunken

Rangers, fired by the general resentment against the Moravian Indians,

murdered several of them, both men and women, whom they found sleeping in

a barn. Not long after, the same party of Rangers were, in their turn,

surprised and killed, some peaceful settlers of the neighborhood sharing

their fate. This act was at once ascribed, justly or unjustly, to the

vengeance of the converted Indians, relatives of the murdered; and the

frontier people, who, like the Paxton men, were chiefly Scotch and Irish

Presbyterians, resolved that the objects of their suspicion should live no

longer. At this time, the Moravian converts consisted of two communities,

those of Nain and Wecquetank, near the Lehigh; and to these may be added a

third, at Wyalusing, near Wyoming. The latter, from its distant situation,

was, for the present, safe; but the two former were in imminent peril, and

the inhabitants, in mortal terror for their lives, stood day and night on

the watch.

At length, about the tenth of October, a gang of armed men approached

Wecquetank, and encamped in the woods, at no great distance. They intended

to make their attack under favor of the darkness; but before evening a

storm, which to the missionaries seemed providential, descended with such

violence, that the fires of the hostile camp were extinguished in a

moment, the ammunition of the men wet, and the plan defeated.[367]

After so narrow an escape, it was apparent that flight was the only

resource. The terrified congregation of Wecquetank broke up on the

following day; and, under the charge of their missionary, Bernard Grube,

removed to the Moravian town of Nazareth, where it was hoped they might

remain in safety.[368]

In the mean time, the charges against the Moravian converts had been laid

before the provincial Assembly; and, to secure the safety of the frontier

people, it was judged expedient to disarm the suspected Indians, and

remove them to a part of the province where it would be beyond their power

to do mischief.[369] The motion was passed in the Assembly with little

dissent; the Quakers supporting it from regard to the safety of the

Indians, and their opponents from regard to the safety of the whites. The

order for removal reached its destination on the sixth of November; and

the Indians, reluctantly yielding up their arms, prepared for departure.

When a sermon had been preached before the united congregations, and a

hymn sung in which all took part, the unfortunate exiles set out on their

forlorn pilgrimage; the aged, the young, the sick, and the blind, borne in

wagons, while the rest journeyed on foot.[370] Their total number,

including the band from Wyalusing, which joined them after they reached

Philadelphia, was about a hundred and forty. At every village and hamlet

which they passed on their way, they were greeted with threats and curses;

nor did the temper of the people improve as they advanced, for, when they

came to Germantown, the mob could scarcely be restrained from attacking

them. On reaching Philadelphia, they were conducted, amidst the yells and

hootings of the rabble, to the barracks, which had been intended to

receive them; but the soldiers, who outdid the mob in their hatred of

Indians, refused to admit them, and set the orders of the governor at

defiance. From ten o'clock in the morning until three in the afternoon,

the persecuted exiles remained drawn up in the square before the barracks,

surrounded by a multitude who never ceased to abuse and threaten them; but

wherever the broad hat of a Quaker was seen in the crowd, there they felt

the assurance of a friend,--a friend, who, both out of love for them, and

aversion to their enemies, would spare no efforts in their behalf. The

soldiers continued refractory, and the Indians were at length ordered to

proceed. As they moved down the street, shrinking together in their

terror, the mob about them grew so angry and clamorous, that to their

missionaries they seemed like a flock of sheep in the midst of howling

wolves.[371] A body-guard of Quakers gathered around, protecting them

from the crowd, and speaking words of sympathy and encouragement. Thus

they proceeded to Province Island, below the city, where they were lodged

in waste buildings, prepared in haste for their reception, and where the

Quakers still attended them, with every office of kindness and friendship.

CHAPTER XXV.

1764.

THE RIOTERS MARCH ON PHILADELPHIA.

The Conestoga murders did not take place until some weeks after the

removal of the Moravian converts to Philadelphia; and the rioters, as they

rode, flushed with success, out of Lancaster, after the achievement of

their exploit, were heard to boast that they would soon visit the city and

finish their work, by killing the Indians whom it had taken under its

protection. It was soon but too apparent that this design was seriously

entertained by the people of the frontier. They had tasted blood, and they

craved more. It seemed to them intolerable, that, while their sufferings

were unheeded, and their wounded and destitute friends uncared for, they

should be taxed to support those whom they regarded as authors of their

calamities, or, in their own angry words, "to maintain them through the

winter, that they may scalp and butcher us in the spring."[372] In their

blind rage, they would not see that the Moravian Indians had been removed

to Philadelphia, in part, at least, with a view to the safety of the

borders. To their enmity against Indians was added a resentment, scarcely

less vehement, against the Quakers, whose sectarian principles they hated

and despised. They complained, too, of political grievances, alleging that

the five frontier counties were inadequately represented in the Assembly,

and that from thence arose the undue influence of the Quakers in the

councils of the province.

The excited people soon began to assemble at taverns and other places of

resort, recounting their grievances, real or imaginary; relating

frightful stories of Indian atrocities, and launching fierce invectives

against the Quakers.[373] Political agitators harangued them on their

violated rights; self-constituted preachers urged the duty of destroying

the heathen, forgetting that the Moravian Indians were Christians, and

their exasperated hearers were soon ripe for any rash attempt. They

resolved to assemble and march in arms to Philadelphia. On a former

occasion, they had sent thither a wagon laden with the mangled corpses of

their friends and relatives, who had fallen by Indian butchery; but the

hideous spectacle had failed of the intended effect, and the Assembly had

still turned a deaf ear to their entreaties for more effective aid.[374]

Appeals to sympathy had been thrown away, and they now resolved to try the

efficacy of their rifles.

They mustered under their popular leaders, prominent among whom was

Matthew Smith, who had led the murderers at Conestoga; and, towards the

end of January, took the road to Philadelphia, in force variously

estimated at from five hundred to fifteen hundred men. Their avowed

purpose was to kill the Moravian Indians; but what vague designs they may

have entertained to change the government, and eject the Quakers from a

share in it, must remain a matter of uncertainty. Feeble as they were in

numbers, their enterprise was not so hopeless as might at first appear,

for they counted on aid from the mob of the city, while a numerous party,

comprising the members of the Presbyterian sect, were expected to give

them secret support, or at least to stand neutral in the quarrel. The

Quakers, who were their most determined enemies, could not take arms

against them without glaring violation of the principles which they had so

often and loudly professed; and even should they thus fly in the face of

conscience, the warlike borderers would stand in little fear of such

unpractised warriors. They pursued their march in high confidence,

applauded by the inhabitants, and hourly increasing in numbers.

Startling rumors of the danger soon reached Philadelphia, spreading alarm

among the citizens. The Quakers, especially, had reason to fear, both for

themselves and for the Indians, of whom it was their pride to be esteemed

the champions. These pacific sectaries found themselves in a new and

embarrassing position, for hitherto they had been able to assert their

principles at no great risk to person or property. The appalling tempest,

which, during the French war, had desolated the rest of the province, had

been unfelt near Philadelphia; and while the inhabitants to the westward

had been slaughtered by hundreds, scarcely a Quaker had been hurt. Under

these circumstances, the aversion of the sect to warlike measures had been

a fruitful source of difficulty. It is true that, on several occasions,

they had voted supplies for the public defence; but unwilling to place on

record such a testimony of inconsistency, they had granted the money, not

for the avowed purpose of raising and arming soldiers, but under the title

of a gift to the crown.[375] They were now to be deprived of even this

poor subterfuge, and subjected to the dilemma of suffering their friends

to be slain and themselves to be plundered, or openly appealing to arms.

Their embarrassment was increased by the exaggerated ideas which prevailed

among the ignorant and timorous respecting the size and strength of the

borderers, their ferocity of temper, and their wonderful skill as

marksmen. Quiet citizens, whose knowledge was confined to the narrow

limits of their firesides and shops, listened horror-stricken to these

reports; the prevalence of which is somewhat surprising, when it is

considered that, at the present day, the district whence the dreaded

rioters came may be reached from Philadelphia within a few hours.

Tidings of the massacre in Lancaster jail had arrived at Philadelphia on

the twenty-ninth of December, and with them came the rumor that numerous

armed mobs were already on their march to the city. Terror and confusion

were universal; and, as the place was defenceless, no other expedient

suggested itself than the pitiful one of removing the objects of popular

resentment beyond reach of danger. Boats were sent to Province Island, and

the Indians ordered to embark and proceed with all haste down the river;

but, the rumor proving groundless, a messenger was despatched to recall

the fugitives.[376] The assurance that, for a time at least, the city was

safe, restored some measure of tranquillity; but, as intelligence of an

alarming kind came in daily from the country, Governor Penn sent to

General Gage an earnest request for a detachment of regulars to repel the

rioters;[377] and, in the interval, means to avert the threatened danger

were eagerly sought. A proposal was laid before the Assembly to embark the

Indians and send them to England;[378] but the scheme was judged

inexpedient, and another, of equal weakness, adopted in its place. It was

determined to send the refugees to New York, and place them under the

protection of the Indian Superintendent, Sir William Johnson; a plan as

hastily executed as timidly conceived.[379] At midnight, on the fourth of

January, no measures having been taken to gain the consent of either the

government of New York or Johnson himself, the Indians were ordered to

leave the island and proceed to the city; where they arrived a little

before daybreak, passing in mournful procession, thinly clad and shivering

with cold, through the silent streets. The Moravian Brethren supplied them

with food; and Fox, the commissary, with great humanity, distributed

blankets among them. Before they could resume their progress, the city was

astir; and as they passed the suburbs, they were pelted and hooted at by

the mob. Captain Robertson's Highlanders, who had just arrived from

Lancaster, were ordered to escort them. These soldiers, who had their own

reasons for hating Indians, treated them at first with no less insolence

and rudeness than the populace; but at length, overcome by the meekness

and patience of the sufferers, they changed their conduct, and assumed a

tone of sympathy and kindness.[380]

Thus escorted, the refugees pursued their dreary progress through the

country, greeted on all sides by the threats and curses of the people.

When they reached Trenton, they were received by Apty, the commissary at

that place, under whose charge they continued their journey towards Amboy,

where several small vessels had been provided to carry them to New York.

Arriving at Amboy, however, Apty, to his great surprise, received a letter

from Governor Colden of New York, forbidding him to bring the Indians

within the limits of that province. A second letter, from General Gage to

Captain Robertson, conveyed orders to prevent their advance; and a third,

to the owners of the vessels, threatened heavy penalties if they should

bring the Indians to the city.[381] The charges of treachery against the

Moravian Indians, the burden their presence would occasion, and the danger

of popular disturbance, were the chief causes which induced the government

of New York to adopt this course; a course that might have been foreseen

from the beginning.[382]

Thus disappointed in their hopes of escape, the hapless Indians remained

several days lodged in the barracks at Amboy, where they passed much of

their time in religious services. A message, however, soon came from the

Governor of New Jersey, requiring them to leave that province; and they

were compelled reluctantly to retrace their steps to Philadelphia. A

detachment of a hundred and seventy soldiers had arrived, sent by General

Gage in compliance with the request of Governor Penn; and under the

protection of these troops, the exiles began their backward journey. On

the twenty-fourth of January, they reached Philadelphia, where they were

lodged at the barracks within the city; the soldiers, forgetful of former

prejudice, no longer refusing them entrance.

The return of the Indians, banishing the hope of repose with which the

citizens had flattered themselves, and the tidings of danger coming in

quick succession from the country, made it apparent that no time must be

lost; and the Assembly, laying aside their scruples, unanimously passed a

bill providing means for the public defence. The pacific city displayed a

scene of unwonted bustle. All who held property, or regarded the public

order, might, it should seem, have felt a deep interest in the issue; yet

a numerous and highly respectable class stood idle spectators, or showed

at best but a lukewarm zeal. These were the Presbyterians, who had

naturally felt a strong sympathy with their suffering brethren of the

frontier. To this they added a deep bitterness against the Quaker, greatly

increased by a charge, most uncharitably brought by the latter against the

whole Presbyterian sect, of conniving at and abetting the murders at

Conestoga and Lancaster. They regarded the Paxton men as victims of Quaker

neglect and injustice, and showed a strong disposition to palliate, or

excuse altogether, the violence of which they had been guilty. Many of

them, indeed, were secretly inclined to favor the designs of the advancing

rioters; hoping that by their means the public grievances would be

redressed, the Quaker faction put down, and the social and political

balance of the state restored.[383]

Whatever may have been the sentiments of the Presbyterians and of the city

mob, the rest of the inhabitants bestirred themselves for defence with all

the alacrity of fright. The Quakers were especially conspicuous for their

zeal. Nothing more was heard of the duty of non-resistance. The city was

ransacked for arms, and the Assembly passed a vote, extending the English

riot act to the province, the Quaker members heartily concurring in the

measure. Franklin, whose energy and practical talents made his services

invaluable, was the moving spirit of the day; and under his auspices the

citizens were formed into military companies, six of which were of

infantry, one of artillery, and two of horse. Besides this force, several

thousands of the inhabitants, including many Quakers, held themselves

ready to appear in arms at a moment's notice.[384]

These preparations were yet incomplete, when, on the fourth of February,

couriers came in with the announcement that the Paxton men, horse and

foot, were already within a short distance of the city. Proclamation was

made through the streets, and the people were called to arms. A mob of

citizen soldiers repaired in great excitement to the barracks, where the

Indians were lodged, under protection of the handful of regulars. Here

the crowd remained all night, drenched with the rain, and in a dismal

condition.[385]

On the following day, Sunday, a barricade was thrown up across the great

square enclosed by the barracks; and eight cannon, to which four more were

afterwards added, were planted to sweep the adjacent streets. These pieces

were discharged, to convey to the rioters an idea of the reception

prepared for them; but whatever effect the explosion may have produced on

the ears for which it was intended, the new and appalling sounds struck

the Indians in the barracks with speechless terror.[386] While the city

assumed this martial attitude, its rulers thought proper to adopt the

safer though less glorious course of conciliation; and a deputation of

clergymen was sent out to meet the rioters, and pacify them by reason and

Scripture. Towards night, as all remained quiet and nothing was heard from

the enemy, the turmoil began to subside, the citizen soldiers dispersed,

the regulars withdrew into quarters, and the city recovered something of

the ordinary repose of a Sabbath evening.

Through the early part of the night, the quiet was undisturbed; but at

about two o'clock in the morning, the clang of bells and the rolling of

drums startled the people from their slumbers, and countless voices from

the street echoed the alarm. Immediately, in obedience to the previous

day's orders, lighted candles were placed in every window, till the

streets seemed illuminated for a festival. The citizen soldiers, with more

zeal than order, mustered under their officers. The governor, dreading an

irruption of the mob, repaired to the house of Franklin; and the city was

filled with the jangling of bells, and the no less vehement clamor of

tongues. A great multitude gathered before the barracks, where it was

supposed the attack would be made; and among them was seen many a Quaker,

with musket in hand. Some of the more consistent of the sect, unwilling to

take arms with their less scrupulous brethren, went into the barracks to

console and reassure the Indians; who, however, showed much more composure

than their comforters, and sat waiting the result with invincible

calmness. Several hours of suspense and excitement passed, when it was

recollected, that, though the other ferries of the Schuylkill had been

secured, a crossing place, known as the Swedes' Ford, had been left open;

and a party at once set out to correct this unlucky oversight.[387]

Scarcely were they gone, when a cry rose among the crowd before the

barracks, and a general exclamation was heard that the Paxton Boys were

coming. In fact, a band of horsemen was seen advancing up Second Street.

The people crowded to get out of the way; the troops fell into such order

as they could; a cannon was pointed full at the horsemen, and the gunner

was about to apply the match, when a man ran out from the crowd, and

covered the touch-hole with his hat. The cry of a false alarm was heard,

and it was soon apparent to all that the supposed Paxton Boys were a troop

of German butchers and carters, who had come to aid in defence of the

city, and had nearly paid dear for their patriotic zeal.[388]

The tumult of this alarm was hardly over, when a fresh commotion was

raised by the return of the men who had gone to secure the Swedes' Ford,

and who reported that they had been too late; that the rioters had crossed

the river, and were already at Germantown. Those who had crossed proved to

be the van of the Paxton men, two hundred in number, and commanded by

Matthew Smith; who, learning what welcome was prepared for them, thought

it prudent to remain quietly at Germantown, instead of marching forward to

certain destruction. In the afternoon, many of the inhabitants gathered

courage, and went out to visit them. They found nothing very extraordinary

in the aspect of the rioters, who, in the words of a writer of the day,

were "a set of fellows in blanket coats and moccasons, like our Indian

traders or back country wagoners, all armed with rifles and tomahawks, and

some with pistols stuck in their belts."[389] They received their visitors

with a courtesy which might doubtless be ascribed, in great measure, to

their knowledge of the warlike preparations within the city; and the

report made by the adventurers, on their return, greatly tended to allay

the general excitement.

The alarm, however, was again raised on the following day; and the cry to

arms once more resounded through the city of peace. The citizen soldiers

mustered with exemplary despatch; but their ardor was quenched by a storm

of rain, which drove them all under shelter. A neighboring Quaker

meeting-house happened to be open, and a company of the volunteers betook

themselves in haste to this convenient asylum. Forthwith, the place was

bristling with bayonets; and the walls, which had listened so often to

angry denunciations against war, now echoed the clang of weapons,--an

unspeakable scandal to the elders of the sect, and an occasion of pitiless

satire to the Presbyterians.[390]

This alarm proving groundless, like all the others, the governor and

council proceeded to the execution of a design which they had formed the

day before. They had resolved, in pursuance of their timid policy, to open

negotiations with the rioters, and persuade them, if possible, to depart

peacefully. Many of the citizens protested against the plan, and the

soldiers volunteered to attack the Paxton men; but none were so vehement

as the Quakers, who held that fire and steel were the only welcome that

should be accorded to such violators of the public peace, and audacious

blasphemers of the society of Friends.[391] The plan was nevertheless

sustained; and Franklin, with three other citizens of character and

influence, set out for Germantown. The rioters received them with marks

of respect; and, after a long conference, the leaders of the mob were so

far wrought upon as to give over their hostile designs, the futility of

which was now sufficiently apparent.[392] An assurance was given, on the

part of the government, that their complaints should have a hearing; and

safety was guarantied to those of their number who should enter the city

as their representatives and advocates. For this purpose, Matthew Smith

and James Gibson were appointed by the general voice; and two papers, a

"Declaration" and a "Remonstrance," were drawn up, addressed to the

governor and Assembly. With this assurance that their cause should be

represented, the rioters signified their willingness to return home, glad

to escape so easily from an affair which had begun to threaten worse

consequences.

Towards evening, the commissioners, returning to the city, reported the

success of their negotiations. Upon this, the citizen soldiers were

convened in front of the court house, and addressed by a member of the

council. He thanked them for their zeal, and assured them there was no

farther occasion for their services; since the Paxton men, though falsely

represented as enemies of government, were in fact its friends,

entertaining no worse design than that of gaining relief to their

sufferings, without injury to the city or its inhabitants. The people, ill

satisfied with what they heard, returned in no placid temper to their

homes.[393] On the morrow, the good effect of the treaty was apparent in a

general reopening of schools, shops, and warehouses, and a return to the

usual activity of business, which had been wholly suspended for some days.

The security was not of long duration. Before noon, an uproar more

tumultuous than ever, a cry to arms, and a general exclamation that the

Paxton Boys had broken the treaty and were entering the town, startled the

indignant citizens. The streets were filled in an instant with a rabble of

armed merchants and shopmen, who for once were fully bent on slaughter,

and resolved to put an end to the long-protracted evil. Quiet was again

restored; when it was found that the alarm was caused by about thirty of

the frontiersmen, who, with singular audacity, were riding into the city

on a visit of curiosity. As their deportment was inoffensive, it was

thought unwise to molest them. Several of these visitors had openly

boasted of the part they had taken in the Conestoga murders, and a large

reward had been offered for their apprehension; yet such was the state of

factions in the city, and such the dread of the frontiersmen, that no man

dared lay hand on the criminals. The party proceeded to the barracks,

where they requested to see the Indians, declaring that they could point

out several who had been in the battle against Colonel Bouquet, or engaged

in other acts of open hostility. The request was granted, but no discovery

made. Upon this, it was rumored abroad that the Quakers had removed the

guilty individuals to screen them from just punishment; an accusation

which, for a time, excited much ill blood between the rival factions.

The thirty frontiersmen withdrew from the city, and soon followed the

example of their companions, who had begun to move homeward, leaving their

leaders, Smith and Gibson, to adjust their differences with the

government. Their departure gave great relief to the people of the

neighborhood, to whom they had, at times, conducted themselves after a

fashion somewhat uncivil and barbarous; uttering hideous outcries, in

imitation of the war-whoop; knocking down peaceable citizens, and

pretending to scalp them; thrusting their guns in at windows, and

committing unheard-of ravages among hen-roosts and hog-pens.[394]

Though the city was now safe from all external danger, contentions sprang

up within its precincts, which, though by no means as perilous, were not

less clamorous and angry than those menaced from an irruption of the

rioters.[395] The rival factions turned savagely upon each other; while

the more philosophic citizens stood laughing by, and ridiculed them both.

The Presbyterians grew furious, the Quakers dogged and spiteful.

Pamphlets, farces, dialogues, and poems came forth in quick succession.

These sometimes exhibited a few traces of wit, and even of reasoning; but

abuse was the favorite weapon, and it is difficult to say which of the

combatants handled it with the greater freedom and dexterity.[396] The

Quakers accused the Presbyterians of conniving at the act of murderers,

of perverting Scripture for their defence, and of aiding the rioters with

counsel and money in their audacious attempt against the public peace. The

Presbyterians, on their part, with about equal justice, charged the

Quakers with leaguing themselves with the common enemy and exciting them

to war. They held up to scorn those accommodating principles which denied

the aid of arms to suffering fellow-countrymen, but justified their use at

the first call of self-interest. The Quaker warrior, in his sober garb of

ostentatious simplicity, his prim person adorned with military trappings,

and his hands grasping a musket which threatened more peril to himself

than to his enemy, was a subject of ridicule too tempting to be

overlooked.

While this paper warfare was raging in the city, the representatives of

the frontiersmen, Smith and Gibson, had laid before the Assembly the

memorial, entitled the Remonstrance; and to this a second paper, styled a

Declaration, was soon afterwards added.[397] Various grievances were

specified, for which redress was demanded. It was urged that those

counties where the Quaker interest prevailed sent to the Assembly more

than their due share of representatives. The memorialists bitterly

complained of a law, then before the Assembly, by which those charged with

murdering Indians were to be brought to trial, not in the district where

the act was committed, but in one of the three eastern counties. They

represented the Moravian converts as enemies in disguise, and denounced

the policy which yielded them protection and support while the sick and

wounded of the frontiers were cruelly abandoned to their misery. They

begged that a suitable reward might be offered for scalps, since the want

of such encouragement had "damped the spirits of many brave men." Angry

invectives against the Quakers succeeded. To the "villany, infatuation,

and influence of a certain faction, that have got the political reins in

their hands, and tamely tyrannize over the other good subjects of the

province," were to be ascribed, urged the memorialists, the intolerable

evils which afflicted the people. The Quakers, they insisted, had held

private treaties with the Indians, encouraged them to hostile acts, and

excused their cruelties on the charitable plea that this was their method

of making war.

The memorials were laid before a committee, who recommended that a public

conference should be held with Smith and Gibson, to consider the grounds

of complaint. To this the governor, in view of the illegal position

assumed by the frontiersmen, would not give his consent; an assertion of

dignity that would have done him more honor had he made it when the

rioters were in arms before the city, at which time he had shown an

abundant alacrity to negotiate. It was intimated to Smith and Gibson that

they might leave Philadelphia; and the Assembly soon after became involved

in its inevitable quarrels with the governor, relative to the granting of

supplies for the service of the ensuing campaign. The supply bill passed,

as mentioned in a former chapter; and the consequent military

preparations, together with a threatened renewal of the war on the part of

the enemy, engrossed the minds of the frontier people, and caused the

excitements of the winter to be forgotten. No action on the two memorials

was ever taken by the Assembly; and the memorable Paxton riots had no

other definite result than that of exposing the weakness and distraction

of the provincial government, and demonstrating the folly and absurdity of

all principles of non-resistance.

Yet to the student of human nature these events supply abundant food for

reflection. In the frontiersman, goaded by the madness of his misery to

deeds akin to those by which he suffered, and half believing that, in the

perpetration of these atrocities, he was but the minister of divine

vengeance; in the Quaker, absorbed by one narrow philanthropy, and closing

his ears to the outcries of his wretched countrymen; in the Presbyterian,

urged by party spirit and sectarian zeal to countenance the crimes of

rioters and murderers,--in each and all of these lies an embodied satire,

which may find its application in every age of the world, and every

condition of society.

The Moravian Indians, the occasion--and, at least, as regards most of

them, the innocent occasion--of the tumult, remained for a full year in

the barracks of Philadelphia. There they endured frightful sufferings from

the small-pox, which destroyed more than a third of their number. After

the conclusion of peace, they were permitted to depart; and, having

thanked the governor for his protection and care, they withdrew to the

banks of the Susquehanna, where, under the direction of the missionaries,

they once more formed a prosperous settlement.[398]

CHAPTER XXVI.

1764.

BRADSTREET'S ARMY ON THE LAKES.

The campaign of 1763, a year of disaster to the English colonies, was

throughout of a defensive nature, and no important blow had been struck

against the enemy. With the opening of the following spring, preparations

were made to renew the war on a more decisive plan. Before the

commencement of hostilities, Sir William Johnson and his deputy, George

Croghan, severally addressed to the lords of trade memorials, setting

forth the character, temper, and resources of the Indian tribes, and

suggesting the course of conduct which they judged it expedient to pursue.

They represented that, before the conquest of Canada, all the tribes,

jealous of French encroachment, had looked to the English to befriend and

protect them; but that now one general feeling of distrust and hatred

filled them all. They added that the neglect and injustice of the British

government, the outrages of ruffian borderers and debauched traders, and

the insolence of English soldiers, had aggravated this feeling, and given

double effect to the restless machinations of the defeated French; who, to

revenge themselves on their conquerors, were constantly stirring up the

Indians to war. A race so brave and tenacious of liberty, so wild and

erratic in their habits, dwelling in a country so savage and inaccessible,

could not be exterminated or reduced to subjection without an immoderate

expenditure of men, money, and time. The true policy of the British

government was therefore to conciliate; to soothe their jealous pride,

galled by injuries and insults; to gratify them by presents, and treat

them with a respect and attention to which their haughty spirit would not

fail to respond. We ought, they said, to make the Indians our friends;

and, by a just, consistent, and straightforward course, seek to gain their

esteem, and wean them from their partiality to the French. To remove the

constant irritation which arose from the intrusion of the white

inhabitants on their territory, Croghan urged the expediency of purchasing

a large tract of land to the westward of the English settlements; thus

confining the tribes to remoter hunting-grounds. For a moderate sum the

Indians would part with as much land as might be required. A little more,

laid out in annual presents, would keep them in good temper; and by

judicious management all hostile collision might be prevented, till, by

the extension of the settlements, it should become expedient to make yet

another purchase.[399]

This plan was afterwards carried into execution by the British government.

Founded as it is upon the supposition that the Indian tribes must

gradually dwindle and waste away, it might well have awakened the utmost

fears of that unhappy people. Yet none but an enthusiast or fanatic could

condemn it as iniquitous. To reclaim the Indians from their savage state

has again and again been attempted, and each attempt has failed. Their

intractable, unchanging character leaves no other alternative than their

gradual extinction, or the abandonment of the western world to eternal

barbarism; and of this and other similar plans, whether the offspring of

British or American legislation, it may alike be said that sentimental

philanthropy will find it easier to cavil at than to amend them.

Now, turning from the Indians, let us observe the temper of those whose

present business it was to cudgel them into good behavior; that is to say,

the British officers, of high and low degree. They seem to have been in a

mood of universal discontent, not in the least surprising when one

considers that they were forced to wage, with crippled resources, an

arduous, profitless, and inglorious war; while perverse and jealous

legislatures added gall to their bitterness, and taxed their patience to

its utmost endurance. The impossible requirements of the

commander-in-chief were sometimes joined to their other vexations. Sir

Jeffrey Amherst, who had, as we have seen, but a slight opinion of

Indians, and possibly of everybody else except a British nobleman and a

British soldier, expected much of his officers; and was at times

unreasonable in his anticipations of a prompt "vengeance on the

barbarians." Thus he had no sooner heard of the loss of Michillimackinac,

Miami, and other western outposts, than he sent orders to Gladwyn to

re-establish them at once. Gladwyn, who had scarcely force enough to

maintain himself at Detroit, thereupon writes to his friend Bouquet: "The

last I received from the General is of the second July, in which I am

ordered to establish the outposts immediately. At the time I received

these orders, I knew it was impossible to comply with any part of them:

the event shows I was right. I am heartily wearied of my command, and I

have signified the same to Colonel Amherst (Sir Jeffrey's adjutant). I

hope I shall be relieved soon; if not, I intend to quit the service, for I

would not choose to be any longer exposed to the villany and treachery of

the settlement and Indians."

Two or three weeks before the above was written, George Croghan, Sir

William Johnson's deputy, who had long lived on the frontier, and was as

well versed in Indian affairs as the commander-in-chief was ignorant of

them, wrote to Colonel Bouquet:--"Seven tribes in Canada have offered

their services to act with the King's troops; but the General seems

determined to neither accept of Indians' services, nor provincials'.... I

have resigned out of the service, and will start for England about the

beginning of December. Sir Jeffrey Amherst would not give his consent; so

I made my resignation in writing, and gave my reasons for so doing. Had I

continued, I could be of no more service than I have been these eighteen

months past; which was none at all, as no regard was had to any

intelligence I sent, no more than to my opinion." Croghan, who could not

be spared, was induced, on Gage's accession to the command, to withdraw

his resignation and retain his post.

Next, we have a series of complaints from Lieutenant Blane of Fort

Ligonier; who congratulates Bouquet on his recent victory at Bushy Run,

and adds: "I have now to beg that I may not be left any longer in this

forlorn way, for I can assure you the fatigue I have gone through begins

to get the better of me. I must therefore beg that you will appoint me, by

the return of the convoy, a proper garrison.... My present situation is

fifty times worse than ever." And again, on the seventeenth of September:

"I must beg leave to recommend to your particular attention the sick

soldiers here; as there is neither surgeon nor medicine, it would really

be charity to order them up. I must also beg leave to ask what you intend

to do with the poor starved militia, who have neither shirts, shoes, nor

any thing else. I am sorry you can do nothing for the poor inhabitants....

I really get heartily tired of this post." He endured it some two months

more, and then breaks out again on the twenty-fourth of November: "I

intend going home by the first opportunity, being pretty much tired of a

service that's so little worth any man's time; and the more so, as I

cannot but think I have been particularly unlucky in it."

Now follow the letters, written in French, of the gallant Swiss, Captain

Ecuyer, always lively and entertaining even in his discontent. He writes

to Bouquet from Bedford, on the thirteenth of November. Like other

officers on the frontier, he complains of the settlers, who,

notwithstanding their fear of the enemy, always did their best to shelter

deserters; and he gives a list of eighteen soldiers who had deserted

within five days:[400] "I have been twenty-two years in service, and I

never in my life saw any thing equal to it,--a gang of mutineers, bandits,

cut-throats, especially the grenadiers. I have been obliged, after all the

patience imaginable, to have two of them whipped on the spot, without

court-martial. One wanted to kill the sergeant and the other wanted to

kill me.... For God's sake, let me go and raise cabbages. You can do it if

you will, and I shall thank you eternally for it. Don't refuse, I beg you.

Besides, my health is not very good; and I don't know if I can go up again

to Fort Pitt with this convoy."

Bouquet himself was no better satisfied than his correspondents. On the

twentieth of June, 1764, he wrote to Gage, Amherst's successor: "I flatter

myself that you will do me the favor to have me relieved from this

command, the burden and fatigues of which I begin to feel my strength very

unequal to."

Gage knew better than to relieve him, and Bouquet was forced to resign

himself to another year of bush-fighting. The plan of the summer's

campaign had been settled; and he was to be the most important, if not the

most conspicuous, actor in it. It had been resolved to march two armies

from different points into the heart of the Indian country. The first,

under Bouquet, was to advance from Fort Pitt into the midst of the

Delaware and Shawanoe settlements of the valley of the Ohio. The other,

under Colonel Bradstreet, was to pass up the lakes, and force the tribes

of Detroit, and the regions beyond, to unconditional submission.

The name of Bradstreet was already well known in America. At a dark and

ill-omened period of the French war, he had crossed Lake Ontario with a

force of three thousand provincials, and captured Fort Frontenac, a

formidable stronghold of the French, commanding the outlet of the lake. He

had distinguished himself, moreover, by his gallant conduct in a skirmish

with the French and Indians on the River Oswego. These exploits had gained

for him a reputation beyond his merits. He was a man of more activity than

judgment, self-willed, vain, and eager for notoriety; qualities which

became sufficiently apparent before the end of the campaign.[401]

Several of the northern provinces furnished troops for the expedition; but

these levies did not arrive until after the appointed time; and, as the

service promised neither honor nor advantage, they were of very

indifferent quality, looking, according to an officer of the expedition,

more like candidates for a hospital than like men fit for the arduous duty

before them. The rendezvous of the troops was at Albany, and thence they

took their departure about the end of June. Adopting the usual military

route to the westward, they passed up the Mohawk, crossed the Oneida Lake,

and descended the Onondaga. The boats and bateaux, crowded with men,

passed between the war-worn defences of Oswego, which guarded the mouth of

the river on either hand, and, issuing forth upon Lake Ontario, steered in

long procession over its restless waters. A storm threw the flotilla into

confusion; and several days elapsed before the ramparts of Fort Niagara

rose in sight, breaking the tedious monotony of the forest-covered shores.

The troops landed beneath its walls. The surrounding plains were soon

dotted with the white tents of the little army, whose strength, far

inferior to the original design, did not exceed twelve hundred men.

A striking spectacle greeted them on their landing. Hundreds of Indian

cabins were clustered along the skirts of the forest, and a countless

multitude of savages, in all the picturesque variety of their barbaric

costume, were roaming over the fields, or lounging about the shores of the

lake. Towards the close of the previous winter, Sir William Johnson had

despatched Indian messengers to the tribes far and near, warning them of

the impending blow; and urging all who were friendly to the English, or

disposed to make peace while there was yet time, to meet him at Niagara,

and listen to his words. Throughout the winter, the sufferings of the

Indians had been great and general. The suspension of the fur-trade; the

consequent want of ammunition, clothing, and other articles of necessity;

the failure of expected aid from the French; and, above all, the knowledge

that some of their own people had taken up arms for the English, combined

to quench their thirst for war. Johnson's messengers had therefore been

received with unexpected favor, and many had complied with his invitation.

Some came to protest their friendship for the English; others hoped, by an

early submission, to atone for past misconduct. Some came as spies; while

others, again, were lured by the hope of receiving presents, and

especially a draught of English milk, that is to say, a dram of whiskey.

The trader, Alexander Henry, the same who so narrowly escaped the massacre

at Michillimackinac, was with a party of Ojibwas at the Sault Ste. Marie,

when a canoe, filled with warriors, arrived, bringing the message of Sir

William Johnson. A council was called; and the principal messenger,

offering a belt of wampum, spoke as follows: "My friends and brothers, I

am come with this belt from our great father, Sir William Johnson. He

desired me to come to you, as his ambassador, and tell you that he is

making a great feast at Fort Niagara; that his kettles are all ready, and

his fires lighted. He invites you to partake of the feast, in common with

your friends, the Six Nations, who have all made peace with the English.

He advises you to seize this opportunity of doing the same, as you cannot

otherwise fail of being destroyed; for the English are on their march with

a great army, which will be joined by different nations of Indians. In a

word, before the fall of the leaf they will be at Michillimackinac, and

the Six Nations with them."

The Ojibwas had been debating whether they should go to Detroit, to the

assistance of Pontiac, who had just sent them a message to that effect;

but the speech of Johnson's messenger turned the current of their

thoughts. Most of them were in favor of accepting the invitation; but,

distrusting mere human wisdom in a crisis so important, they resolved,

before taking a decisive step, to invoke the superior intelligence of the

Great Turtle, the chief of all the spirits. A huge wigwam was erected,

capable of containing the whole population of the little village. In the

centre, a sort of tabernacle was constructed by driving posts into the

ground, and closely covering them with hides. With the arrival of night,

the propitious time for consulting their oracle, all the warriors

assembled in the spacious wigwam, half lighted by the lurid glare of

fires, and waited, in suspense and awe, the issue of the invocation. The

medicine man, or magician, stripped almost naked, now entered the central

tabernacle, which was barely large enough to receive him, and carefully

closed the aperture. At once the whole structure began to shake with a

violence which threatened its demolition; and a confusion of horrible

sounds, shrieks, howls, yells, and moans of anguish, mingled with

articulate words, sounded in hideous discord from within. This outrageous

clamor, which announced to the horror-stricken spectators the presence of

a host of evil spirits, ceased as suddenly as it had begun. A low, feeble

sound, like the whine of a young puppy, was next heard within the recess;

upon which the warriors raised a cry of joy, and hailed it as the voice of

the Great Turtle--the spirit who never lied. The magician soon announced

that the spirit was ready to answer any question which might be proposed.

On this, the chief warrior stepped forward; and, having propitiated the

Great Turtle by a present of tobacco thrust through a small hole in the

tabernacle, inquired if the English were in reality preparing to attack

the Indians, and if the troops were already come to Niagara. Once more the

tabernacle was violently shaken, a loud yell was heard, and it was

apparent to all that the spirit was gone. A pause of anxious expectation

ensued; when, after the lapse of a quarter of an hour, the weak,

puppy-like voice of the Great Turtle was again heard addressing the

magician in a language unknown to the auditors. When the spirit ceased

speaking, the magician interpreted his words. During the short interval of

his departure, he had crossed Lake Huron, visited Niagara, and descended

the St. Lawrence to Montreal. Few soldiers had as yet reached Niagara; but

as he flew down the St. Lawrence, he had seen the water covered with

boats, all filled with English warriors, coming to make war on the

Indians. Having obtained this answer to his first question, the chief

ventured to propose another; and inquired if he and his people, should

they accept the invitation of Sir William Johnson, would be well received

at Niagara. The answer was most satisfactory. "Sir William Johnson," said

the spirit, "will fill your canoes with presents; with blankets, kettles,

guns, gunpowder and shot; and large barrels of rum, such as the stoutest

of the Indians will not be able to lift; and every man will return in

safety to his family." This grateful response produced a general outburst

of acclamations; and, with cries of joy, many voices were heard to

exclaim, "I will go too! I will go too!"[402]

They set out, accordingly, for Niagara; and thither also numerous bands of

warriors were tending, urged by similar messages, and encouraged, it may

be, by similar responses of their oracles. Crossing fresh-water oceans in

their birch canoes, and threading the devious windings of solitary

streams, they came flocking to the common centre of attraction. Such a

concourse of savages has seldom been seen in America. Menomonies, Ottawas,

Ojibwas, Mississaugas, from the north; Caughnawagas from Canada, even

Wyandots from Detroit, together with a host of Iroquois, were congregated

round Fort Niagara to the number of more than two thousand warriors; many

of whom had brought with them their women and children.[403] Even the

Sacs, the Foxes, and the Winnebagoes had sent their deputies; and the

Osages, a tribe beyond the Mississippi, had their representative in this

general meeting.

Though the assembled multitude consisted, for the most part, of the more

pacific members of the tribes represented, yet their friendly disposition

was by no means certain. Several straggling soldiers were shot at in the

neighborhood, and it soon became apparent that the utmost precaution must

be taken to avert a rupture. The troops were kept always on their guard;

while the black muzzles of the cannon, thrust from the bastions of the

fort, struck a wholesome awe into the savage throng below.

Although so many had attended the meeting, there were still numerous

tribes, and portions of tribes, who maintained a rancorous, unwavering

hostility. The Delawares and Shawanoes, however, against whom Bouquet,

with the army of the south, was then in the act of advancing, sent a

message to the effect, that, though they had no fear of the English, and

though they regarded them as old women, and held them in contempt, yet,

out of pity for their sufferings, they were willing to treat of peace. To

this insolent missive Johnson made no answer; and, indeed, those who sent

it were, at this very time, renewing the bloody work of the preceding year

along the borders of Pennsylvania and Virginia. The Senecas, that numerous

and warlike people, to whose savage enmity were to be ascribed the

massacre at the Devil's Hole, and other disasters of the last summer, had

recently made a preliminary treaty with Sir William Johnson, and at the

same time pledged themselves to appear at Niagara to ratify and complete

it. They broke their promise; and it soon became known that they had

leagued themselves with a large band of hostile Delawares, who had visited

their country. Upon this, a messenger was sent to them, threatening that,

unless they instantly came to Niagara, the English would march upon them

and burn their villages. The menace had full effect; and a large body of

these formidable warriors appeared at the English camp, bringing fourteen

prisoners, besides several deserters and runaway slaves. A peace was

concluded, on condition that they should never again attack the English,

and that they should cede to the British crown a strip of land, between

the Lakes Erie and Ontario, four miles in width, on both sides of the

River, or Strait, of Niagara.[404] A treaty was next made with a

deputation of Wyandots from Detroit, on condition of the delivery of

prisoners, and the preservation of friendship for the future.

Councils were next held, in turn, with each of the various tribes

assembled around the fort, some of whom craved forgiveness for the hostile

acts they had committed, and deprecated the vengeance of the English;

while others alleged their innocence, urged their extreme wants and

necessities, and begged that English traders might once more be allowed to

visit them. The council-room in the fort was crowded from morning till

night; and the wearisome formalities of such occasions, the speeches made

and replied to, and the final shaking of hands, smoking of pipes, and

serving out of whiskey, engrossed the time of the superintendent for many

successive days.

Among the Indians present were a band of Ottawas from Michillimackinac,

and remoter settlements, beyond Lake Michigan, and a band of Menomonies

from Green Bay. The former, it will be remembered, had done good service

to the English, by rescuing the survivors of the garrison of

Michillimackinac from the clutches of the Ojibwas; and the latter had

deserved no less at their hands, by the protection they had extended to

Lieutenant Gorell, and the garrison at Green Bay. Conscious of their

merits, they had come to Niagara in full confidence of a favorable

reception. Nor were they disappointed; for Johnson met them with a cordial

welcome, and greeted them as friends and brothers. They, on their part,

were not wanting in expressions of pleasure; and one of their orators

exclaimed, in the figurative language of his people, "When our brother

came to meet us, the storms ceased, the lake became smooth, and the whole

face of nature was changed."

They disowned all connection or privity with the designs of Pontiac.

"Brother," said one of the Ottawa chiefs, "you must not imagine I am

acquainted with the cause of the war. I only heard a little bird whistle

an account of it, and, on going to Michillimackinac, I found your people

killed; upon which I sent our priest to inquire into the matter. On the

priest's return, he brought me no favorable account, but a war-hatchet

from Pontiac, which I scarcely looked on, and immediately threw away."

Another of the Ottawas, a chief of the remoter band of Lake Michigan,

spoke to a similar effect, as follows: "We are not of the same people as

those residing about Michillimackinac; we only heard at a distance that

the enemy were killing your soldiers, on which we covered our heads, and I

resolved not to suffer my people to engage in the war. I gathered them

together, and made them sit still. In the spring, on uncovering my head, I

perceived that they had again begun a war, and that the sky was all cloudy

in that quarter."

The superintendent thanked them for their fidelity to the English;

reminded them that their true interest lay in the preservation of peace,

and concluded with a gift of food and clothing, and a permission, denied

to all the rest, to open a traffic with the traders, who had already begun

to assemble at the fort. "And now, my brother," said a warrior, as the

council was about to break up, "we beg that you will tell us where we can

find some rum to comfort us; for it is long since we have tasted any, and

we are very thirsty." This honest request was not refused. The liquor was

distributed, and a more copious supply promised for the future; upon which

the deputation departed, and repaired to their encampment, much pleased

with their reception.[405]

Throughout these conferences, one point of policy was constantly adhered

to. No general council was held. Separate treaties were made, in order to

promote mutual jealousies and rivalries, and discourage the feeling of

union, and of a common cause among the widely scattered tribes. Johnson at

length completed his task, and, on the sixth of August, set sail for

Oswego. The march of the army had hitherto been delayed by rumors of

hostile designs on the part of the Indians, who, it was said, had formed a

scheme for attacking Fort Niagara, as soon as the troops should have left

the ground. Now, however, when the concourse was melting away, and the

tribes departing for their distant homes, it was thought that the danger

was past, and that the army might safely resume its progress. They

advanced, accordingly, to Fort Schlosser, above the cataract, whither

their boats and bateaux had been sent before them, craned up the rocks at

Lewiston, and dragged by oxen over the rough portage road. The troops had

been joined by three hundred friendly Indians, and an equal number of

Canadians. The appearance of the latter in arms would, it was thought,

have great effect on the minds of the enemy, who had always looked upon

them as friends and supporters. Of the Indian allies, the greater part

were Iroquois, and the remainder, about a hundred in number, Ojibwas and

Mississaugas; the former being the same who had recently arrived from the

Sault Ste. Marie, bringing with them their prisoner, Alexander Henry.

Henry was easily persuaded to accompany the expedition; and the command of

the Ojibwas and Mississaugas was assigned to him--"To me," writes the

adventurous trader, "whose best hope it had lately been to live by their

forbearance." His long-continued sufferings and dangers hardly deserved to

be rewarded by so great a misfortune as that of commanding a body of

Indian warriors; an evil from which, however, he was soon to be relieved.

The army had hardly begun its march, when nearly all his followers ran

off, judging it wiser to return home with the arms and clothing given them

for the expedition, than to make war against their own countrymen and

relatives. Fourteen warriors still remained; but on the following night,

when the army lay at Fort Schlosser, having contrived by some means to

obtain liquor, they created such a commotion in the camp, by yelling and

firing their guns, as to excite the utmost indignation of the commander.

They received from him, in consequence, a reproof so harsh and ill judged,

that most of them went home in disgust; and Henry found his Indian

battalion suddenly dwindled to four or five vagabond hunters.[406] A large

number of Iroquois still followed the army, the strength of which, farther

increased by a re-enforcement of Highlanders, was now very considerable.

The troops left Fort Schlosser on the eighth. Their boats and bateaux

pushed out into the Niagara, whose expanded waters reposed in a serenity

soon to be exchanged for the wild roar and tumultuous struggle of the

rapids and the cataract. They coasted along the southern shore of Lake

Erie until the twelfth, when, in the neighborhood of Presqu' Isle, they

were overtaken by a storm of rain, which forced them to drag their boats

on shore, and pitch their tents in the dripping forest. Before the day

closed, word was brought that strange Indians were near the camp. They

soon made their appearance, proclaiming themselves to be chiefs and

deputies of the Delawares and Shawanoes, empowered to beg for peace in the

name of their respective tribes. Various opinions were entertained of the

visitors. The Indian allies wished to kill them, and many of the officers

believed them to be spies. There was no proof of their pretended character

of deputies; and, for all that appeared to the contrary, they might be a

mere straggling party of warriors. Their professions of an earnest desire

for peace were contradicted by the fact that they brought with them but

one small belt of wampum; a pledge no less indispensable in a treaty with

these tribes than seals and signatures in a convention of European

sovereigns.[407] Bradstreet knew, or ought to have known, the character of

the treacherous enemy with whom he had to deal. He knew that the Shawanoes

and Delawares had shown, throughout the war, a ferocious and relentless

hostility; that they had sent an insolent message to Niagara; and,

finally, that in his own instructions he was enjoined to deal sternly with

them, and not be duped by pretended overtures. Yet, in spite of the

suspicious character of the self-styled deputies, in spite of the sullen

wrath of his Indian allies, and the murmured dissent of his officers, he

listened to their proposals, and entered into a preliminary treaty. He

pledged himself to refrain from attacking the Delawares and Shawanoes, on

condition that within twenty-five days the deputies should again meet him

at Sandusky, in order to yield up their prisoners, and conclude a definite

treaty of peace.[408] It afterwards appeared--and this, indeed, might

have been suspected at the time--that the sole object of the overtures was

to retard the action of the army until the season should be too far

advanced to prosecute the campaign. At this very moment, the Delaware and

Shawanoe war-parties were murdering and scalping along the frontiers; and

the work of havoc continued for weeks, until it was checked at length by

the operations of Colonel Bouquet.

Bradstreet was not satisfied with the promise he had made to abandon his

own hostile designs. He consummated his folly and presumption by

despatching a messenger to his superior officer, Colonel Bouquet,

informing him that the Delawares and Shawanoes had been reduced to

submission without his aid, and that he might withdraw his troops, as

there was no need of his advancing farther. Bouquet, astonished and

indignant, paid no attention to this communication, but pursued his march

as before.[409]

The course pursued by Bradstreet in this affair--a course which can only

be ascribed to the vain ambition of finishing the war without the aid of

others--drew upon him the severe censures of the commander-in-chief, who,

on hearing of the treaty, at once annulled it.[410] Bradstreet has been

accused of having exceeded his orders, in promising to conclude a

definite treaty with the Indians, a power which was vested in Sir William

Johnson alone; but as upon this point his instructions were not explicit,

he may be spared the full weight of this additional charge.[411]

Having, as he thought, accomplished not only a great part of his own task,

but also the whole of that which had been assigned to Colonel Bouquet,

Bradstreet resumed his progress westward, and in a few days reached

Sandusky. He had been ordered to attack the Wyandots, Ottawas, and Miamis,

dwelling near this place; but at his approach, these Indians, hastening to

avert the danger, sent a deputation to meet him, promising that, if he

would refrain from attacking them, they would follow him to Detroit, and

there conclude a treaty. Bradstreet thought proper to trust this slippery

promise; though, with little loss of time, he might have reduced them, on

the spot, to a much more effectual submission. He now bent his course for

Detroit, leaving the Indians of Sandusky much delighted, and probably no

less surprised, at the success of their embassy. Before his departure,

however, he despatched Captain Morris, with several Canadians and friendly

Indians, to the Illinois, in order to persuade the savages of that region

to treat of peace with the English. The measure was in a high degree ill

advised and rash, promising but doubtful advantage, and exposing the life

of a valuable officer to imminent risk. The sequel of Morris's adventure

will soon appear.

The English boats now entered the mouth of the Detroit, and on the

twenty-sixth of August came within sight of the fort and adjacent

settlements. The inhabitants of the Wyandot village on the right, who, it

will be remembered, had recently made a treaty of peace at Niagara, ran

down to the shore, shouting, whooping, and firing their guns,--a greeting

more noisy than sincere,--while the cannon of the garrison echoed

salutation from the opposite shore, and cheer on cheer, deep and

heartfelt, pealed welcome from the crowded ramparts.

Well might Gladwyn's beleaguered soldiers rejoice at the approaching

succor. They had been beset for more than fifteen months by their wily

enemy; and though there were times when not an Indian could be seen, yet

woe to the soldier who should wander into the forest in search of game, or

stroll too far beyond range of the cannon. Throughout the preceding

winter, they had been left in comparative quiet; but with the opening

spring the Indians had resumed their pertinacious hostilities; not,

however, with the same activity and vigor as during the preceding summer.

The messages of Sir William Johnson, and the tidings of Bradstreet's

intended expedition, had had great effect upon their minds, and some of

them had begged abjectly for peace; but still the garrison were harassed

by frequent alarms, and days and nights of watchfulness were their

unvarying lot. Cut off for months together from all communication with

their race; pent up in an irksome imprisonment; ill supplied with

provisions, and with clothing worn threadbare, they hailed with delight

the prospect of a return to the world from which they had been banished so

long. The army had no sooner landed than the garrison was relieved, and

fresh troops substituted in their place. Bradstreet's next care was to

inquire into the conduct of the Canadian inhabitants of Detroit, and

punish such of them as had given aid to the Indians. A few only were found

guilty, the more culpable having fled to the Illinois on the approach of

the army.

Pontiac too was gone. The great war-chief, his vengeance unslaked, and his

purpose unshaken, had retired, as we have seen, to the banks of the

Maumee, whence he sent a haughty defiance to the English commander. The

Indian villages near Detroit were half emptied of their inhabitants, many

of whom still followed the desperate fortunes of their indomitable

leader. Those who remained were, for the most part, brought by famine and

misery to a sincere desire for peace, and readily obeyed the summons of

Bradstreet to meet him in council.

The council was held in the open air, on the morning of the seventh of

September, with all the accompaniments of military display which could

inspire awe and respect among the assembled savages. The tribes, or rather

fragments of tribes, represented at this meeting, were the Ottawas,

Ojibwas, Pottawattamies, Miamis, Sacs, and Wyandots. The Indians of

Sandusky kept imperfectly the promise they had made, the Wyandots of that

place alone sending a full deputation; while the other tribes were merely

represented by the Ojibwa chief Wasson. This man, who was the principal

chief of his tribe, and the most prominent orator on the present occasion,

rose and opened the council.

"My brother," he said, addressing Bradstreet, "last year God forsook us.

God has now opened our eyes, and we desire to be heard. It is God's will

our hearts are altered. It was God's will you had such fine weather to

come to us. It is God's will also there should be peace and tranquillity

over the face of the earth and of the waters."

Having delivered this exordium, Wasson frankly confessed that the tribes

which he represented were all justly chargeable with the war, and now

deeply regretted their delinquency. It is common with Indians, when

accused of acts of violence, to lay the blame upon the unbridled

recklessness of their young warriors; and this excuse is often perfectly

sound and valid; but since, in the case of a premeditated and

long-continued war, it was glaringly inadmissible, they now reversed the

usual course, and made scapegoats of the old chiefs and warriors, who, as

they declared, had led the people astray by sinister counsel and bad

example.[412]

Bradstreet would grant peace only on condition that they should become

subjects of the King of England, and acknowledge that he held over their

country a sovereignty as ample and complete as over any other part of his

dominions. Nothing could be more impolitic and absurd than this demand.

The smallest attempt at an invasion of their liberties has always been

regarded by the Indians with extreme jealousy, and a prominent cause of

the war had been an undue assumption of authority on the part of the

English. This article of the treaty, could its purport have been fully

understood, might have kindled afresh the quarrel which it sought to

extinguish; but happily not a savage present was able to comprehend it.

Subjection and sovereignty are ideas which never enter into the mind of an

Indian, and therefore his language has no words to express them. Most of

the western tribes, it is true, had been accustomed to call themselves

children of the King of France; but the words were a mere compliment,

conveying no sense of any political relation whatever. Yet it was solely

by means of this harmless metaphor that the condition in question could be

explained to the assembled chiefs. Thus interpreted, it met with a ready

assent; since, in their eyes, it involved no concession beyond a mere

unmeaning change of forms and words. They promised, in future, to call the

English king father, instead of brother; unconscious of any obligation

which so trifling a change could impose, and mentally reserving a full

right to make war on him or his people, whenever it should suit their

convenience. When Bradstreet returned from his expedition, he boasted that

he had reduced the tribes of Detroit to terms of more complete submission

than any other Indians had ever before yielded; but the truth was soon

detected and exposed by those conversant with Indian affairs.[413]

At this council, Bradstreet was guilty of the bad policy and bad taste of

speaking through the medium of a French interpreter; so that most of his

own officers, as well as the Iroquois allies, who were strangers to the

Algonquin language, remained in ignorance of all that passed. The latter

were highly indignant, and refused to become parties to the treaty, or go

through the usual ceremony of shaking hands with the chiefs of Detroit,

insisting that they had not heard their speeches, and knew not whether

they were friends or enemies. In another particular, also, Bradstreet gave

great offence. From some unexplained impulse or motive, he cut to pieces,

with a hatchet, a belt of wampum which was about to be used in the

council; and all the Indians present, both friends and enemies, were alike

incensed at this rude violation of the ancient pledge of faith, which, in

their eyes, was invested with something of a sacred character.[414]

Having settled the affairs of Detroit, Bradstreet despatched Captain

Howard, with a strong detachment, to take possession of Michillimackinac,

which had remained unoccupied since its capture in the preceding summer.

Howard effected his object without resistance, and, at the same time, sent

parties of troops to reoccupy the deserted posts of Green Bay and Sault

Ste. Marie. Thus, after the interval of more than a year, the flag of

England was again displayed among the solitudes of the northern

wilderness.[415]

While Bradstreet's army lay encamped on the fields near Detroit, Captain

Morris, with a few Iroquois and Canadian attendants, was pursuing his

adventurous embassy to the country of the Illinois. Morris, who has left

us his portrait, prefixed to a little volume of prose and verse, was an

officer of literary tastes, whose round English face did not indicate any

especial degree of enterprise or resolution. He seems, however, to have

had both; for, on a hint from the General, he had offered himself for the

adventure, for which he was better fitted than most of his brother

officers, inasmuch as he spoke French. He was dining, on the eve of his

departure, in the tent of Bradstreet, when his host suddenly remarked, in

the bluff way habitual to him, that he had a French fellow, a prisoner,

whom he meant to hang; but that, if Morris would like him for an

interpreter, he might have him. The prisoner in question was the Canadian

Godefroy, who was presently led into the tent; and who, conscious of many

misdemeanors, thought that his hour was come, and fell on his knees to beg

his life. Bradstreet told him that he should be pardoned if he would

promise to "go with this gentleman, and take good care of him," pointing

to his guest. Godefroy promised; and, to the best of his power, he kept

his word, for he imagined that Morris had saved his life.

Morris set out on the following afternoon with Godefroy, another Canadian,

two servants, and a party of Indians, ascended the Maumee, and soon

approached the camp of Pontiac; who, as already mentioned, had withdrawn

to this river with his chosen warriors. The party disembarked from their

canoes; and an Ottawa chief, who had joined them, lent them three horses.

Morris and the Canadians mounted, and, preceded by their Indian

attendants, displaying an English flag, advanced in state towards the

camp, which was two leagues or more distant. As they drew near, they were

met by a rabble of several hundred Indians, called by Morris "Pontiac's

army." They surrounded him, beat his horse, and crowded between him and

his followers, apparently trying to separate them. At the outskirts of the

camp stood Pontiac himself, who met the ambassador with a scowling brow,

and refused to offer his hand. Here, too, stood a man, in the uniform of a

French officer, holding his gun with the butt resting on the ground, and

assuming an air of great importance; while two Pawnee slaves stood close

behind him. He proved to be a French drummer, calling himself St. Vincent,

one of those renegades of civilization to be found in almost every Indian

camp. He now took upon himself the office of a master of ceremonies;

desired Morris to dismount, and seated himself at his side on a bear-skin.

Godefroy took his place near them; and the throng of savages, circle

within circle, stood crowded around. "Presently," says Morris, "came

Pontiac, and squatted himself, after his fashion, opposite to me." He

opened the interview by observing that the English were liars, and

demanding of the ambassador if he had come to lie to them, like the rest.

"This Indian," pursues Morris, "has a more extensive power than ever was

known among that people, for every chief used to command his own tribe;

but eighteen nations, by French intrigue, had been brought to unite and

choose this man for their commander."

Pontiac now produced a letter directed to himself, and sent from New

Orleans, though purporting to be written by the King of France. It

contained, according to Morris, the grossest calumnies that the most

ingenious malice could devise to incense the Indians against the English.

The old falsehood was not forgotten: "Your French Father," said the

writer, "is neither dead nor asleep; he is already on his way, with sixty

great ships, to revenge himself on the English, and drive them out of

America." Much excitement followed the reading of the letter, and Morris's

situation became more than unpleasant; but St. Vincent befriended him, and

hurried him off to his wigwam to keep him out of harm's way.

On the next day there was a grand council. Morris made a speech, in which

he indiscreetly told the Indians that the King of France had given all the

country to the King of England. Luckily, his auditors received the

announcement with ridicule rather than anger. The chiefs, however, wished

to kill him; but Pontiac interposed, on the ground that the life of an

ambassador should be held sacred. "He made a speech," says Morris, "which

does him honor, and shows that he was acquainted with the law of nations."

He seemed in a mood more pacific than could have been expected, and said

privately to Godefroy: "I will lead the nations to war no more. Let them

be at peace if they choose; but I will never be a friend to the English. I

shall be a wanderer in the woods; and, if they come there to seek me, I

will shoot at them while I have an arrow left." Morris thinks that he said

this in a fit of despair, and that, in fact, he was willing to come to

terms.

The day following was an unlucky one. One of Morris's Indians, a Mohawk

chief, ran off, having first stolen all he could lay hands on, and sold

the ambassador's stack of rum, consisting of two barrels, to the Ottawas.

A scene of frenzy ensued. A young Indian ran up to Morris, and stabbed at

him savagely; but Godefroy caught the assassin's hand, and saved his

patron's life. Morris escaped from the camp, and lay hidden in a cornfield

till the howling and screeching subsided, and the Indians slept themselves

sober. When he returned, an Indian, called the Little Chief, gave him a

volume of Shakespeare,--the spoil of some slaughtered officer,--and then

begged for gunpowder.

Having first gained Pontiac's consent, Morris now resumed his journey to

the Illinois. The river was extremely low, and it was with much ado that

they pushed their canoe against the shallow current, or dragged it over

stones and sandbars. On the fifth day, they met an Indian mounted on a

handsome white horse, said to have belonged to General Braddock, and to

have been captured at the defeat of his army, nine years before. On the

morning of the seventh day, they reached the neighborhood of Fort Miami.

This post, captured during the preceding year, had since remained without

a garrison; and its only tenants were the Canadians, who had built their

houses within its palisades, and a few Indians, who thought fit to make it

their temporary abode. The meadows about the fort were dotted with the

lodges of the Kickapoos, a large band of whom had recently arrived; but

the great Miami village was on the opposite side of the stream, screened

from sight by the forest which intervened.

The party landed a little below the fort; and, while his followers were

making their way through the border of woods that skirted the river,

Morris remained in the canoe, solacing himself by reading _Antony and

Cleopatra_ in the volume he had so oddly obtained. It was fortunate that

he did so; for his attendants had scarcely reached the open meadow, which

lay behind the woods, when they were encountered by a mob of savages,

armed with spears, hatchets, and bows and arrows, and bent on killing the

Englishman. Being, for the moment, unable to find him, the chiefs had time

to address the excited rabble, and persuade them to postpone their

intended vengeance. The ambassador, buffeted, threatened, and insulted,

was conducted to the fort, where he was ordered to remain; though, at the

same time, the Canadian inhabitants were forbidden to admit him into their

houses. Morris soon discovered that this unexpected rough treatment was

owing to the influence of a deputation of Delaware and Shawanoe chiefs,

who had recently arrived, bringing fourteen war-belts of wampum, and

exciting the Miamis to renew their hostilities against the common enemy.

Thus it was fully apparent that while the Delawares and Shawanoes were

sending one deputation to treat of peace with Bradstreet on Lake Erie,

they were sending another to rouse the tribes of the Illinois to

war.[416] From Fort Miami, the deputation had proceeded westward,

spreading the contagion among all the tribes between the Mississippi and

the Ohio; declaring that they would never make peace with the English, but

would fight them as long as the sun should shine, and calling on their

brethren of the Illinois to follow their example.

They had been aware of the approach of Morris, and had urged the Miamis to

put him to death when he arrived. Accordingly, he had not been long at the

fort when two warriors, with tomahawks in their hands, entered, seized him

by the arms, and dragged him towards the river. Godefroy stood by, pale

and motionless. "_Eh bien, vous m'abandonnez donc!_" said Morris. "_Non,

mon capitaine_," the Canadian answered, "_je ne vous abandonnerai

jamais_;" and he followed, as the two savages dragged their captive into

the water. Morris thought that they meant to drown and scalp him, but soon

saw his mistake; for they led him through the stream, which was fordable,

and thence towards the Miami village. As they drew near, they stopped, and

began to strip him, but grew angry at the difficulty of the task; till, in

rage and despair, he tore off his clothes himself. They then bound his

arms behind him with his own sash, and drove him before them to the

village, where they made him sit on a bench. A whooping, screeching mob of

savages was instantly about him, and a hundred voices clamored together in

dispute as to what should be done with him. Godefroy stood by him with a

courageous fidelity that redeemed his past rascalities. He urged a nephew

of Pontiac, who was present, to speak for the prisoner. The young Indian

made a bold harangue to the crowd; and Godefroy added that, if Morris were

killed, the English would take revenge on those who were in their power at

Detroit. A Miami chief, called the Swan, now declared for the Englishman,

untied his arms, and gave him a pipe to smoke; whereupon another chief,

called the White Cat, snatched it from him, seized him, and bound him fast

by the neck to a post. Naked, helpless, and despairing, he saw the crowd

gathering around to torture him. "I had not the smallest hope of life," he

says, "and I remember that I conceived myself as if going to plunge into a

gulf, vast, immeasurable; and that, a few moments after, the thought of

torture occasioned a sort of torpor and insensibility. I looked at

Godefroy, and, seeing him exceedingly distressed, I said what I could to

encourage him; but he desired me not to speak. I supposed it gave offence

to the savages; and therefore was silent; when Pacanne, chief of the Miami

nation, and just out of his minority, having mounted a horse and crossed

the river, rode up to me. When I heard him calling to those about me, and

felt his hand behind my neck, I thought he was going to strangle me, out

of pity; but he untied me, saying, as it was afterwards interpreted to me:

'I give that man his life. If you want English meat, go to Detroit, or to

the lake, and you'll find enough. What business have you with this man's

flesh, who is come to speak with us?' I fixed my eyes steadfastly on this

young man, and endeavored by looks to express my gratitude."

An Indian now offered him a pipe, and he was then pushed with abuse and

blows out of the village. He succeeded in crossing the river and regaining

the fort, after receiving a sharp cut of a switch from a mounted Indian

whom he met on the way.

He found the Canadians in the fort disposed to befriend him. Godefroy and

the metamorphosed drummer, St. Vincent, were always on the watch to warn

him of danger; and one l'Esperance gave him an asylum in his garret. He

seems to have found some consolation in the compassion of two handsome

young squaws, sisters, he was told, of his deliverer, Pacanne; but the two

warriors who had stripped and bound him were constantly lurking about the

fort, watching an opportunity to kill him; and the Kickapoos, whose lodges

were pitched on the meadow, sent him a message to the effect that, if the

Miamis did not put him to death, they themselves would do so, whenever he

should pass their camp. He was still on the threshold of his journey, and

his final point of destination was several hundred miles distant; yet,

with great resolution, he determined to persevere, and, if possible,

fulfil his mission. His Indian and Canadian attendants used every means

to dissuade him, and in the evening held a council with the Miami chiefs,

the result of which was most discouraging. Morris received message after

message, threatening his life, should he persist in his design; and word

was brought him that several of the Shawanoe deputies were returning to

the fort, expressly to kill him. Under these circumstances, it would have

been madness to persevere; and, abandoning his mission, he set out for

Detroit. The Indian attendants, whom he had brought from Sandusky, after

behaving with the utmost insolence, abandoned him in the woods; their

ringleader being a Christian Huron, of the Mission of Lorette, whom Morris

pronounces the greatest rascal he ever knew. With Godefroy and two or

three others who remained with him, he reached Detroit on the seventeenth

of September, half dead with famine and fatigue. He had expected to find

Bradstreet; but that agile commander had decamped, and returned to

Sandusky. Morris, too ill and exhausted to follow, sent him his journal,

together with a letter, in which he denounced the Delaware and Shawanoe

ambassadors, whom he regarded, and no doubt with justice, as the occasion

of his misfortunes. The following is his amiable conclusion:--

"The villains have nipped our fairest hopes in the bud. I tremble for you

at Sandusky; though I was greatly pleased to find you have one of the

vessels with you, and artillery. I wish the chiefs were assembled on board

the vessel, and that she had a hole in her bottom. Treachery should be

paid with treachery; and it is a more than ordinary pleasure to deceive

those who would deceive us."[417]

Bradstreet had retraced his course to Sandusky, to keep his engagement

with the Delaware and Shawanoe deputies, and await the fulfilment of

their worthless promise to surrender their prisoners, and conclude a

definitive treaty of peace. His hopes were defeated. The appointed time

expired, and not a chief was seen; though, a few days after, several

warriors came to the camp, with a promise that, if Bradstreet would remain

quiet, and refrain from attacking their villages, they would bring in the

prisoners in the course of the following week. Bradstreet accepted their

excuses; and, having removed his camp to the carrying-place of Sandusky,

lay waiting in patient expectation. It was here that he received, for the

first time, a communication from General Gage, respecting the preliminary

treaty, concluded several weeks before. Gage condemned his conduct in

severe terms, and ordered him to break the engagements he had made, and

advance at once upon the enemy, choosing for his first objects of attack

the Indians living upon the plains of the Scioto. The fury of Bradstreet

was great on receiving this message; and it was not diminished when the

journal of Captain Morris was placed in his hands, fully proving how

signally he had been duped. He was in no temper to obey the orders of the

commander-in-chief; and, to justify himself for his inaction, he alleged

the impossibility of reaching the Scioto plains at that advanced season.

Two routes thither were open to his choice, one by the River Sandusky, and

the other by Cayahoga Creek. The water in the Sandusky was sunk low with

the drought, and the carrying-place at the head of Cayahoga Creek was a

few miles longer than had been represented; yet the army were ready for

the attempt, and these difficulties could not have deterred a vigorous

commander. Under cover of such excuses, Bradstreet remained idle at

Sandusky for several days, while sickness and discontent were rife in his

camp. The soldiers complained of his capricious, peremptory temper, his

harshness to his troops, and the unaccountable tenderness with which he

treated the Sandusky Indians, some of whom had not yet made their

submission; while he enraged his Iroquois allies by his frequent rebukes

and curses.

At length, declaring that provisions were failing and the season growing

late, he resolved to return home; and broke up his camp with such

precipitancy that two soldiers, who had gone out in the morning to catch

fish for his table, were inhumanly left behind;[418] the colonel remarking

that they might stay and be damned. Soon after leaving Sandusky, he saw

fit to encamp one evening on an open, exposed beach, on the south shore of

Lake Erie, though there was in the neighborhood a large river, "wherein,"

say his critics, "a thousand boats could lie with safety." A storm came

on: half his boats were dashed to pieces; and six pieces of cannon, with

ammunition, provisions, arms, and baggage, were lost or abandoned. For

three days the tempest raged unceasingly; and, when the angry lake began

to resume its tranquillity, it was found that the remaining boats were

insufficient to convey the troops. A body of Indians, together with a

detachment of provincials, about a hundred and fifty in all, were

therefore ordered to make their way to Niagara along the pathless borders

of the lake. They accordingly set out, and, after many days of hardship,

reached their destination; though such had been their sufferings, from

fatigue, cold, and hunger; from wading swamps, swimming creeks and rivers,

and pushing their way through tangled thickets, that many of the

provincials perished miserably in the woods. On the fourth of November,

seventeen days after their departure from Sandusky, the main body of the

little army arrived in safety at Niagara; and the whole, re-embarking on

Lake Ontario, proceeded towards Oswego.[419] Fortune still seemed adverse;

for a second tempest arose, and one of the schooners, crowded with troops,

foundered in sight of Oswego, though most of the men were saved. The route

to the settlements was now a short and easy one. On their arrival, the

regulars went into quarters; while the troops levied for the campaign were

sent home to their respective provinces.

This expedition, ill conducted as it was, produced some beneficial

results. The Indians at Detroit had been brought to reason, and for the

present, at least, would probably remain tranquil; while the

re-establishment of the posts on the upper lakes must necessarily have

great effect upon the natives of that region. At Sandusky, on the other

hand, the work had been but half done. The tribes of that place felt no

respect for the English; while those to the southward and westward had

been left in a state of turbulence, which promised an abundant harvest of

future mischief.[420] In one particular, at least, Bradstreet had

occasioned serious detriment to the English interest. The Iroquois allies,

who had joined his army, were disgusted by his treatment of them, while

they were roused to contempt by the imbecility of his conduct towards the

enemy; and thus the efforts of Sir William Johnson to secure the

attachment of these powerful tribes were in no small degree counteracted

and neutralized.[421]

While Bradstreet's troops were advancing upon the lakes, or lying idle in

their camp at Sandusky, another expedition was in progress at the

southward, with abler conduct and a more auspicious result.

CHAPTER XXVII.

1764.

BOUQUET FORCES THE DELAWARES AND SHAWANOES TO SUE FOR PEACE.

The work of ravage had begun afresh upon the borders. The Indians had

taken the precaution to remove all their settlements to the western side

of the River Muskingum, trusting that the impervious forests, with their

unnumbered streams, would prove a sufficient barrier against invasion.

Having thus, as they thought, placed their women and children in safety,

they had flung themselves upon the settlements with all the rage and

ferocity of the previous season. So fierce and active were the war-parties

on the borders, that the English governor of Pennsylvania had recourse to

a measure which the frontier inhabitants had long demanded, and issued a

proclamation, offering a high bounty for Indian scalps, whether of men or

women; a barbarous expedient, fruitful of butcheries and murders, but

incapable of producing any decisive result.[422]

[Illustration: A MAP of the COUNTRY on the Ohio & Muskingum Rivers

_Shewing the Situation of the_ INDIAN TOWNS _with respect to the Army

under the Command of_ Colonel Bouquet _By Tho.^{s} Hutchins Afs.

Engineer_.]

Early in the season, a soldier named David Owens, who, several years

before, had deserted and joined the Indians, came to one of the outposts,

accompanied by a young provincial recently taken prisoner on the Delaware,

and bringing five scalps. While living among the Indians, Owens had formed

a connection with one of their women, who had borne him several children.

Growing tired, at length, of the forest life, he had become anxious to

return to the settlements, but feared to do so without first having made

some atonement for his former desertion. One night, he had been encamped

on the Susquehanna, with four Shawanoe warriors, a boy of the same tribe,

his own wife and two children, and another Indian woman. The young

provincial, who came with him to the settlements, was also of the party.

In the middle of the night, Owens arose, and looking about him saw, by the

dull glow of the camp-fire, that all were buried in deep sleep. Cautiously

awakening the young provincial, he told him to leave the place, and lie

quiet at a little distance, until he should call him. He next stealthily

removed the weapons from beside the sleeping savages, and concealed them

in the woods, reserving to himself two loaded rifles. Returning to the

camp, he knelt on the ground between two of the yet unconscious warriors,

and, pointing a rifle at the head of each, touched the triggers, and shot

both dead at once. Startled by the reports, the survivors sprang to their

feet in bewildered terror. The two remaining warriors bounded into the

woods; but the women and children, benumbed with fright, had no power to

escape, and one and all died shrieking under the hatchet of the miscreant.

His devilish work complete, the wretch sat watching until daylight among

the dead bodies of his children and comrades, undaunted by the awful

gloom and solitude of the darkened forest. In the morning, he scalped his

victims, with the exception of the two children, and, followed by the

young white man, directed his steps towards the settlements, with the

bloody trophies of his atrocity. His desertion was pardoned; he was

employed as an interpreter, and ordered to accompany the troops on the

intended expedition. His example is one of many in which the worst acts of

Indian ferocity have been thrown into shade by the enormities of white

barbarians.[423]

Bouquet was now urging on his preparations for his march into the valley

of the Ohio. We have seen how, in the preceding summer, he had been

embarrassed by what he calls "the unnatural obstinacy of the government of

Pennsylvania." "It disables us," he had written to the equally indignant

Amherst, "from crushing the savages on this side of the lakes, and may

draw us into a lingering war, which might have been terminated by another

blow.... I see that the whole burden of this war will rest upon us; and

while the few regular troops you have left can keep the enemy at a

distance, the Provinces will let them fight it out without

interfering."[424]

Amherst, after vainly hoping that the Assembly of Pennsylvania would

"exert themselves like men,"[425] had, equally in vain, sent Colonel

James Robertson as a special messenger to the provincial commissioners. "I

found all my pleading vain," the disappointed envoy had written, "and

believe Cicero's would have been so. I never saw any men so determined in

the right as these people are in this absurdly wrong resolve."[426] The

resolve in question related to the seven hundred men whom the Assembly had

voted to raise for protecting the gathering of the harvest, and whom the

commissioners stiffly refused to place at the disposition of the military

authorities.

It is apparent in all this that, at an early period of the war, a change

had come over the spirit of the commander-in-chief, whose prejudices and

pride had revolted, at the outset, against the asking of provincial aid to

"chastise the savages," but who had soon been brought to reason by his own

helplessness and the exigencies of the situation. In like manner, a

change, though at the eleventh hour, had now come over the spirit of the

Pennsylvania Assembly. The invasion of the Paxton borderers, during the

past winter, had scared the Quaker faction into their senses. Their old

quarrel with the governor and the proprietaries, their scruples about war,

and their affection for Indians, were all postponed to the necessity of

the hour. The Assembly voted to raise three hundred men to guard the

frontiers, and a thousand to join Bouquet. Their commissioners went

farther; for they promised to send to England for fifty couples of

bloodhounds, to hunt Indian scalping-parties.[427]

In the preceding summer, half as many men would have sufficed; for, after

the battle of Bushy Run, Bouquet wrote to Amherst from Fort Pitt, that,

with a reinforcement of three hundred provincial rangers, he could destroy

all the Delaware towns, "and clear the country of that vermin between

this fort and Lake Erie;"[428] but he added, with some bitterness, that

the provinces would not even furnish escorts to convoys, so that his hands

were completely tied.[429]

It was past midsummer before the thousand Pennsylvanians were ready to

move; so that the season for navigating the Ohio and its branches was

lost. As for Virginia and Maryland, they would do absolutely nothing. On

the fifth of August, Bouquet was at Carlisle, with his new levies and such

regulars as he had, chiefly the veterans of Bushy Run. Before the tenth,

two hundred of the Pennsylvanians had deserted, sheltered, as usual, by

the country people. His force, even with full ranks, was too small; and he

now took the responsibility of writing to Colonel Lewis, of the Virginia

militia, to send him two hundred volunteers, to take the place of the

deserters.[430] A body of Virginians accordingly joined him at Fort Pitt,

to his great satisfaction, for he set a high value on these backwoods

riflemen; but the responsibility he had assumed proved afterwards a source

of extreme annoyance to him.

The little army soon reached Fort Loudon, then in a decayed and ruinous

condition, like all the wooden forts built during the French war. Here

Bouquet received the strange communication from Bradstreet, informing him

that he might return home with his troops, as a treaty had been concluded

with the Delawares and Shawanoes. Bouquet's disgust found vent in a letter

to the commander-in-chief: "I received this moment advice from Colonel

Bradstreet.... The terms he gives them (the Indians) are such as fill me

with astonishment.... Had Colonel Bradstreet been as well informed as I

am of the horrid perfidies of the Delawares and Shawanese, whose parties

as late as the 22d instant killed six men ... he never could have

compromised the honor of the nation by such disgraceful conditions, and

that at a time when two armies, after long struggles, are in full motion

to penetrate into the heart of the enemy's country. Permit me likewise

humbly to represent to your Excellency that I have not deserved the

affront laid upon me by this treaty of peace, concluded by a younger

officer, in the department where you have done me the honor to appoint me

to command, without referring the deputies of the savages to me at Fort

Pitt, but telling them that he shall send and prevent my proceeding

against them. I can therefore take no notice of his peace, but (_shall_)

proceed forthwith to the Ohio, where I shall wait till I receive your

orders."[431]

After waiting for more than a week for his wrath to cool, he wrote to

Bradstreet in terms which, though restrained and temperate, plainly showed

his indignation.[432] He had now reached Fort Bedford, where more

Pennsylvanians ran off, with their arms and horses, and where he vainly

waited the arrival of a large reinforcement of friendly Indians, who had

been promised by Sir William Johnson, but who never arrived. On reaching

Fort Ligonier, he had the satisfaction of forwarding two letters, which

the commander-in-chief had significantly sent through his hands, to

Bradstreet, containing a peremptory disavowal of the treaty.[433]

Continuing to advance, he passed in safety the scene of his desperate

fight of the last summer, and on the seventeenth of September arrived at

Fort Pitt, with no other loss than that of a few men picked off from the

flanks and rear by lurking Indian marksmen.[434]

The day before his arrival, ten Delaware chiefs and warriors appeared on

the farther bank of the river, pretending to be deputies sent by their

nation to confer with the English commander. Three of them, after much

hesitation, came over to the fort, where, being closely questioned, and

found unable to give any good account of their mission, they were detained

as spies; while their companions, greatly disconcerted, fled back to their

villages. Bouquet, on his arrival, released one of the three captives, and

sent him home with the following message to his people:--

"I have received an account, from Colonel Bradstreet, that your nations

had begged for peace, which he had consented to grant, upon assurance that

you had recalled all your warriors from our frontiers; and, in consequence

of this, I would not have proceeded against your towns, if I had not heard

that, in open violation of your engagements, you have since murdered

several of our people.

"I was therefore determined to have attacked you, as a people whose

promises can no more be relied on. But I will put it once more in your

power to save yourselves and your families from total destruction, by

giving us satisfaction for the hostilities committed against us. And,

first, you are to leave the path open for my expresses from hence to

Detroit; and as I am now to send two men with despatches to Colonel

Bradstreet, who commands on the lakes, I desire to know whether you will

send two of your people to bring them safe back with an answer. And if

they receive any injury either in going or coming, or if the letters are

taken from them, I will immediately put the Indians now in my power to

death, and will show no mercy, for the future, to any of your nations that

shall fall into my hands. I allow you ten days to have my letters

delivered at Detroit, and ten days to bring me back an answer."[435]

The liberated spy faithfully discharged his mission; and the firm,

decisive tone of the message had a profound effect upon the hostile

warriors; clearly indicating, as it did, with what manner of man they had

to deal. Many, who were before clamorous for battle, were now ready to sue

for peace, as the only means to avert their ruin.

Before the army was ready to march, two Iroquois warriors came to the

fort, pretending friendship, but anxious, in reality, to retard the

expedition until the approaching winter should make it impossible to

proceed. They represented the numbers of the enemy, and the extreme

difficulty of penetrating so rough a country; and affirmed that, if the

troops remained quiet, the hostile tribes, who were already collecting

their prisoners, would soon arrive to make their submission. Bouquet

turned a deaf ear to their advice, and sent them to inform the Delawares

and Shawanoes that he was on his way to chastise them for their perfidy

and cruelty, unless they should save themselves by an ample and speedy

atonement.

Early in October, the troops left Fort Pitt, and began their westward

march into a wilderness which no army had ever before sought to penetrate.

Encumbered with their camp equipage, with droves of cattle and sheep for

subsistence, and a long train of pack-horses laden with provisions, their

progress was tedious and difficult, and seven or eight miles were the

ordinary measure of a day's march. The woodsmen of Virginia, veteran

hunters and Indian-fighters, were thrown far out in front and on either

flank, scouring the forest to detect any sign of a lurking ambuscade. The

pioneers toiled in the van, hewing their way through woods and thickets;

while the army dragged its weary length behind them through the forest,

like a serpent creeping through tall grass. The surrounding country,

whenever a casual opening in the matted foliage gave a glimpse of its

features, disclosed scenery of wild, primeval beauty. Sometimes the army

defiled along the margin of the Ohio, by its broad eddying current and the

bright landscape of its shores. Sometimes they descended into the thickest

gloom of the woods, damp, still, and cool as the recesses of a cavern,

where the black soil oozed beneath the tread, where the rough columns of

the forest seemed to exude a clammy sweat, and the slimy mosses were

trickling with moisture; while the carcasses of prostrate trees, green

with the decay of a century, sank into pulp at the lightest pressure of

the foot. More frequently, the forest was of a fresher growth; and the

restless leaves of young maples and basswood shook down spots of sunlight

on the marching columns. Sometimes they waded the clear current of a

stream, with its vistas of arching foliage and sparkling water. There were

intervals, but these were rare, when, escaping for a moment from the

labyrinth of woods, they emerged into the light of an open meadow, rich

with herbage, and girdled by a zone of forest; gladdened by the notes of

birds, and enlivened, it may be, by grazing herds of deer. These spots,

welcome to the forest traveller as an oasis to a wanderer in the desert,

form the precursors of the prairies; which, growing wider and more

frequent as one advances westward, expand at last into the boundless

plains beyond the Mississippi.

On the tenth day after leaving Fort Pitt, the army reached the River

Muskingum, and approached the objects of their march, the haunts of the

barbarian warriors, who had turned whole districts into desolation. Their

progress had met no interruption. A few skulking Indians had hovered about

them, but, alarmed by their numbers, feared to venture an attack. The

Indian cabins which they passed on their way were deserted by their

tenants, who had joined their western brethren. When the troops crossed

the Muskingum, they saw, a little below the fording-place, the abandoned

wigwams of the village of Tuscaroras, recently the abode of more than a

hundred families, who had fled in terror at the approach of the invaders.

Bouquet was in the heart of the enemy's country. Their villages, except

some remoter settlements of the Shawanoes, all lay within a few days'

march; and no other choice was left them than to sue for peace, or risk

the desperate chances of battle against a commander who, a year before,

with a third of his present force, had routed them at the fight of Bushy

Run. The vigorous and active among them might, it is true, escape by

flight; but, in doing so, they must abandon to the victors their

dwellings, and their secret hordes of corn. They were confounded at the

multitude of the invaders, exaggerated, doubtless, in the reports which

reached their villages, and amazed that an army should force its way so

deep into the forest fastnesses, which they had thought impregnable. They

knew, on the other hand, that Colonel Bradstreet was still at Sandusky, in

a position to assail them in the rear. Thus pressed on both sides, they

saw that they must submit, and bend their stubborn pride to beg for peace;

not alone with words, which cost nothing, and would have been worth

nothing, but by the delivery of prisoners, and the surrender of chiefs and

warriors as pledges of good faith. Bouquet had sent two soldiers from Fort

Pitt with letters to Colonel Bradstreet; but these men had been detained,

under specious pretexts, by the Delawares. They now appeared at his camp,

sent back by their captors, with a message to the effect that, within a

few days, the chiefs would arrive and hold a conference with him.