It was a week before we left De-o-nun-da-ga-a, and although the delay
irked me it could not be avoided, for the prolonged absence of
Ta-wan-ne-ars from his post as Warden of the Western Door of the Long
House had permitted an accumulation of questions of political and
military importance which required his attention. He spent the days
either in consultations with the _roy-an-ehs_ and chiefs and
delegations from neighboring tribes or in inspecting the marches.
Corlaer departed with a small band of braves upon a hunting-trip, but
I availed myself of the opportunity to gain an insight into the
workings of the remarkable military confederacy which held the
balance of power in America.
Do-ne-ho-ga-weh, as Guardian of the Western Door, was the political
custodian of the most important frontier of the League. As such he
was supreme.
But Ta-wan-ne-ars with his assistant chief, So-no-so-wa,[1] of the
Turtle Clan, were the military captains of the Western Door. They
were the only permanent war-chiefs in the confederacy, all others
being elected to temporary command in times of emergency. They were
also assistants to Do-ne-ho-ga-weh and attended him in this capacity
at meetings of the Ho-yar-na-go-war, the great council of the
_roy-an-ehs_. Their duty was to keep in proper subjection the
numerous tributary nations, beyond the actual boundaries of the Long
House, and equally to safeguard the Western Door from attack by any
enemy.
[1] "Great Oyster Shell." The names of the two permanent war-chiefs
were really titles of honor, and were hereditary in an indirect line
like the rank of _roy-an-eh_, the idea being to select the ablest man
of his generation in a particular family.
So-no-so-wa at the time of my visit was absent on a trip to the south
to chastise a band of Shawanese who had presumed to invade the
hunting-grounds of the League. So jealous was the watch kept over
the supremacy of the Long House that the slightest aggression or
impertinence, even against a tributary nation, was punished at the
earliest opportunity.
One of Ta-wan-ne-ars' first acts was to organize a war-party to harry
the Miamis in retaliation for an attack upon a village of the
Andastes in the Susquehanna Valley who were subject to the
jurisdiction of the League.
"It was the intent of the Founders to prevent quarrels amongst the
five nations who formed the Ho-de-no-sau-nee," explained
Ta-wan-ne-ars as we sat in the Council-House after the departure of
an embassy from the Jego-sa-sa[2] or so-called Neuter Nation, who had
petitioned for relief from the military aid which had been demanded
of them for the expedition against the Miamis. "Before we built the
Long House we fought constantly amongst ourselves. Afterwards we
fought only against others, and because we were united we always won,
although sometimes our wars lasted for many years.
[2] Wildcats.
"And now that we are strong, and only the white man can venture to
oppose our war-parties, we fight for nothing more than the right to
impose peace upon others. If a nation makes trouble for us too
frequently we subjugate it, as we did the Delawares. If a nation is
troublesome upon occasion, like the Je-go-sa-sa, we make it a
tributary, and in return we protect it. If a nation is in
difficulties, as were the Tuscaroras in the South, and they appeal to
us for aid, we give it. We took the Tuscaroras into the League
because that was the best way we could protect them."
"Against whom?" I asked innocently.
"Against the white men," he answered. "Aye, brother, down in the
Southern colonies the white men hunger for land just as they do here
in New York. When an Indian tribe is weak, as were the Tuscaroras,
the white men drive it before them. When a tribe is strong, like the
O-ya-da-ga-o-no[3] or ourselves, it can resist--for a time."
[3] Cherokees.
He fell silent and his eyes gazed moodily into the smoke of the
Council-Fire.
"Why do you say 'for a time'!" I asked.
"Because I mean it," he retorted fiercely. "Think you Ta-wan-ne-ars
is ignorant because he is an Indian! But I do my brother an
injustice there, for he does not look down upon the Indian as do so
many white men.
"No, Ormerod, I tell you it is so. Today the Indian is still strong.
He has the protection of the forest. The white man foolishly has
given him guns to fight with, and steel axes and knives. But the
Indian grows weaker; the white man grows stronger. In the end the
Indian must go."
"The People of the Long House?" I cried. "'Tis impossible after the
friendship you have shown us."
He eyed me gloomily.
"Friendship counts at the moment; strength counts in the future," he
said. "That is the white man's way. Have I not lived amongst them?"
He leaned forward until his face was close to mine.
"When all else fails the white man will use fire-water, what you call
rum and the French call brandy. The red man can not resist it--and
it ruins him. He becomes a red animal."
"But----"
He would not let me speak.
"And your missionaries told me I must believe in their God!" he went
on scornfully. "A God who permits white men to do things the God of
the Indians forbids! I said to them:
"'No. I am an Indian. A good Indian is better than a good white
man; he is a better Christian, as you call it. And between bad
Indians and bad white men there is only a difference in kinds of
evil.'"
A warrior entered to report on a mission to a near-by village, and
our conversation lapsed. I was to remember it many times in the
future and especially during the adventures which were immediately
before me.
The next day we started upon the march to Jagara. We had not gone
very far on the morning of the second day of our journey when I began
to hear what sounded like a muffled roar, not thunder, but the
bellowings of some gigantic monster, whose breath could ruffle the
trees of the forest. Ta-wan-ne-ars, who had regained his customary
good spirits with the prospect of danger and hardship, smiled at my
obvious bewilderment.
"'Tis the voice of the Great Falls, brother," he said. "The Thunder
Waters."
"Does water make that noise?" I exclaimed.
"Nothing but water."
"'Tis impossible."
"So many have said; and, indeed, the missionaries told me 'twas one
of the greatest wonders of the world."
In the early afternoon a mist appeared, overhanging the treetops on
the horizon and shot with gorgeous rainbows. The volume of noise
increased. It was not deafening. You could speak and converse with
ease as you approached it; but it dominated you, made you conscious
of a power beyond human effort to subdue.
Yet even so, when we stepped from the trees and the panorama of the
cataract lay spread before us, a vast, seething wall of water that
swirled and smoked and tossed and fumed in an endless fight for
freedom, I was amazed, staggered by the magnitude of the spectacle.
Here in the heart of the wilderness, far from civilization, the
effect of it was belittling, overwhelming. That mighty flow of
water, so resistless, so inevitable in its progress, so unthinkably
gigantic, seemed almost as if it might sweep away the fabric of a
continent.
I stumbled behind Ta-wan-ne-ars into the trail of the portage which
led around the falls. Canoes and goods were transported by this
route from the Cadarakui Lake to the Lake of the Eries whence poured
this endless stream; it was a main-traveled road between the French
posts in Canada and their outflung establishments in the farther
wilderness.
We followed it northeastward until twilight, the roar of the falls
gradually diminishing behind us, and came at length into an open
space upon the banks of the swift-running river which carried the
shattered waters into the Cadarakui Lake. Close to the bank stood a
flagstaff, and from its summit floated the white ensign of France.
At the foot of the staff, as if resting secure under the folds of the
flag, rose the walls of a substantial log house. Behind it were a
collection of smaller huts and lodges of bark.
A large, stout man, with very greasy, lanky black hair, hailed us
from the log house as we approached.
"_Hola!_" he shouted in French. "Who comes so free from the westward
without canoe or fur-packs?"
"A poor, miserable rascal of a forest-runner," I called back gaily.
He discarded an Indian pipe he had been nursing in his hand, and came
across to me at a surprizingly rapid gait for one of his build.
"And who might this 'poor, miserable rascal of a forest-runner' be?"
he demanded. "These are the King's grounds, and we must know who
comes and goes."
"_Mon Dieu!_" I appealed in mock consternation to the stars. "But it
is a hard man to deal with! Will you have an objection, _monsieur_,
to the name of Jean Courbevoir?"
"None in the world, Jean," he returned promptly, "if you have your
trading-permit with you. But who is the good savage with you?"
Nobody had told me anything of a trading-permit, and I fought for
time.
"You call him good with justice, _monsieur_-- By the way, what is
your name?"
"They call me Joncaire," he said with a trace of grimness.
"Joncaire! _Mort de ma vie!_"
And I appealed with all the precision my memory would permit to the
calendar of the saints.
"The very man I have been searching for!"
"What? How is that?" he asked.
"Ah, but that is a tale! I can not believe it now! Am I in very
truth on French soil once more?"
"This is the Magazin Royal," he returned. "As for French soil, _mon
brave_, I do not see how you could have been off it."
"Off it?" I repeated.
"Off it," he replied impatiently. "Since his Most Catholic Majesty
hath a just claim to all lands in these parts--on this side of
Hudson's River, at any rate."
"To be sure, to be sure," I assented quickly. "But, Monsieur de
Joncaire, you will be interested to know there is an accursed tribe
of savages who do not believe as you do."
"Is that so, Jean? And who may they be?"
"The Messesagues."
His face lighted up.
"They are in de Tonty's country. And how is the dear Alphonse?"
"Fleeing for his life, no less."
"Fleeing? How is it he has not come here?"
"Those same accursed Messesagues, _monsieur_. They rose up against
us, and Monsieur de Tonty must flee to the northward and make the
journey through the country of the Hurons."
"But you escaped?" he pressed.
"Verily, _monsieur_; and 'tis this good savage who walks beside me
who did it. He has a kindness for me, and when we were out hunting
informed me of the rising against Monsieur de Tonty and escorted me
here."
A look of grave concern overspread Joncaire's face.
"Are you certain of this, Jean?"
"Beyond doubt, monsieur; for my friend, the Wolf here, smuggled a
message from me to Monsieur de Tonty, who bade me come at once to you
that you might hold up all west-bound canoes."
"Aye, Alphonse would have done so," approved Joncaire. "Well, I
always told him he would have trouble with the Messesagues. He was
too easy with them. They are used to the heavy rule of the Iroquois,
and they misunderstand kindness. _Ma foi_! This is bad news you
bring, Jean. Was there much loss in furs?"
"Sad! 'Tis very sad!" I said ambiguously. "All gone!"
"And that reminds me," he went on, "you have not shown me your
trading-permit."
"Trading-permit, monsieur?" I said. "Why--why--_monsieur_ forgets
that I am not a free-trader. I was in Monsieur de Tonty's employ. I
had no permit. Nor, indeed, monsieur, have I any furs. Therefore
what need would Jean Courbevoir have for a trading-permit?"
"Humph!" he growled. "Have you been long in Canada, Jean!"
"But this year, monsieur."
"And you already speak the tongue of the savages!"
I nearly fell into this trap, but bethought myself of the danger in
time.
"Oh, no, _monsieur_; only a word here and there."
"But this savage of yours?"
"Oh, he is like a dog. So faithful, so devoted! And he learns
French readily, too."
"Humph!" growled Joncaire again. "And where do you come from, Jean?"
Something in his speech warned me--the liquid slurr of the South.
"I, _monsieur_?" I replied innocently. "Oh, I am of Picardy. But
monsieur is of the South--no? of Provence?"
All the suspicion fled from Joncaire's face, and in its stead
blossomed a broad smile.
"_Peste!_" he ejaculated. "'Tis a clever lad! And how knew you
that, Jean?"
I was overjoyed--and in no need to simulate my sentiments. This was
good fortune.
"Was I not camping beside the Regiment de Provence when we were on
the Italian frontier! 'Tis a pleasant way those lads have of
talking. And such good companions with the bottle!"
"You know, Jean, you know!"
Joncaire was delighted with me.
"Ah, yes, _monsieur_," I asserted modestly. "Ah, for some of that
warm Southern wine at this moment instead of the accursed rum. Rum
is good only for savages."
"You say truth," applauded Joncaire. "Come your ways within, Jean,
and you shall taste of the blood of La Belle France--although it be
not our Provence vintage. By the way, do you know Provence?"
"I can not say so with honesty, monsieur," I fenced, "although I have
been in Arles."
"In Arles!"
He flung his arms around my neck.
"Jean, I love you, my lad! I was born in St. Remi, which is but a
short distance out in the diocese. Does that _sacré_ Henri Ponteuse
yet have the tavern at the corner of the Grande Place?"