1644, 1645.
PEACE.
Iroquois Prisoners • Piskaret • His Exploits • More Prisoners • Iroquois
Embassy • The Orator • The Great Council • Speeches of Kiotsaton •
Muster of Savages • Peace Confirmed
In the damp and freshness of a midsummer morning, when the sun had not
yet risen, but when the river and the sky were red with the glory of
approaching day, the inmates of the fort at Three Rivers were roused by
a tumult of joyous and exultant voices. They thronged to the
shore,--priests, soldiers, traders, and officers, mingled with warriors
and shrill-voiced squaws from Huron and Algonquin camps in the
neighboring forest. Close at hand they saw twelve or fifteen canoes
slowly drifting down the current of the St. Lawrence, manned by eighty
young Indians, all singing their songs of victory, and striking their
paddles against the edges of their bark vessels in cadence with their
voices. Among them three Iroquois prisoners stood upright, singing loud
and defiantly, as men not fearing torture or death.
A few days before, these young warriors, in part Huron and in part
Algonquin, had gone out on the war-path to the River Richelieu, where
they had presently found themselves entangled among several bands of
Iroquois. They withdrew in the night, after a battle in the dark with an
Iroquois canoe, and, as they approached Fort Richelieu, had the good
fortune to discover ten of their enemy ambuscaded in a clump of bushes
and fallen trees, watching to waylay some of the soldiers on their
morning visit to the fishing-nets in the river hard by. They captured
three of them, and carried them back in triumph.
The victors landed amid screams of exultation. Two of the prisoners were
assigned to the Hurons, and the third to the Algonquins, who immediately
took him to their lodges near the fort at Three Rivers, and began the
usual "caress," by burning his feet with red-hot stones, and cutting off
his fingers. Champfleur, the commandant, went out to them with urgent
remonstrances, and at length prevailed on them to leave their victim
without further injury, until Montmagny, the Governor, should arrive. He
came with all dispatch,--not wholly from a motive of humanity, but
partly in the hope that the three captives might be made instrumental in
concluding a peace with their countrymen.
A council was held in the fort at Three Rivers. Montmagny made valuable
presents to the Algonquins and the Hurons, to induce them to place the
prisoners in his hands. The Algonquins complied; and the unfortunate
Iroquois, gashed, maimed, and scorched, was given up to the French, who
treated him with the greatest kindness. But neither the Governor's gifts
nor his eloquence could persuade the Hurons to follow the example of
their allies; and they departed for their own country with their two
captives,--promising, however, not to burn them, but to use them for
negotiations of peace. With this pledge, scarcely worth the breath that
uttered it, Montmagny was forced to content himself. [1]
[1] Vimont, Relation, 1644, 45-49.
Thus it appeared that the fortune of war did not always smile even on
the Iroquois. Indeed, if there is faith in Indian tradition, there had
been a time, scarcely half a century past, when the Mohawks, perhaps the
fiercest and haughtiest of the confederate nations, had been nearly
destroyed by the Algonquins, whom they now held in contempt. [2] This
people, whose inferiority arose chiefly from the want of that compact
organization in which lay the strength of the Iroquois, had not lost
their ancient warlike spirit; and they had one champion of whom even the
audacious confederates stood in awe. His name was Piskaret; and he dwelt
on that great island in the Ottawa of which Le Borgne was chief. He had
lately turned Christian, in the hope of French favor and
countenance,--always useful to an ambitious Indian,--and perhaps, too,
with an eye to the gun and powder-horn which formed the earthly reward
of the convert. [3] Tradition tells marvellous stories of his exploits.
Once, it is said, he entered an Iroquois town on a dark night. His first
care was to seek out a hiding-place, and he soon found one in the midst
of a large wood-pile. [4] Next he crept into a lodge, and, finding the
inmates asleep, killed them with his war-club, took their scalps, and
quietly withdrew to the retreat he had prepared. In the morning a howl
of lamentation and fury rose from the astonished villagers. They ranged
the fields and forests in vain pursuit of the mysterious enemy, who
remained all day in the wood-pile, whence, at midnight, he came forth
and repeated his former exploit. On the third night, every family placed
its sentinels; and Piskaret, stealthily creeping from lodge to lodge,
and reconnoitring each through crevices in the bark, saw watchers
everywhere. At length he descried a sentinel who had fallen asleep near
the entrance of a lodge, though his companion at the other end was still
awake and vigilant. He pushed aside the sheet of bark that served as a
door, struck the sleeper a deadly blow, yelled his war-cry, and fled
like the wind. All the village swarmed out in furious chase; but
Piskaret was the swiftest runner of his time, and easily kept in advance
of his pursuers. When daylight came, he showed himself from time to time
to lure them on, then yelled defiance, and distanced them again. At
night, all but six had given over the chase; and even these, exhausted
as they were, had begun to despair. Piskaret, seeing a hollow tree,
crept into it like a bear, and hid himself; while the Iroquois, losing
his traces in the dark, lay down to sleep near by. At midnight he
emerged from his retreat, stealthily approached his slumbering enemies,
nimbly brained them all with his war-club, and then, burdened with a
goodly bundle of scalps, journeyed homeward in triumph. [5]
[2] Relation, 1660, 6 (anonymous).
Both Perrot and La Potherie recount traditions of the ancient
superiority of the Algonquins over the Iroquois, who formerly, it is
said, dwelt near Montreal and Three Rivers, whence the Algonquins
expelled them. They withdrew, first to the neighborhood of Lake Erie,
then to that of Lake Ontario, their historic seat. There is much to
support the conjecture that the Indians found by Cartier at Montreal in
1535 were Iroquois (See "Pioneers of France," 189.) That they belonged
to the same family of tribes is certain. For the traditions alluded to,
see Perrot, 9, 12, 79, and La Potherie, I. 288-295.
[3] "Simon Pieskaret ... n'estoit Chrestien qu'en apparence et par
police."--Lalemant, Relation, 1647, 68.--He afterwards became a convert
in earnest.
[4] Both the Iroquois and the Hurons collected great quantities of wood
in their villages in the autumn.
[5] This story is told by La Potherie, I. 299, and, more briefly, by
Perrot, 107. La Potherie, writing more than half a century after the
time in question, represents the Iroquois as habitually in awe of the
Algonquins. In this all the contemporary writers contradict him.
This is but one of several stories that tradition has preserved of his
exploits; and, with all reasonable allowances, it is certain that the
crafty and valiant Algonquin was the model of an Indian warrior. That
which follows rests on a far safer basis.
Early in the spring of 1645, Piskaret, with six other converted Indians,
some of them better Christians than he, set out on a war-party, and,
after dragging their canoes over the frozen St. Lawrence, launched them
on the open stream of the Richelieu. They ascended to Lake Champlain,
and hid themselves in the leafless forests of a large island, watching
patiently for their human prey. One day they heard a distant shot.
"Come, friends," said Piskaret, "let us get our dinner: perhaps it will
be the last, for we must dine before we run." Having dined to their
contentment, the philosophic warriors prepared for action. One of them
went to reconnoitre, and soon reported that two canoes full of Iroquois
were approaching the island. Piskaret and his followers crouched in the
bushes at the point for which the canoes were making, and, as the
foremost drew near, each chose his mark, and fired with such good
effect, that, of seven warriors, all but one were killed. The survivor
jumped overboard, and swam for the other canoe, where he was taken in.
It now contained eight Iroquois, who, far from attempting to escape,
paddled in haste for a distant part of the shore, in order to land, give
battle, and avenge their slain comrades. But the Algonquins, running
through the woods, reached the landing before them, and, as one of them
rose to fire, they shot him. In his fall he overset the canoe. The water
was shallow, and the submerged warriors, presently finding foothold,
waded towards the shore, and made desperate fight. The Algonquins had
the advantage of position, and used it so well, that they killed all but
three of their enemies, and captured two of the survivors. Next they
sought out the bodies, carefully scalped them, and set out in triumph on
their return. To the credit of their Jesuit teachers, they treated their
prisoners with a forbearance hitherto without example. One of them, who
was defiant and abusive, received a blow to silence him; but no further
indignity was offered to either. [6]
[6] According to Marie de l'Incarnation, Lettre, 14 Sept., 1645,
Piskaret was for torturing the captives; but a convert, named Bernard by
the French, protested against it.
As the successful warriors approached the little mission settlement of
Sillery, immediately above Quebec, they raised their song of triumph,
and beat time with their paddles on the edges of their canoes; while,
from eleven poles raised aloft, eleven fresh scalps fluttered in the
wind. The Father Jesuit and all his flock were gathered on the strand to
welcome them. The Indians fired their guns, and screeched in jubilation;
one Jean Baptiste, a Christian chief of Sillery, made a speech from the
shore; Piskaret replied, standing upright in his canoe; and, to crown
the occasion, a squad of soldiers, marching in haste from Quebec, fired
a salute of musketry, to the boundless delight of the Indians. Much to
the surprise of the two captives, there was no running of the gantlet,
no gnawing off of finger-nails or cutting off of fingers; but the scalps
were hung, like little flags, over the entrances of the lodges, and all
Sillery betook itself to feasting and rejoicing. [7] One old woman,
indeed, came to the Jesuit with a pathetic appeal: "Oh, my Father! let
me caress these prisoners a little: they have killed, burned, and eaten
my father, my husband, and my children." But the missionary answered
with a lecture on the duty of forgiveness. [8]
[7] Vimont, Relation, 1645, 19-21.
[8] Vimont, Relation, 1645, 21, 22.
On the next day, Montmagny came to Sillery, and there was a grand
council in the house of the Jesuits. Piskaret, in a solemn harangue,
delivered his captives to the Governor, who replied with a speech of
compliment and an ample gift. The two Iroquois were present, seated with
a seeming imperturbability, but great anxiety of heart; and when at
length they comprehended that their lives were safe, one of them, a man
of great size and symmetry, rose and addressed Montmagny:--
"Onontio, [9] I am saved from the fire; my body is delivered from death.
Onontio, you have given me my life. I thank you for it. I will never
forget it. All my country will be grateful to you. The earth will be
bright; the river calm and smooth; there will be peace and friendship
between us. The shadow is before my eyes no longer. The spirits of my
ancestors slain by the Algonquins have disappeared. Onontio, you are
good: we are bad. But our anger is gone; I have no heart but for peace
and rejoicing." As he said this, he began to dance, holding his hands
upraised, as if apostrophizing the sky. Suddenly he snatched a hatchet,
brandished it for a moment like a madman, and then flung it into the
fire, saying, as he did so, "Thus I throw down my anger! thus I cast
away the weapons of blood! Farewell, war! Now I am your friend forever!"
[10]
[9] Onontio, Great Mountain, a translation of Montmagny's name. It was
the Iroquois name ever after for the Governor of Canada. In the same
manner, Onas, Feather or Quill, became the official name of William
Penn, and all succeeding Governors of Pennsylvania. We have seen that
the Iroquois hereditary chiefs had official names, which are the same
to-day that they were at the period of this narrative.
[10] Vimont, Relation, 1645, 22, 23. He adds, that, "if these people are
barbarous in deed, they have thoughts worthy of Greeks and Romans."
The two prisoners were allowed to roam at will about the settlement,
withheld from escaping by an Indian point of honor. Montmagny soon after
sent them to Three Rivers, where the Iroquois taken during the last
summer had remained all winter. Champfleur, the commandant, now received
orders to clothe, equip, and send him home, with a message to his nation
that Onontio made them a present of his life, and that he had still two
prisoners in his hands, whom he would also give them, if they saw fit to
embrace this opportunity of making peace with the French and their
Indian allies.
This was at the end of May. On the fifth of July following, the
liberated Iroquois reappeared at Three Rivers, bringing with him two men
of renown, ambassadors of the Mohawk nation. There was a fourth man of
the party, and, as they approached, the Frenchmen on the shore
recognized, to their great delight, Guillaume Couture, the young man
captured three years before with Father Jogues, and long since given up
as dead. In dress and appearance he was an Iroquois. He had gained a
great influence over his captors, and this embassy of peace was due in
good measure to his persuasions. [11]
[11] Marie de l'Incarnation, Lettre, 14 Sept., 1645.
The chief of the Iroquois, Kiotsaton, a tall savage, covered from head
to foot with belts of wampum, stood erect in the prow of the sail-boat
which had brought him and his companions from Richelieu, and in a loud
voice announced himself as the accredited envoy of his nation. The boat
fired a swivel, the fort replied with a cannon-shot, and the envoys
landed in state. Kiotsaton and his colleague were conducted to the room
of the commandant, where, seated on the floor, they were regaled
sumptuously, and presented in due course with pipes of tobacco. They had
never before seen anything so civilized, and were delighted with their
entertainment. "We are glad to see you," said Champfleur to Kiotsaton;
"you may be sure that you are safe here. It is as if you were among your
own people, and in your own house."
"Tell your chief that he lies," replied the honored guest, addressing
the interpreter.
Champfleur, though he probably knew that this was but an Indian mode of
expressing dissent, showed some little surprise; when Kiotsaton, after
tranquilly smoking for a moment, proceeded:--
"Your chief says it is as if I were in my own country. This is not true;
for there I am not so honored and caressed. He says it is as if I were
in my own house; but in my own house I am some times very ill served,
and here you feast me with all manner of good cheer." From this and many
other replies, the French conceived that they had to do with a man of
esprit. [12]
[12] Vimont, Relation, 1645, 24.
He undoubtedly belonged to that class of professed orators who, though
rarely or never claiming the honors of hereditary chieftainship, had
great influence among the Iroquois, and were employed in all affairs of
embassy and negotiation. They had memories trained to an astonishing
tenacity, were perfect in all the conventional metaphors in which the
language of Indian diplomacy and rhetoric mainly consisted, knew by
heart the traditions of the nation, and were adepts in the parliamentary
usages, which, among the Iroquois, were held little less than sacred.
The ambassadors were feasted for a week, not only by the French, but
also by the Hurons and Algonquins; and then the grand peace council took
place. Montmagny had come up from Quebec, and with him the chief men of
the colony. It was a bright midsummer day; and the sun beat hot upon the
parched area of the fort, where awnings were spread to shelter the
assembly. On one side sat Montmagny, with officers and others who
attended him. Near him was Vimont, Superior of the Mission, and other
Jesuits,--Jogues among the rest. Immediately before them sat the
Iroquois, on sheets of spruce-bark spread on the ground like mats: for
they had insisted on being near the French, as a sign of the extreme
love they had of late conceived towards them. On the opposite side of
the area were the Algonquins, in their several divisions of the
Algonquins proper, the Montagnais, and the Atticamegues, [13] sitting,
lying, or squatting on the ground. On the right hand and on the left
were Hurons mingled with Frenchmen. In the midst was a large open space
like the arena of a prize-ring; and here were planted two poles with a
line stretched from one to the other, on which, in due time, were to be
hung the wampum belts that represented the words of the orator. For the
present, these belts were in part hung about the persons of the two
ambassadors, and in part stored in a bag carried by one of them.
[13] The Atticamegues, or tribe of the White Fish, dwelt in the forests
north of Three Rivers. They much resembled their Montagnais kindred.
When all was ready, Kiotsaton arose, strode into the open space, and,
raising his tall figure erect, stood looking for a moment at the sun.
Then he gazed around on the assembly, took a wampum belt in his hand,
and began:--
"Onontio, give ear. I am the mouth of all my nation. When you listen to
me, you listen to all the Iroquois. There is no evil in my heart. My
song is a song of peace. We have many war-songs in our country; but we
have thrown them all away, and now we sing of nothing but gladness and
rejoicing."
Hereupon he began to sing, his countrymen joining with him. He walked to
and fro, gesticulated towards the sky, and seemed to apostrophize the
sun; then, turning towards the Governor, resumed his harangue. First he
thanked him for the life of the Iroquois prisoner released in the
spring, but blamed him for sending him home without company or escort.
Then he led forth the young Frenchman, Guillaume Couture, and tied a
wampum belt to his arm.
"With this," he said, "I give you back this prisoner. I did not say to
him, 'Nephew, take a canoe and go home to Quebec.' I should have been
without sense, had I done so. I should have been troubled in my heart,
lest some evil might befall him. The prisoner whom you sent back to us
suffered every kind of danger and hardship on the way." Here he
proceeded to represent the difficulties of the journey in pantomime, "so
natural," says Father Vimont, "that no actor in France could equal it."
He counterfeited the lonely traveller toiling up some rocky portage
track, with a load of baggage on his head, now stopping as if half
spent, and now tripping against a stone. Next he was in his canoe,
vainly trying to urge it against the swift current, looking around in
despair on the foaming rapids, then recovering courage, and paddling
desperately for his life. "What did you mean," demanded the orator,
resuming his harangue, "by sending a man alone among these dangers? I
have not done so. 'Come, nephew,' I said to the prisoner there before
you,"--pointing to Couture,--"'follow me: I will see you home at the
risk of my life.'" And to confirm his words, he hung another belt on the
line.
The third belt was to declare that the nation of the speaker had sent
presents to the other nations to recall their war-parties, in view of
the approaching peace. The fourth was an assurance that the memory of
the slain Iroquois no longer stirred the living to vengeance. "I passed
near the place where Piskaret and the Algonquins slew our warriors in
the spring. I saw the scene of the fight where the two prisoners here
were taken. I passed quickly; I would not look on the blood of my
people. Their bodies lie there still; I turned away my eyes, that I
might not be angry." Then, stooping, he struck the ground and seemed to
listen. "I heard the voice of my ancestors, slain by the Algonquins,
crying to me in a tone of affection, 'My grandson, my grandson, restrain
your anger: think no more of us, for you cannot deliver us from death;
think of the living; rescue them from the knife and the fire.' When I
heard these voices, I went on my way, and journeyed hither to deliver
those whom you still hold in captivity."
The fifth, sixth, and seventh belts were to open the passage by water
from the French to the Iroquois, to chase hostile canoes from the river,
smooth away the rapids and cataracts, and calm the waves of the lake.
The eighth cleared the path by land. "You would have said," writes
Vimont, "that he was cutting down trees, hacking off branches, dragging
away bushes, and filling up holes."--"Look!" exclaimed the orator, when
he had ended this pantomime, "the road is open, smooth, and straight";
and he bent towards the earth, as if to see that no impediment remained.
"There is no thorn, or stone, or log in the way. Now you may see the
smoke of our villages from Quebec to the heart of our country."
Another belt, of unusual size and beauty, was to bind the Iroquois, the
French, and their Indian allies together as one man. As he presented it,
the orator led forth a Frenchman and an Algonquin from among his
auditors, and, linking his arms with theirs, pressed them closely to his
sides, in token of indissoluble union.
The next belt invited the French to feast with the Iroquois. "Our
country is full of fish, venison, moose, beaver, and game of every kind.
Leave these filthy swine that run about among your houses, feeding on
garbage, and come and eat good food with us. The road is open; there is
no danger."
There was another belt to scatter the clouds, that the sun might shine
on the hearts of the Indians and the French, and reveal their sincerity
and truth to all; then others still, to confirm the Hurons in thoughts
of peace. By the fifteenth belt, Kiotsaton declared that the Iroquois
had always wished to send home Jogues and Bressani to their friends, and
had meant to do so; but that Jogues was stolen from them by the Dutch,
and they had given Bressani to them because he desired it. "If he had
but been patient," added the ambassador, "I would have brought him back
myself. Now I know not what has befallen him. Perhaps he is drowned.
Perhaps he is dead." Here Jogues said, with a smile, to the Jesuits near
him, "They had the pile laid to burn me. They would have killed me a
hundred times, if God had not saved my life."
Two or three more belts were hung on the line, each with its appropriate
speech; and then the speaker closed his harangue: "I go to spend what
remains of the summer in my own country, in games and dances and
rejoicing for the blessing of peace." He had interspersed his discourse
throughout with now a song and now a dance; and the council ended in a
general dancing, in which Iroquois, Hurons, Algonquins, Montagnais,
Atticamegues, and French, all took part, after their respective
fashions.
In spite of one or two palpable falsehoods that embellished his oratory,
the Jesuits were delighted with him. "Every one admitted," says Vimont,
"that he was eloquent and pathetic. In short, he showed himself an
excellent actor, for one who has had no instructor but Nature. I
gathered only a few fragments of his speech from the mouth of the
interpreter, who gave us but broken portions of it, and did not
translate consecutively." [14]
[14] Vimont describes the council at length in the Relation of 1645.
Marie de l'Incarnation also describes it in a letter to her son, of
Sept. 14, 1645. She evidently gained her information from Vimont and the
other Jesuits present.
Two days after, another council was called, when the Governor gave his
answer, accepting the proffered peace, and confirming his acceptance by
gifts of considerable value. He demanded as a condition, that the Indian
allies of the French should be left unmolested, until their principal
chiefs, who were not then present, should make a formal treaty with the
Iroquois in behalf of their several nations. Piskaret then made a
present to wipe away the remembrance of the Iroquois he had slaughtered,
and the assembly was dissolved.
In the evening, Vimont invited the ambassadors to the mission-house, and
gave each of them a sack of tobacco and a pipe. In return, Kiotsaton
made him a speech: "When I left my country, I gave up my life; I went to
meet death, and I owe it to you that I am yet alive. I thank you that I
still see the sun; I thank you for all your words and acts of kindness;
I thank you for your gifts. You have covered me with them from head to
foot. You left nothing free but my mouth; and now you have stopped that
with a handsome pipe, and regaled it with the taste of the herb we love.
I bid you farewell,--not for a long time, for you will hear from us
soon. Even if we should be drowned on our way home, the winds and the
waves will bear witness to our countrymen of your favors; and I am sure
that some good spirit has gone before us to tell them of the good news
that we are about to bring." [15]
[15] Vimont, Relation, 1645, 28.
On the next day, he and his companion set forth on their return.
Kiotsaton, when he saw his party embarked, turned to the French and
Indians who lined the shore, and said with a loud voice, "Farewell,
brothers! I am one of your relations now." Then turning to the
Governor,--"Onontio, your name will be great over all the earth. When I
came hither, I never thought to carry back my head, I never thought to
come out of your doors alive; and now I return loaded with honors,
gifts, and kindness." "Brothers,"--to the Indians,--"obey Onontio and
the French. Their hearts and their thoughts are good. Be friends with
them, and do as they do. You shall hear from us soon."
The Indians whooped and fired their guns; there was a cannon-shot from
the fort; and the sail-boat that bore the distinguished visitors moved
on its way towards the Richelieu.
But the work was not done. There must be more councils, speeches,
wampum-belts, and gifts of all kinds,--more feasts, dances, songs, and
uproar. The Indians gathered at Three Rivers were not sufficient in
numbers or in influence to represent their several tribes; and more were
on their way. The principal men of the Hurons were to come down this
year, with Algonquins of many tribes, from the North and the Northwest;
and Kiotsaton had promised that Iroquois ambassadors, duly empowered,
should meet them at Three Rivers, and make a solemn peace with them all,
under the eye of Onontio. But what hope was there that this swarm of
fickle and wayward savages could be gathered together at one time and at
one place,--or that, being there, they could be restrained from cutting
each other's throats? Yet so it was; and in this happy event the Jesuits
saw the interposition of God, wrought upon by the prayers of those pious
souls in France who daily and nightly besieged Heaven with supplications
for the welfare of the Canadian missions. [16]
[16] Vimont, Relation, 1645, 29.
First came a band of Montagnais; next followed Nipissings, Atticamegues,
and Algonquins of the Ottawa, their canoes deep-laden with furs. Then,
on the tenth of September, appeared the great fleet of the Hurons, sixty
canoes, bearing a host of warriors, among whom the French recognized the
tattered black cassock of Father Jerome Lalemant. There were twenty
French soldiers, too, returning from the Huron country, whither they had
been sent the year before, to guard the Fathers and their flock.
Three Rivers swarmed like an ant-hill with savages. The shore was lined
with canoes; the forests and the fields were alive with busy camps. The
trade was brisk; and in its attendant speeches, feasts, and dances,
there was no respite.
But where were the Iroquois? Montmagny and the Jesuits grew very
anxious. In a few days more the concourse would begin to disperse, and
the golden moment be lost. It was a great relief when a canoe appeared
with tidings that the promised embassy was on its way; and yet more,
when, on the seventeenth, four Iroquois approached the shore, and, in a
loud voice, announced themselves as envoys of their nation. The tumult
was prodigious. Montmagny's soldiers formed a double rank, and the
savage rabble, with wild eyes and faces smeared with grease and paint,
stared over the shoulders and between the gun-barrels of the musketeers,
as the ambassadors of their deadliest foe stalked, with unmoved visages,
towards the fort.
Now council followed council, with an insufferable prolixity of
speech-making. There were belts to wipe out the memory of the slain;
belts to clear the sky, smooth the rivers, and calm the lakes; a belt to
take the hatchet from the hands of the Iroquois; another to take away
their guns; another to take away their shields; another to wash the
war-paint from their faces; and another to break the kettle in which
they boiled their prisoners. [17] In short, there were belts past
numbering, each with its meaning, sometimes literal, sometimes
figurative, but all bearing upon the great work of peace. At length all
was ended. The dances ceased, the songs and the whoops died away, and
the great muster dispersed,--some to their smoky lodges on the distant
shores of Lake Huron, and some to frozen hunting-grounds in northern
forests.
[17] Vimont, Relation, 1645, 34.
There was peace in this dark and blood-stained wilderness. The lynx, the
panther, and the wolf had made a covenant of love; but who should be
their surety? A doubt and a fear mingled with the joy of the Jesuit
Fathers; and to their thanksgivings to God they joined a prayer, that
the hand which had given might still be stretched forth to preserve.