use caution in their advance, for they might be attacked at any moment.
They changed their mode of travel, lay all day hidden in the depth of
the forest, sleeping, lounging, smoking tobacco, while at twilight
they again entered the canoes and paddled down the side of the lake
until the flush of dawn began to redden the eastern skyline. At the
very end of the water was a rocky promontory where Fort Ticonderoga was
afterwards built, and this was their objective, their intention being
to carry across into a small lake lying to the south (Lake George)
and thence to paddle southward in search of hunting parties of the
Iroquois, or of the more southern, but equally ferocious Mohawks. They
even intended to carry their canoes to the upper reaches of the Hudson
River, should no enemies be met with, and thus penetrate into the
very heart of the Mohawk country. They were to be spared this lengthy
journey.
At ten o’clock in the evening of the twenty-ninth day of July the
flotilla approached the end of the wave-tossed lake, and, as the
shadows descended, an advance scout saw dark objects in motion upon
the water before them. They drew nearer, and, as paddles flashed to
the straining arms of the braves, suddenly a wild, unnerving war-whoop
sounded above the splashing of the water. An Iroquois war-party was
before them.
The hostile warriors yelled derisively, and, turning about, paddled
furiously for the shore, as they had no desire to engage in a
hand-to-hand struggle upon the surface of the lake. They landed, rushed
into the forest, and soon the hack! hack! of their stone hatchets and
iron axes, captured in warfare, showed that they were busily preparing
a fortification. The Canadian redskins remained upon the lake, with
canoes lashed together by means of poles, and, floating to within
bowshot of their enemies, yelled derisively at them.
Night descended. Those upon the lake danced in the bottoms of their
frail canoes, yelling derisively and singing songs of defiance. Those
on shore hacked away at their fortifications, yelping dismally and
boasting of their prowess in battle. Champlain slept uneasily, and,
as day dawned, put on his breast and back plates, his steel thigh
protectors, and upon his head his plumed casque. In his hand was
his gun or arquebus, loaded with four balls. An ammunition-box hung
over one shoulder and a long sword was by his side. Thus he stood,
respectfully gazed upon by his redskin allies, who took him for a sort
of god, come from the Great Spirit in order to rescue them from their
enemies and bring victory to their painted braves.
Daylight soon came. With yells of defiance the allies now approached
the shore, and, without opposition from the Iroquois, landed upon the
beach, where they drew up in battle array. The Iroquois defiled from
their barricade, and, as Champlain looked upon them, he saw that they
were all tall, strong men, about two hundred in all, the fiercest and
most able fighters of North America. In the center of the line were
several chiefs, who had great headdresses of eagle and heron plumes,
and, as they advanced through the forest, all set up a vigorous
yelping, similar to a pack of wolves in full cry. Some had shields of
wood and of deerhide, others were covered with a kind of armor made of
tough twigs interlaced together. Stealthily and steadily they bore down
upon the northern host, while afar off, on the roughened water of the
lake, a blue and white loon screamed discordantly.
[Illustration: CHAMPLAIN IN THE INDIAN BATTLE]
The stout-hearted Sieur de Champlain stood in the rear of the Canadian
redmen; but, as the Iroquois drew near, his friendly braves called
loudly for him to come out in front in order to lead them on to the
fray. The good knight was eager to do so. Yet, as he stood forth, with
the sun gleaming upon his armor, the Iroquois remained stock still and
gazed at him in mute astonishment. The Frenchman leveled his arquebus
at a gaudy chieftain, and fired. At the discharge, the red man leaped
high into the air, uttered a gurgling yell, and fell prostrate upon the
green moss. Bang! A second redskin lurched upon his face. Then arose
a wild, alarming scream from his allies, and the air was filled with
whizzing arrows.
The Iroquois were no cowards and returned the barbs with some equally
as good, but, as the guns of the other Frenchmen spoke, and numerous
redskins fell to the earth in mortal agony, they saw that here was a
death-dealing instrument which they had never met with before. This
brought confusion to their ranks. They stood for a few moments, then
broke and ran in uncontrolled terror, while, with wonderful leaps and
bounds, the allies started in pursuit. Many of the Iroquois went to
the Happy Hunting Grounds; but many others were captured; while camp,
canoes, provisions and weapons were all abandoned. Terrorized and
dismayed by Champlain and his arquebus, these denizens of the forest
had been signally defeated. Thus the scientific knowledge of the white
man triumphed over the ignorance of the Indian, and thus New France,
for the first time, rushed into contact with the renowned warriors of
the Five Nations.
The allies held a three hour dance in commemoration of their victory,
and when it was completed, they started homeward, first torturing the
prisoners, and killing the majority of them. At the Falls of Chambly
on the river Richelieu, the Hurons and Algonquins went their ways, and
Champlain paddled down the St. Lawrence with the friendly Montagnais at
the rate of seventy-five, to ninety miles, a day. At length he reached
Tadoussac, where the wives and daughters of the redskins greeted them
with a feast and war dance. All rejoiced at the signal victory over
the hated Iroquois and sang and yelped in commemoration of the famous
battle near the rocky promontory of far distant Crown Point.
The adventurous Champlain had much enjoyed this little trip, yet, eager
to report his explorations to the French King, he sailed for France,
and, after a month’s voyage, found himself at Fontainebleau. The King
was much pleased with the news which was brought of happenings across
the wide Atlantic. He also was delighted with a belt of porcupine
quills, as a present from the Canadian wilds, with two skins of the
scarlet tanager, and the pointed skull of a gar fish, unknown in
France and much appreciated.
By Spring the daring voyager was again upon the ocean, headed for
Tadoussac and the hills of the Laurentian Mountains. The colony at
Quebec had spent a good winter, and had not been visited with the
scurvy, so he felt that France at last had her grip upon the New World.
As he went up the river he was met by his old friends, the Montagnais
Indians, who were again upon the warpath. Would he join them? Why,
nothing suited his fancy better! He was soon to be in a battle more
ferocious than that skirmish away off upon the bank of the great Lake
Champlain.
The redskins were encamped upon an island in the river, where they were
to meet the Algonquins and proceed against a band of Iroquois, who had
come there from the south in order to have revenge for the slaughter
of the previous year. All were busy felling branches and trees for a
barricade, when suddenly an Algonquin paddled up, crying,
“Arm yourselves! Get ready! The Iroquois are not far away and have
thrown up a fortification. If you do not attack them, they will attack
you!”
With a wild yelp of eager anticipation, the Montagnais took to their
canoes, paddled up the stream, leaped to the shore, and were soon
running through the woods in the direction of the camp of the hated
invaders. As for Champlain, and some Frenchmen whom he had with him,
they could come along as best they might. This they did, and, as they
advanced through the forest, they heard loud shouts and battle cries.
The fight was on in earnest.
The Sieur de Champlain, in armored breast plate and with greaves and
arquebus, soon came into a clearing, where he viewed a strong, log
fortification. Behind this, the Iroquois were raising an ear-splitting
din. They were firing at the attacking party of Montagnais and
Algonquins, who were afraid to advance. The Frenchman soon saw how to
bring the matter to a successful issue.
“Here, my friends!” said he to the redskins. “You must make a breach in
yonder fort. As I and my companions shower bullets at a certain point,
you must rush forward, must tear down the logs with this rope, then all
can enter and put an end to these invaders.”
The Indians followed his advice. As the Frenchmen advanced and
commenced firing, the redskins rushed forward, tied ropes to the logs,
and, wrenching them away, soon made a breach in the fortress. Champlain
was hit in the ear by an arrow, but he tore it away, although it had
buried itself in his neck, and continued the fight. As the redmen
worked willingly, a fresh band of Frenchmen approached and began to
fire upon the fort from the other side. They had come from a trading
pinnace, which had followed Champlain’s shallop, and, hearing the sound
of gun-fire, had hurried forward in order to take part in the fray.
Crash! The logs at last gave way. With a wild, discordant war-whoop,
the allies rushed forward, brandishing their knives and tomahawks, and
followed by Champlain with his men. The Iroquois, frightened at the
awful effect of the firearms, made but a slight resistance. Some were
shot upon the spot, others ran and were killed at once, still others
plunged into the St. Lawrence, where they were drowned, while fifteen
were taken prisoners. Not one escaped the fury of the allied assault.
It had been a second glorious victory.
Champlain had no further battles with the redmen, at this time; but,
a few years later, made a journey up the Ottawa River which brought
him in contact with many of them. This was then, of course, an unknown
country, inhabited only by bands of Indians, who lived by fishing and
by hunting. The Frenchman was the first white man to venture among the
native Canadians, so you can well imagine what must have been their
surprise and interest in viewing a warrior with a “stick which spoke
with the voice of thunder.” They marveled at his ability to travel up
the river, which was rapid and treacherous, saying, “You must have
fallen from the clouds as you are so far from the great river (St.
Lawrence).” They gave him food, showed him their gardens, planted with
Indian corn, and sent him on to other Indian villages, with an escort.
“We live here because we fear the Iroquois,” said one chief. “But, if
our white brothers will but settle upon the great, blue river to the
south of us, so that we may be protected from these fierce warriors, we
ourselves will come down there to live.”
After spending some time in exploring this wild and beautiful country,
the adventurer erected a great cross, decorated with the arms of the
King of France.
“You must preserve this,” he said to the savages, “for it belongs to my
Great Father beyond the sea.”
Then, turning about, he began the journey to Montreal. It was June,
the woods were radiant with the flush of new foliage, deer, moose,
and beaver were seen in abundance, and even the lean, sneaking timber
wolves howled at the interlopers. The trip down the Ottawa was swifter
than the ascent and, about the middle of June, the voyager arrived
beneath the mountain of Montreal. He bought all the furs that he could
from the Indians, and, after feasting with the French traders and dusky
sons of the forest, embarked in one of the trading ships for France,
promising to return on the following year.
He did as he had said, and, addressing the redmen, told them that
it was his aim to get them to live at peace with one another and to
form a league which would have as its object the extermination of the
Iroquois. Champlain had great ideas for New France. He wished to have
the Indians as his allies and friends. French soldiers were to fight
their battles for them. French traders were to supply their wants.
French priests would baptize them and lead them in the ways of the
true Christian faith. It was to be an alliance of soldier, priest, and
trader.
The Indians were well treated by the French explorers, who were kinder
than the English and far more hospitable. Champlain was anxious to
gather twenty-five hundred of them so as to attack the Iroquois.
The redskins promised to collect at Montreal at a stated time, and,
believing them, the great-hearted Frenchman traveled to Quebec for
needed supplies. When he returned, he found, to his dismay and chagrin,
a perfect solitude. The wild concourse of Algonquins, Ottawas, and
Hurons had vanished, and nothing remained but the smoke of their fires,
the skeleton poles of their tepees and the débris from their feasting.
Impatient at the delay in waiting for him, they had set out for their
villages.
Nothing daunted, but greatly chagrined, Champlain determined to journey
up the Ottawa to the land of the Hurons, of whom he had heard much, but
had never seen. With two canoes, ten Indians, and two Frenchmen, he
therefore pushed up the stream, reached Lake Nipissing, and, hearing
that a still larger lake was beyond, pressed onward to the country of
the Hurons. The scenery delighted him, for here were deep woods of
pine and of cedar, thickets full of brown rabbits and partridges, wild
grapes, plums, cherries, crab apples, nuts, and blackberries.
The Hurons were soon met with; noble-looking, well-fed savages, who
took him to their tents, feasted him on com, pumpkins and fish, and
welcomed him as the great hero who was to lead them successfully in
battle against their hated enemies, the Iroquois.
At length many warriors had gathered, and, with many cries of defiance,
they put boldly forth upon the broad bosom of Lake Ontario, crossed it
safely, and landed near a bay called Hungry Bay, within the borders of
the State of New York. The canoes were hidden in the woods, and the
warriors walked single file for ten or twelve miles down the edge of
the lake. Then they struck towards the south, and, threading a tortuous
way through the forest, were soon deep within the country of the
Iroquois: their deadly and hated enemies.
It was the month of October, the month of the harvest and the month
of crisp, joyous days. The rustling leaves were just turning to gold
and to crimson as the warriors crept onward upon their mission of
death. On, on, they went, until they had approached a fortified town
of the enemy, surrounded by plowed fields, in which were pumpkins and
stalks of corn. In advance were some young Huron braves, whose zeal
out-weighed their common sense. Seeing some Iroquois at work among
their crops, they made a rush upon them, uttering a wild yell as they
did so.
The hot-headed Huron warriors had counted without their host, for, as
they raced forward, the Iroquois seized their bows and arrows, shot
into their midst, and killed and wounded a half dozen of the oncomers.
The rest were driven back, hotly pursued. But Champlain and his
Frenchmen stopped their onrush at the border of the wood, sending them
yelping to their stockade, bearing their dead and wounded with them.
The battle was a three hour affair. Truly the Iroquois were noble
fighters, for, in spite of an equality of numbers, they easily were
the victors of the day, wounding Champlain in the knee with an arrow,
while another pierced the calf of his leg. The Hurons, in fact, had a
sufficiency of battle, and, withdrawing to their camp, waited five
days for a detachment of Algonquins which had promised to appear.
They did not come, and, in frequent skirmishes with the Iroquois, the
invaders were given all the fighting that they wished for. At length,
disheartened, the Hurons retreated to the place where their canoes lay
hidden, pursued by parties of the Iroquois, who shot great quantities
of arrows at their retreating forms. They embarked, paddled across the
lake, and were again in their own country.
The Sieur De Champlain was not quite the hero which he had been before
this affair, for he had not been found to be invulnerable. The man of
iron breastplate, fluttering plumes, and “stick which spoke with the
voice of thunder” was, after all, a common mortal. Some of the redmen
even treated him disdainfully, for they were angered at the reception
which they had received.
In spite of this, the French empire-builder spent the Winter with
his redskinned allies. When Spring came, he turned homeward, and,
accompanied by an Indian chieftain, again paddled down the Ottawa, at
length reaching Montreal, where he was welcomed as one risen from the
dead. Launching his canoe, he journeyed to Quebec, where he received
a royal welcome. The chief was amazed at the houses, ships, and
barracks, and, after admiring all that he saw, returned to his wigwam
in the forest, bewildered and astonished at the possessions of these
fair-skinned strangers.
The rest of Champlain’s life was troublous, indeed, and quite different
from those venturesome experiences in the wilderness. He had dedicated
himself to New France, he loved the great surging St. Lawrence River,
the wooded hills, the glorious lakes, the hemlock forests, the spruce,
the fir, and the wonderfully clear air. He craved the wild life among
the redskins, the battles in the silent forest, the war-dance and the
shrill yelpings of victory. He reveled in the woodland scents and
sounds, the chatter of the moose-bird, the scream of the loon, the
plaintive _meow_ of the lynx, the grunt of the brown, bull moose, and
the quavering wail of the great northern diver. His eye responded to
the view of bogs, morasses, waterfalls and plunging rapids. He was—in
fact—a lover of the beautiful in nature. In a period of unbridled
license his was a spotless life, and, like the good Chevalier Bayard,
he was a warrior without fear and without reproach.
A British fleet, sailing up the St. Lawrence, found the little town
of Quebec, which the good Chevalier had built, with a garrison of but
sixteen, and these half famished. They were ordered to surrender, were
captured, were convoyed to their own country (each soldier with furs
to the value of twenty crowns with him) and the cross of St. George
of England was planted upon the crumbling walls of the citadel. Yet
Champlain was again to return, for, by a treaty between France and
England, at this time, New France was restored to the French crown. The
founder of this struggling colony reassumed command of Quebec in the
following May.
Two years now passed, years of pleasurable toil, among the Indians, for
priests and soldiers of the crown. A mission was established amongst
the Hurons, a trading post at Three Rivers, and the authorities in
France begged for troops with which to attack the vindictive Iroquois.
But Cardinal Richelieu, who governed the destinies of the nation,
had enough to do at home and cared little for the affairs of this
far-distant wilderness colony. Harassed by anxieties, Champlain became
more pious, grave and stern, as the years passed on. He had married,
but his wife remained in Europe, where she became a nun; so the bold
explorer made his will, leaving all of his little property to the
Church.
Christmas day, 1635, was a bright day overhead, and the sun shone
brilliantly upon the snow, but it was a dark day in the annals of
New France. For in a chamber of the old fort at Quebec, breathless
and cold, lay the hardy frame of the great explorer, the man of the
sea, the wilderness, the palace, and the wigwam. The grave, the
valiant Champlain was dead at the age of sixty-eight. His labors for
his beloved New France were over and he had ceased to watch over
the destinies of his struggling people. He was buried with a simple
ceremony, which was attended by Jesuits, officers, soldiers, traders,
Indian braves, and the few settlers of the quaint, little town. A tomb
was erected to his honor and his remains thus rested near the scenes
of his explorations, his adventures, and his dreams of empire for his
beloved country.
THE SONG OF CHAMPLAIN
_This is the song which the loon sang,_
_Sang as he swam on the glimmering lake,_
_Sang to the splash and thud of the waves,_
_As the hills reëchoed his wild, laughing call,_
_This is the song of Champlain!_
* * * * *
The day was bright, and the sun was warm, as I rocked on the waters I
love,
And the scent of the hemlocks blew fresh from the shore, and the coo
of the gray, mourning dove.
Afar down the lake came the voice of my mate, as he heard my laughing
refrain,
And we laughed at each other, like sister and brother, then dove, and
laughed once again.
But see, down the lake comes a strange, thrilling sight, ’tis a sight
fit for gods to behold,
A swarm of red warriors in birch bark canoes, their prows threading
silver and gold.
Algonquins and Hurons, Montagnais as well, bedaubed with yellow and
red,
While the plumes of the heron and eaglet wave forth, like flags from
each clean-shaven head.
In front of them all sits a warrior white, with breastplate and
greaves of hard steel;
As the paddles flash keenly, he gazes serenely, and smiles as the
warriors wheel.
They wheel into line with yells and with cries, as another wild party
draws near,
From the southward they come, while the weird, moaning drum booms
forth a death-slogan clear.
“The dread Iroquois! The bad Iroquois!” reëchoes from stem and from
stern,
While loud, yelping cries ascend to the skies, as Algonquins and
fierce Hurons turn.
They turn and they wheel, form in battle array; but the Iroquois dart
to the shore,
Where they rush to the forest to cut down the trees, and hasten as
never before.
Night comes; as the smothering blackness creeps on, there are dances
and songs on the lake,
While on shore the deep drum makes a low, whining hum, e’en as
branches and war-bonnets shake.
Day breaks at last, and the shrill trumpet’s blast—wakes the
stillness in forest and glade,
’Tis the dawning of death, for the grim specter’s breath has blown
o’er the host unafraid.
The paddles dip deep, as the warriors sleek drive onward to white,
gleaming sand,
They leap to the beach, with arrows in reach, advance to the uprising
land.
A yell of defiance is hurled at their heads, as the Iroquois rush to
the fray,
Then the keen, whizzing barbs rush swift through the air; they advance
in battle array.
But, see, there steps forth a warrior white,—’tis Champlain in
casquet of steel,
A sword by his side, in his hand a long gun, he sights as the Iroquois
wheel.
_Crash! bang!_ and the bullet is speeding along, it reaches the breast
of a chief,
One despairing wail and the lean body, frail, has gone to the Kingdom
of Grief.
Ahah! what is this, for the Iroquois turn, they have met with their
masters at-last,
The warriors fierce, who can slaughter and burn, now wince at the
steel bullet’s blast.
The Montagnais are yelping and dancing with glee, their enemies fear
them at length,
For many years past they have kept them in awe; now they wince at the
arquebus’ strength.
A wild mêlée now, and the green balsam bough, sways o’er the carnage
of hate,
And night shadows cover the rioting braves, the Iroquois meet with
their fate.
* * * * *
See! the Hurons, Algonquins, are paddling away, and northward they
turn with a will,
As war songs and yelpings ascend to the sky, of torture the braves
have their fill,
Calm and quiet there sits that warrior white, who has won them the
stirring lake fight,
And the breeze sighs, “_Champlain!_” while the stirring refrain
clarions forth like the wild eagle’s flight.
_This is the song which the loon sang,_
_Sang as he swam on the glimmering lake,_
_Sang to the splash and thud of the waves,_
_As the hills reëchoed his wild, laughing call;_
_This is the song of Champlain!_
WHISKEY JACK
(CANADIAN BLUE JAY)
I was the first to see the redskin, I was the first to view Champlain;
Flitting in the hemlock branches, I fly South, then North again;
Up among the gray brown mountains, down amidst the soggy waste,
I am ever on the lookout, never worry, never haste.
Yes, I’m called old Whiskey Jack, gray and black, along my back,
Beady eye and slender tail, I can spy out any trail.
Old bull moose and caribou wink their eyes as I fly through,
Yelling, crying, “Chank! chank! chank!”—
Trappers call me “awful crank!”
Away up where the brook trout gather, away off by the blue St. John;
O’er broiling falls of foaming lather, where splashing jumps the
muscallonge,
Where otters mew and spruce grouse flutter, where brown bears dig the
honey tree,
That is where I spend the summer, where hunts the “sport” and
half-breed Cree.
All men call me Whiskey Jack; I don’t have to tote a pack;
Beady eye and slender tail, I can spy out any trail,
Old bull moose and caribou wink and blink as I fly through,
Yelling, crying, “Chank! chank! chank!”—
Trappers call me “awful crank!”