_A FOREST ADVENTURE._
THE Canadians, reduced to the last extremity by the vacillating policy
of the late Governor, Denonville, had found in the Count de Frontenac a
chief whom they could trust. Frontenac, realizing that prompt and bold
action was necessary to sustain this confidence, resolved to take the
initiative, and revive the prestige of the French arms by striking swift
blows. The wandering Iroquois appeared as evasive as ghosts; but the
English remained open to attack. Rumors began to circulate through the
settlement that a war party was about to be organized. It was noticed
that arms and provisions were being quietly collected. The women became
anxious. The older men discussed the question gravely; the younger were
wildly excited at the prospect of fighting.
Soon it became known that three bands of picked men were to start from
Ville Marie, Three Rivers and Quebec, respectively; the first to strike
at Albany, the second at the border settlements of New Hampshire, and
the third at those of Maine. The party from Ville Marie was ready first.
It consisted of two hundred and ten men, of whom ninety-six were
Christian Iroquois from the two mission villages of Sault St. Louis and
the Mountain of Ville Marie.
The French were mostly coureurs de bois. These restless spirits had
shared in the general demoralization, and under Denonville’s rule had
proved unmanageable. Their chief virtues were hardihood and skill in
woodcraft; their principal faults insubordination and lawlessness. Tact
and address were needed in guiding them. The leaders of the present
expedition, thoroughly trained in the roving and adventurous character
of Indian warfare, enjoyed the entire confidence of the hardy
bushrangers. Le Moyne de St. Helène and d’Ailleboust de Mantet had the
first command, supported by the brothers Le Moyne d’Iberville and Le
Moyne de Bienville, with Repentigny de Montesson, Bonrepos, Le Ber du
Chesne, and many other scions of the sturdy Canadian nobility.
There was difficulty in finding sufficient provisions for the
expedition; but finally, by seeking from house to house, getting here a
few biscuits and there a flitch of bacon, enough was collected to supply
a considerable party.
They began their march in the depth of winter. As they passed over the
surface of the frozen St. Lawrence, each man had the hood of his
blanket-coat drawn over his head and held a gun in his mittened hand; a
knife, a hatchet, a tobacco-pouch and a bag for holding bullets hung at
his belt; he bore a pack on his shoulders, while his pipe, in a leather
case, was suspended at his neck. The blankets and provisions of the
expedition were conveyed on Indian sledges.
Du Chesne was the gayest of the party, most of whom appeared to regard
this adventure more as a frolic than a serious adventure. War was a
pastime to these young Canadian seigniors, as well as the almost
constant employment of their lives.
Crossing the forest to Chambly, they advanced up the frozen Richelieu
towards Lake Champlain, for more than a century the great thoroughfare
of war parties. The trees stood white as ghosts in the sheltered hollows
of the woods, or shivered bare and gray on the wind-swept ridges. The
Canadians made their way on snowshoes, with bodies half bent, struggling
through frozen pine swamps, along deep ravines, and under frowning
hill-sides. Their snowshoes broke on the hard crust or were shivered
against rocks or the trunks of fallen trees. The woods resounded with
jest and laughter as the gay bushrangers shouted at seeing one another
catch and trip to sprawl awkwardly in the deep snow.
St. Helène, wishing to hold a council, ordered the company to halt.
Frontenac had left the precise point of attack to the discretion of the
Canadian leaders, who were familiar with all the conditions of the
country through which they were passing, and the men had been kept in
ignorance of their destination. The Indians had become distrustful, and
now demanded to know where they were being taken. Fickle, wayward, and
inconsequent as children, these allies must at the same time be
conciliated and controlled, for it was impossible to do without their
help. There always existed serious danger that they might repudiate the
French alliance, join hands with the English traders, make peace with
the Iroquois, and sacrifice their former friends without the slightest
compunction.
“We are going to attack Albany,” d’Ailleboust de Mantet said firmly. “We
must reach that place or die in the attempt. We must obey the orders of
our great father Onontio.”
The Indians muttered angrily together. They declared the French had
surrendered through cowardice the prisoners they had caught by
treachery. The palefaces had expected their allies to bear the brunt of
the war, and then left them to their fate. The Iroquois had actually
burnt French captives in their towns.
“How long is it since the French have grown so bold?” shouted one in
derision. “They have been shut up in their forts. Will they now fight in
the light of day like men?”
“We shall fight or die,” answered St. Helène boldly. “Are our Indian
allies squaws that they should fly at the first approach of danger?
Before Onontio protected you you felt the teeth of the ravenous Iroquois
dog. Our Governor tamed him and tied him up, but when Onontio was far
away he devoured you worse than ever. We are strong enough to kill the
English, destroy the Iroquois, and whip you if you fail in your duty to
us. Will you let the English brandy that has killed you in your wigwams
lure you into the kettles of the Iroquois?”
The Christian chief of Sault St. Louis, known as the “Great Mohawk,”
harangued his followers, exhorting them to wash out their wrongs in
blood, but the savages remained turbulent, and seemed to be upon the
point of deserting in a body. Their defection would mean the failure of
the enterprise. At this juncture Le Ber du Chesne came to the rescue.
Persuasion having failed he tried the effects of taunts.
“You are cowards!” he cried. “You do not know what war is; go back to
your women and children. You never killed a man, and you never ate one
except those that were given you tied hand and foot. Go home; we do not
need your services.”
Du Chesne gained his point. The pride of the warriors was aroused, and
for the moment they were full of fight. The decision as to the point of
attack was postponed, however, and the expedition moved on. When, after
a march of eight days, they reached the Hudson, and found the place
where two paths diverged, the one leading to Albany and the other to
Schenectady, they took the latter. All agreed that an attack on Albany
would be an act of desperation.
They bivouaced in the forest in squads of twelve or more. Digging away
the snow in a circle, they covered the bare earth with a bed of spruce
boughs, made a fire in the centre and gathered around it to smoke their
pipes. Here crouched the Christian savage muffled in his blanket, his
unwashed face bearing traces of the soot and vermilion he had assumed
for the war-dance in the square of the mission village. There sat the
Canadian, hooded like a Capuchin monk, but irrepressible in loquacity.
The camp-fire glowed on their bronzed and animated features and lighted
up the rocks and pines behind them. The silent woods beyond presented a
region of enchanted romance and mystery.
Their slender store of provisions having been almost all consumed or
shared with the Indians, Le Ber du Chesne was detailed to head a
reconnoitring expedition of less than a score of men. Progress through
the snow-clogged woods was slow and painful; the lengthening days had
brought a partial thaw, and the little band waded through the melting
snow and the mingled ice, mud and water of the gloomy swamps. Lowering
gray clouds stretched monotonously over the desolate waste. Their
provisions soon exhausted, they boiled moccasins for food, or scraped
away the snow to find hickory and beech nuts. Fires could not be lighted
lest the smoke should betray their presence. Many suffered from
frost-bites, and the men soon were half dead with cold, fatigue and
hunger.
The weather changed. Pelted by a cold, gusty snowstorm, they lost the
track and toiled on, shaking down at every step a shower of fleecy white
from the burdened branches. It seemed impossible either to advance or
retreat. Thoroughly discouraged, shivering and famishing, it appeared as
if nothing remained but to lie down and die.
“I would that I could see the little home, or that I could at least have
the blessing of a priest. It is ill to die like a rat in a hole,”
murmured le Canotier drowsily, as he sank down on the snow.
“Rouse thee, my fine big fellow!” shouted du Chesne. “Rouse thee if thou
wouldst again see Ville Marie and Baboche and the little ones. I look to
thee to show the spirit of a man, and to uphold the spirits of thy
comrades.”
“And what is this, mon Capitaine?” suddenly exclaimed le Canotier,
starting up keenly alert, his hand instinctively grasping his knife.
Glancing over his shoulder du Chesne saw close beside him a plumed and
painted Indian, standing motionless as a bronze statue.
“Adarahta comes to his French brother as a friend,” muttered the Indian
in guttural accents.
“And what would Adarahta?” demanded the young Canadian, his keen eyes
striving to read the savage’s expressionless features.
“Adarahta has been sent by the white chief to seek his young brother,
who he feared was lost in the storm, to lead him to the spot where the
French war-party camps.”
“But you are not of our allies. You are an Iroquois,” returned du
Chesne, still distrustful.
“No, Adarahta, is a son of the Great Mohawk. Taken captive by the
Iroquois, treated as their slave, he would pay the debt he owes to his
enemies. Is my French brother ready to follow?”
Still du Chesne hesitated. This might be some snare planned by the wily
Indian to entrap them. Their circumstances were desperate, and this
offer presented the possibility of escape. Action held a relief from
hopeless suffering. It might be better to risk something than to perish
miserably in the snow. The Canadians, feeble and emaciated, found it
almost impossible to arouse themselves, but their leader addressed them
in terms so animating that they caught his spirit and declared their
readiness to push on.
“We follow,” du Chesne decided. “Adarahta shall walk before me. At the
first sign of treachery I shall shoot him like a wolf.”
The Indian made no response. He moved silently in front, closely
followed by the young commander, while the weary bushrangers dragged
themselves through the drifts.
“Is the camp of our brothers far?” asked du Chesne.
“Close at hand,” responded the guide, as his eyes darted furtive glances
in every direction.
“I would we were well out of this scrape. That painted fox means us
ill,” whispered le Canotier.
They had reached a narrow defile, the bed of a frozen stream, guarded on
either side by high banks clothed with a labyrinth of bushes. Suddenly
the air was filled with whoops and yells as scores of savages leaped
from their hiding-places. As a rapid fire opened from the thickets,
Adarahta fell beneath a death-blow from the leader of the expedition.
“Treachery! we are betrayed. Courage, my brave fellows!” shouted du
Chesne. “Better to die fighting than to freeze in inaction. We shall
sell our lives dearly.”
So dense was the snowstorm that the Canadians could not well distinguish
their advancing foes from those of their own party. The cries of the
combatants were redoubled by the echoes of the narrow valley. In this
moment of intense bewilderment the Canadians became broken and confused.
Du Chesne ran to where the uproar was greatest, shouting, gesticulating,
encouraging his men. Then he was suddenly plunged into a horror of thick
darkness, and fell unconscious.
When Le Ber du Chesne recovered his hold on life he was lying in a
wigwam attended by two squaws, who were awaiting the return of a party
of Iroquois. The young Canadian alternately shivered and burned in the
fever occasioned by his wounds. The Indian women were indifferently
kind. They told him that he was to be carried to a distant Iroquois
village; informing him also that the most of his party had been
killed—only a few had managed to escape.
The young man’s mind was still confused; fancy and reality blended
inextricably together. Dreadful scenes of bloodshed, privation and
misery mingled with memories of mirth and pastime. His thoughts
travelled back to his home in Ville Marie. The father, stern and
reticent, whose affection this youngest son had never doubted; the dead
mother, whose tender care had been so sadly missed; the sister whose
superior virtue he regarded with distant and respectful reverence—his
heart turned to them with homesick yearning. Fancy dwelt most
persistently upon the dear companion of his childhood, Diane de
Monesthrol. He remembered her on her first arrival from France, a weary,
dejected little stranger. Nanon’s sharp tongue had been quick to remind
the boy of the deference he owed to his father’s noble guests, but the
little French girl’s affection had obliterated all class distinctions.
What frolics and escapades they had had together! Diane had shown
herself a trusty comrade, always ready to shield him, generously sharing
with him every benefit. Far away in Ville Marie she would not forget to
pray for him. This conviction brought comfort to his soul.
When he began to recover strength du Chesne’s natural buoyancy of
temperament soon reasserted itself. If he could become sufficiently
strong to travel before his enemies returned he could easily make his
escape. Each day his physical powers improved, and he had arranged all
the details of flight when his hopes were abruptly crushed by the
arrival of the Iroquois.
The Indians carried numerous scalps, and brought with them a number of
prisoners. They vaunted their own exploits, and had no hesitation in
proclaiming that there was nothing on earth so great as the Iroquois
League. Being in haste to reach their own country they started at once,
taking du Chesne with them.
The journey westward along the Mohawk valley was long and toilsome. They
passed the first Mohawk town, Kughuawaga, standing on a hill, encircled
by a strong palisade. Here the crowded dwellings of bark were shaped
like the arched coverings of huge baggage waggons, and decorated with
the tokens or armorial bearings of their owners. Gandagora was situated
in a meadow. Tionondogue, the last and strongest of these fortified
villages, stood, like the first, on a hill overlooking the river. On
through the dense columns of primeval forest they marched, through
swamps and brooks and gullies, until they emerged from the shadows of
the woods into the broad light of an Indian clearing, where the town of
the Oneidas stood. This place contained about one hundred bark
dwellings, and numbered twice as many warriors.
Still advancing, they came at length to a vast open space where the
rugged fields sloped upwards into a broad, low hill crowned with the
lodges of Onondaga. In this capital of the Confederacy burned the
council fires of five tribes. Here in time of need were gathered their
wisest and best to debate questions of war and policy.
At a distance of some leagues they had been met by a crowd of the
inhabitants, among them a troop of women bringing venison and corn,
beaten together in a pulp and boiled, to regale the triumphant warriors.
Here they halted and spent the night in songs of victory, mingled with
the dismal chants of the prisoners, who were forced to dance for the
entertainment of their captors. The next day, as they approached the
town, the savage hive sent forth its swarms to meet them, and they were
greeted with demonstrations of the wildest joy.
Du Chesne had visited many Indian villages. The bronzed groups gathered
around the blazing fires, the flames of which painted each face in vivid
light; the shrivelled squaws, grisly warriors scarred by many wounds,
young braves whose honors were yet to be won, brown damsels flaunting in
beads and ochre, the noisy children rollicking with restless dogs—all
these were familiar sights to him. He was sufficiently intimate with
their customs and prejudices to render himself agreeable. The adaptable
young Canadian lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself. His good
humor, gay songs, and clever mimicry afforded his hosts constant
amusement. He knew these dusky denizens of the forest far too well,
however, to suppose that his fate would be influenced by the favor in
which he was held. In this focus of untrained savagery, ferocity was
cultivated as a virtue, and every soft emotion was stifled as unworthy
of a man. The son of the rich trader of Ville Marie, a youth who had
already made a name for himself in the annals of Indian warfare, was far
too rich a prize to be willingly relinquished. By words and signs he was
constantly warned that his hour was come, and each day with renewed
astonishment he found himself still among the living. Yet life contained
many chances; any moment might bring opportunity of escape. So du Chesne
betrayed no sign of trepidation, but jested as merrily as though he were
safe within the precincts of Ville Marie.
It had been decided that the prisoners should be distributed among the
different towns of the Confederacy; only a young French lad named
Gervais Bluet remained with du Chesne. As a preliminary torment an old
chief tried to burn the captive’s finger in the bowl of his pipe. This
was too much for the Canadian’s philosophy, and without wasting words on
the matter he knocked his assailant down. A murmur of approval arose
from the spectators. If du Chesne had begged for mercy their hearts
would have been hard as stone, but this proof of courage pleased the
warrior throng. He even contrived to make friends among the savages, the
most powerful of whom was the famous Onondaga orator, Otréouate.
“If you destroy the wasp’s nest you must crush the wasps or they will
sting you,” declared the old man, fixing his gaze reflectively on a
great mask with teeth and eyes of brass before which the Iroquois
performed their conjurations. “When our young men have sung the war-song
they will listen only to the sound of their own fury. I would gladly
save you, but it is not in my power to do so.”
“And what will be the manner of my death?” the prisoner asked coolly.
“You will run the gauntlet. It has been decided that the young white
chief shall furnish entertainment for the women and children. After that
you will be devoured by fire.”
“It is well,” responded the young man quietly.
That day he gave his farewell feast, after the custom of those who know
themselves to be at the point of death. When the company had gathered
the condemned man addressed them in a clear voice:
“My brothers, I am about to die. Onontio’s arm is long, and he will
certainly avenge his children. That concerns you, not me. Do your worst;
you cannot make me shrink. I do not fear torture or death.”
That night the white prisoners were closely watched. Two Indians slept
one on either side of them, another being stretched across the door of
the lodge. Du Chesne had formed no plan, he could depend upon no hope of
reprieve, yet never did he entirely lose heart.
The next evening the captives were led out amidst the shouts of the
women and children. The village was all alive with the bustle of
preparation. The young white chief would furnish ample entertainment.
The Iroquois formed themselves into long double lines, armed with clubs,
thorny stocks, or slender iron rods bought from the Dutchmen on the
Hudson. The prisoners were started to run between the two lines. They
were saluted with yells and a tempest of blows. Bruised and lacerated
from head to foot, and streaming with blood, young Bluet fell senseless
to the ground. At the sight a sort of frenzy took possession of du
Chesne. Seizing a club from one of the assailants, he used it with such
vigor that his persecutors fell right and left beneath his blows. It was
a valor born of sheer desperation, but it served him well. In their
amazement the Iroquois became confused, and in the excitement du Chesne
darted through an opening in the lines, and seeking shelter behind a
wood-pile, found beneath it a hole into which he contrived to creep, and
which afforded temporary concealment. A howl of furious consternation
arose from the Indians. The prisoner had suddenly vanished. They ranged
fields and forests in vain pursuit, and then concluded that their
captive was a sorcerer who had been delivered by his Manitou.
From his place of hiding in the deepening darkness du Chesne could see
much of what was going on around him. Once a tall savage passed so near
that he could have touched him with his hand. The fate that awaited him
if he were discovered, and the scarcely less terrible dangers of the
wilderness that lay between him and his home, filled him with despair.
Spent and exhausted he lay through the night in his cramped
hiding-place, creeping out once to grope for a few ears of corn left
from the last year’s harvest. He wisely judged that his safety lay in
remaining there till the savages out in search of him should return. So,
though cramped and stiffened, he lay beneath the wood-pile till the
following night; then when all was still, he slipped out, and had
reached the outskirts of the village when, to his dismay, he stumbled
over a log of wood. A sentinel immediately gave the alarm and the whole
village started in furious pursuit. Du Chesne had been the fleetest
runner among all his companions. He now had the advantage of a start and
kept in advance of his pursuers, who took up the chase like hounds
seeking game. 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 two had given up the chase. Seeing a hollow tree, du Chesne
crept into it, while the Iroquois, losing the trace in the dark, lay
down to sleep near by. At midnight he emerged from his retreat, brained
his enemies with a club, and continued his journey in triumph.
Du Chesne directed his course by the sun, and for food dug roots or
peeled the soft inner bark off the trees; sometimes he succeeded in
catching tortoises in muddy brooks. He had the good fortune to find a
hatchet in a deserted camp and with it made one of those wooden
implements which the Indians used for kindling fire by friction. This
saved him from his worst suffering, as he had but little covering and
was at night exposed to tortures from cold. Building a fire in some deep
nook of the forest he warmed himself, cooked the food he had found, and
slept till daybreak, taking the precaution to throw water on the embers
lest the rising smoke should attract attention. Through all hope
beckoned him on. Life held so many prizes, offered so many delights,
that at no time could he give way to despair.
Once he found himself near a band of Iroquois hunters, but he lay
concealed, and they passed without perceiving him. Du Chesne followed
their trail back, and found a bark canoe which they had hidden near the
banks of the river. It was too large for his use, but he reduced it to
convenient size, embarked and descended the stream. After that progress
was comparatively easy. Finally, after enduring many hardships, he
reached Ville Marie, where he was welcomed as one restored from the
dead—the main expedition having, on returning from its successful
attack on Schenectady, reported his capture by the Iroquois, from whom
no mercy could be expected.