NORTHWEST.
(1651-1710)
_Where sheldrakes dart on Lak Niege,_
_Where the lazy beaver swim,_
_He drove his blade and packed the trail,_
_By the icy snow lake’s rim._
_From the shores of Athabasca,_
_To the caves of Saguenay,_
_From the sleepy Mistassini,_
_To the marsh of Hudson Bay;_
_From the steppes of old Fort Caribou,_
_From the glades of Fon du Lac,_
_He slept and dwelt with redskins,_
_And followed the unknown track._
PIERRE ESPRIT RADISSON:
FIRST EXPLORER OF THE WEST AND NORTHWEST.
(1651-1710)
IT was at the trading post of Three Rivers on the St. Lawrence River,
the year 1662, and the time, early in the morning, when the wood thrush
had just begun his call. Strange things happened then, but these
were frontier days when strange things used to happen, so do not be
surprised when you learn what befell Pierre Radisson, son of a French
emigrant to Canada, and then a youth of about seventeen years of age.
With two companions, young Pierre had gone out from the stockade to
shoot ducks on Lake St. Peter, not far from this first home of the
French emigrants to Canada.
The sportsmen were all young, for only young boys would have left the
shelter of the fortification at this time, as all the Canadians knew
that the dreaded Iroquois had been lying in ambush around the little
settlement of Three Rivers, day and night, for a whole year. In fact,
not a week passed but that some settler was set upon in the fields and
left dead by the terrible redskins. Farmers had flocked to the little
fortification and would only venture back to their broad acres when
armed with a musket.
But these were only boys, and, like all boys, they went along, boasting
how they would fight when the Indians came. One kept near the edge of
the forest, on the lookout for the Iroquois, while the others kept to
the water in quest of game. They had gone along in this manner for
about three miles, when they met a fellow who was tending sheep.
“Keep out from the foot of the hills!” he called to them. “The Iroquois
are there! I saw about a hundred heads rising out of the bushes about
an hour ago.”
The boys loaded their pistols and primed their muskets.
In a short time they shot some ducks, and this seemed to satisfy one of
the young men.
“I have had enough,” said he. “I am going back to the stockade where I
can be safe.”
“And I will go with you,” said the second.
But young Radisson laughed at them.
“If you are afraid to go forward,” said he, “I will go ahead by myself.”
So the wild youth went onward, shooting game at many places, until, at
length, he had a large number of geese, ducks, and teal. There were
more than he could possibly carry, so, hiding in a hollow tree the game
that he could not bring back, he began trudging towards Three Rivers.
Wading swollen brooks and scrambling over fallen trees, he finally
caught sight of the town chapel, glimmering in the sunlight against the
darkening horizon above the river. He had reached the place where his
comrades had left him, so he sat down to rest himself.
The shepherd had driven his sheep back to Three Rivers and there was
no one near. The river came lapping through the rushes. There was a
clacking of ducks as they came swooping down to their marsh nests and
Radisson felt strangely lonely. He noticed, too, that his pistols were
water-soaked. Emptying the charges, he re-loaded, then crept back to
reconnoiter the woodland. Great flocks of ducks were swimming on the
river, so he determined to have one more shot before he returned to the
fort, now within easy hail.
Young Pierre crept through the grass towards the game, but he suddenly
stopped, for, before him was a sight that rooted him to the ground with
horror. Just as they had fallen, naked and scalped, with bullet and
hatchet wounds all over their bodies, lay his comrades of the morning.
They were stone dead, lying face upward among the rushes.
Radisson was too far away from the woods to get back to them, so,
stooping down, he tried to reach a hiding place in the marsh. As he
bent over, half a hundred tufted heads rose from the high grass, and
beady eyes looked to see which way he might go. They were behind him,
before him, on all sides of him,—his only hope was a dash for the
cane-grown river, where he might hide himself until darkness would give
him a chance to rush to the fort.
Slipping a bullet and some powder into his musket as he ran, and
ramming it down, young Pierre dashed through the brushwood for a place
of safety. _Crash!_ A score of guns roared from the forest. He turned,
and fired back, but; before he could re-load, an Iroquois brave was
upon him, he was thrown upon his back, was disarmed, his hands were
bound behind him with deer thongs, and he was dragged into the woods,
where the Indians flaunted the scalps of his friends before his eyes.
Half drawn, half driven, he was taken to the shore where a flotilla of
canoes was hidden. Fires were kindled, and, upon forked sticks driven
into the ground, the redskins boiled a kettle of water for the evening
meal.
The Iroquois admired bravery in any man, and they now evinced a certain
affection for this young Frenchman, for, in defiance of danger, they
had seen him go hunting alone. When attacked, he had fired back at
enough enemies to have terrified any ordinary Canadian. This they
liked, so his clothing was returned to him, they daubed his cheeks with
war paint, shaved his head in the manner of the redskinned braves, and,
when they saw that their stewed dog turned him faint, they boiled him
some meat in clean water and gave him some meal, browned upon burning
sand. That night he slept beneath a blanket, between two warriors.
In the morning the Indians embarked in thirty-seven canoes, two
redskins in each boat, with young Pierre tied to a cross-bar in one
of them. Spreading out on the river, they beat their paddles upon the
gunwales of their bateaux, shot off their guns, and uttered their
shrill war cry,—“Ah-oh! Ah-oh! Ah-oh!”
The echoes carried along the wailing call, and in the log stockade
the Canadians looked furtively at one another as the horrid sound was
borne to them by the gentle wind. Then the chief stood up in his canoe,
signaled silence, and gave three long blood-curdling yells. The whole
company answered with a quavering chorus like wolf barks, and, firing
their guns into the air, the canoes were driven out into the river,
past the nestling log-stockade of Three Rivers, and up the current of
the rushing stream. By sunset they were among the islands at the mouth
of the river Richelieu, where were great clouds of wild-ducks, which
darkened the air at their approach.
Young Pierre bore up bravely, determined to remain with his captors
until an opportunity to escape presented itself. The red men treated
him kindly, saying: “_Chagon! Chagon!_ Be merry! Cheer up!” He was
given a paddle and was told to row, which he did right willingly.
Another band of warriors was met with on the river, and the prisoner
was forced to show himself as a trophy of victory and to sing songs
for his captors, which he did to the best of his ability. That evening
an enormous camp-fire was kindled and the united bands danced a
scalp-dance around it, flaunting the scalps of the two dead French boys
from spear heads, and reënacted in pantomime all the episodes of the
massacre, while the women beat on rude, Indian drums.
Pierre was now a thorough savage. He was given a tin looking-glass by
which the Indians used to signal by the sun, and also a hunting knife.
The Iroquois neared Lake Champlain where the river became so turbulent
that they were forced to land and make a portage. Young Radisson
hurried over the rocks, helping the older warriors to carry their
packs. As night came on, he was the first to cut wood for the camp-fire.
It was now about a week since the redmen had left Lake St. Peter and
they entered the gray waste of Lake Champlain. Paddling down its entire
length, they entered the waters of beautiful Lake George, and, beaching
the canoes upon its western bank, abandoned them: the warriors striking
out through the forest for the country of the Iroquois. For two days
they thus journeyed from the lake, when they were met by several
women, who loaded themselves down with the luggage of the party, and
accompanied the victorious braves to the village. Here the whole tribe
marched out to meet them, singing, firing guns, shouting a welcome,
dancing a war-dance of joy.
It was now time for young Pierre to run the gauntlet. Sometimes the
white prisoners were slowly led along with trussed arms and shackled
feet, so that they could not fail to be killed before they reached the
end of the line. With Radisson it was different. He was stripped free
and was told to run so fast that his tormentors could not hit him. He
did this and reached the end of the human lane unscathed.
As the white boy dashed free of the line of his tormentors, a captive
Huron woman, who had been adopted by the tribe, caught him and led him
to her cabin, where she fed and clothed him. But soon a band of braves
marched to her door, demanded his surrender, and took him to the
Council Lodge of the Iroquois for judgment.
Radisson was led into a huge cabin, where several old men sat solemnly
around a central fire, smoking their calumets, or peace pipes. He was
ordered to sit down. A coal of fire was then put into the bowl of the
great Council Pipe and it was passed reverently around the assemblage.
The old Huron woman now entered, waved her arms aloft, and begged for
the life of the young man. As she made her appeal, the old men smoked
on silently with deep, guttural “ho-ho’s” meaning “Yes—yes. We are
much pleased.” So she was granted permission to adopt Radisson as a
son. The nerve and courage of the young French boy had thus saved his
life. He must bide his time,—bye and bye, he would have an opportunity
to escape.
It was soon Autumn, the period of the hunt, so young Pierre set out
into the forest with three savages in order to lay in a supply of meat
for the winter months. One night, as the woodland rovers were returning
to their wigwams, there came the sound of some one singing through
the leafy thicket, and a man approached. He was an Algonquin brave, a
captive among the Iroquois, and he told them that he had been on the
track of bear since day-break. He was welcomed to the camp-fire, and,
when he learned that Radisson was from Three Rivers, he immediately
grew friendly with the captive white boy.
That evening, when the camp-fire was roaring and crackling so that the
Iroquois could not hear what he said, the Indian told Radisson that he
had been a captive for two years and that he longed to make his escape.
“Hist! Boy!” said he. “Do you love the French?”
Pierre looked around cautiously.
“Do you love the Algonquins?” he replied.
“As I do my own mother,” was the answer. Then, leaning closer, the
warrior whispered: “Brother—white man—let us escape! The Three
Rivers, it is not so far off! Will you live like a dog in bondage, or
will you have your liberty with the French?” Then he lowered his voice.
“Let us kill all three of these hounds to-night, when they are asleep,
and then let us paddle away, up Lake Champlain, again to the country of
our own people.”
Radisson’s face grew pale beneath his war paint. He hesitated to
answer, and, as he looked about him, the suspicious Iroquois cried out:
“Why so much whispering?”
“We are telling hunting stories,” answered the Algonquin, smiling.
This seemed to satisfy the Iroquois, for, wearied by the day’s hunt,
they soon dozed off in sleep and were snoring heavily: their feet to
the glowing embers. Their guns were stacked carelessly against a tree.
It was the time for action.
The French boy was terrified lest the Algonquin should carry out his
threat, and so pretended to be asleep. Rising noiselessly, the captive
redskin crept up to the fire and eyed the three sleeping Mohawks with
no kindly glance. The redmen slept heavily on, while the cry of a
whip-poor-will sounded ominously from the black and gloomy forest.
The crafty Algonquin stepped, like a cat, over the sleeping forms of
the braves, took possession of their firearms, and then walked to
where Radisson was lying. The French boy rose uneasily. As he did so,
the Indian thrust a tomahawk into one of his hands, pointing, with a
menacing gesture, to the three Iroquois. Radisson’s hand shook like a
leaf.
But the captive red man’s hand did not shake, and, lifting his own
hatchet, he had brained one of the sleeping redskins without more ado.
Pierre endeavored to imitate the warrior, but, unnerved with the horror
of it all, he lost hold of his tomahawk, just as it struck the head
of the sleeping Iroquois. The redskin leaped to his feet, uttering a
wild yell, which awakened the third sleeper. But he had no chance to
rise, as the Algonquin felled him with one, swift blow, while Radisson,
recovering his hatchet, hit the second red man with such force, that he
fell back, lifeless.
Hurray! Radisson was free!
The Algonquin did not waste precious moments; but, hastily scalping the
dead, he threw their bodies into the river, then, packing up all their
possessions, they placed them in the canoe, took to the water, and
slipped away towards Lake Champlain.
“I was sorry to have been in such an encounter,” writes Radisson. “But
it was too late to repent.”
The fugitives were a long way from Three Rivers, on the St. Lawrence,
and they knew that many roving Iroquois were hunting in the country
between them and the French settlement. They must go carefully, be
perpetually on their guard, and then,—they would be among their own
people again! Only, caution! caution! And never a sound at any time!
Traveling only at night, and hiding during the day, the fugitives
crossed Lake Champlain, entered the Richelieu, and, after many
portages, finally swept out upon the wide surface of Lake St. Peter,
in the St. Lawrence. They paddled hard and were soon within a day’s
journey of Three Rivers, yet they were in greater danger then than
at any time in the hazardous trip, as the Iroquois had infested this
part of the St. Lawrence for more than a year, and often lay hidden
in the rush-grown marshes and the wooded islands, waiting for some
unsuspecting French Canadian to pass by. It was four o’clock in the
morning when the Algonquin and white boy reached the side of Lake St.
Peter. They cooked their breakfast, covered the fire, and lay down to
sleep.
At six o’clock, the Algonquin shook Pierre by the shoulder, urging him
to cross the lake to the Three Rivers side.
“The Iroquois are lurking about here,” the French boy answered. “I am
afraid to go. Let us wait until dark. Then, all will be well.”
“No, no,” answered the brave. “Let us paddle forward. We are past fear.
Let us shake off the yoke of these whelps who have killed so many
French and black robes (priests). If you do not come now, I will leave
you, and I will tell the Governor that you were afraid to come.”
Radisson consented to take a chance at getting to the stockade,
although his judgment told him to wait until dark. So the canoe was
pushed out from the rushes, and, with strong strokes, the flimsy boat
was driven towards the north shore. They were half way across, when
Pierre called out: “I see shadows on the water ahead.”
The Indian, who was in the stern, stood up, saying:
“It is but the shadow of a flying bird. There is no danger.”
So they kept on; but, as they progressed, the shadows multiplied, for
they were the reflections of many Iroquois, hidden among the rushes.
The fugitives now saw them, and, heading their canoe for the south
shore, fled for their lives.
On, on they went; but, on, on, came the Iroquois. The redskins came
nearer and nearer, there was a crash of musketry and the bottom of
the canoe was punctured by a ball. The Algonquin fell dead with two
bullet wounds in his head, while the canoe gradually filled with water,
settled, and sank, with the young Frenchman clinging to the side. Now a
firm hand seized him, and he was hauled into one of the canoes of the
Iroquois.
The victors set up a shrill yelp of triumph. Then they went ashore,
kindled a great fire, tore the heart out of the dead Algonquin, put his
head on a pike, and cast the mutilated body into the flames. Radisson
was bound, roped around the waist, and thrown down upon the ground,
where he lay with other captives: two Frenchmen, one white woman, and
twenty Hurons.
In seventeen canoes, the Iroquois now paddled up the Richelieu River
for their own country, frequently landing to camp and cook, at which
times young Pierre was pegged out on the sand, and left to be tortured
by sand-flies and mosquitoes.
When they reached the village, Radisson was greeted with shouts of
rage by the friends of the murdered Mohawks, who, armed with rods and
skull-crackers (leather bags loaded with stones) rushed upon him and
beat him sorely. As the prisoners moved on, the Hurons wailed the
death dirge. But suddenly there broke from the throng of onlookers the
Iroquois family that had adopted young Pierre. Pushing through the
crowd of torturers, the mother caught Radisson by the hair, crying out:
“Orimba! Orimba!” She then cut the thongs that bound him to the poles,
and shoved him to her husband, who led the trembling young Frenchman to
their own lodge.
“Thou fool,” cried the old chief, turning wrathfully upon the young
man. “Thou wast my son! Thou lovest us not, although we saved thy life!
Wouldst kill me, too?” Then he shoved him to a mat upon the ground,
saying: “_Chagon_—now be merry! It is a fine business you’ve gotten
yourself into, to be sure.”
Radisson sank to the ground, trembling with fear, and endeavored to
eat something. He was relating his adventures when there was a roar of
anger from the Iroquois outside, and, a moment later, the rabble broke
into the lodge. He was seized, carried back to the other prisoners,
and turned over to the torture. We will draw a veil over what now
befell him.
After three days of misery the half-dead Frenchman was brought before
the council of the Mohawk Chiefs. Sachem after sachem rose and spoke,
while tobacco was sacrificed to the fire-god. The question to be
decided was, could the Mohawks afford to offend the great Iroquois
chief who was the French youth’s friend? This chieftain wished to have
the young man’s life spared. Would they do so?
After much talk and passing of the peace-pipe, it was decided that the
young man could go free. The captive’s bonds were cut, he was allowed
to leave the council chamber, and, although unable to walk, was carried
to the lodge of his deliverer. For the second time his life had been
saved.
Spring came at last and the young Frenchman was taken on a raid
amidst the enemies of the Iroquois. Then they went on a free-booting
expedition against the whites of the Dutch settlements at Orange
(Albany), which consisted, at that time, of some fifty thatched
log-houses surrounded by the settlements of one hundred and fifty
farmers. The raid was a bloodless one, the red warriors looting the
farmers’ cabins, emptying their cupboards, and drinking up all the beer
in their cellars. Finally they all became intoxicated, and, as they
wanted guns, the Dutch easily took advantage of them in trade.
Radisson had been painted like a Mohawk and was dressed in buckskin.
For the first time in two years he saw white men, and, although he
could not understand the Dutch language, it gave him great pleasure to
see some one of his own race again.
As the white Mohawk moved about the fort, he noticed a soldier among
the Dutch who was a Frenchman, and, at the same instant the soldier
saw, that, beneath all the paint and grease, was a brother. They spoke
to each other, threw their arms around one another’s necks, and from
that moment Radisson became the lion of Fort Orange.
The Dutch people crowded about him, shook his hand, offered him
presents of wine and of money. They wished to ransom him at any price;
but he was pledged to return to his Indian parents and he feared the
revenge of the Mohawk braves. So he had to decline the kind offer of
the white men, returning to his lodge in the Indian country, far more
of a hero in the eyes of his Indian allies than ever before.
Young Pierre had not been back among the Iroquois for more than two
weeks when he began to pine for the log fortress at Three Rivers.
He loathed the filthy food, the smoky lodges, the cruelties of the
Mohawks, and he longed to be once more among his own people. Hidden
beneath all the grease and war paint was the true nature of the white
man, and he determined to escape, even if he had to die for the attempt.
The white Indian left his lodge, early one morning in the month
of September, taking only his hatchet, as if he were going to cut
wood. Once out of sight of the Mohawk village, he broke into a run,
following the trail, through the dense forests of the Mohawk Valley,
towards Fort Orange. On, on, he ran until the morning, when, spent
with fatigue, he fell exhausted to the ground. After a short sleep, he
again arose, pressed forward through the brush, and finally came to a
clearing in the forest where a man was chopping wood. He found that
there were no redskins in the cabin, then, hiding in it, he persuaded
the settler to carry a message to the Fort. While he was absent, he hid
behind some sacks of wheat.
The frontiersman had been gone about an hour, when he returned with a
rescue party, which conducted the young Frenchman to the Fort. Here
he hid for three days, while a mob of Mohawks wandered through the
stockade, calling for him by name, but they could not find him. Gifts
of money from a Jesuit priest enabled him to take a ship to New York,
then a settlement of five hundred houses, with stores, barracks, and a
stone church. After a stay of three weeks the ex-Mohawk set sail for
Amsterdam, where he arrived in January, 1674.
He took a ship for Rochelle, but alas! he there found that all of his
relatives had moved to Three Rivers in New France. Why remain here? In
a week’s time he had embarked with the fishing fleet which yearly left
France for the Great Banks, and came, early in the Spring of 1675, to
Isle Percée, at the mouth of the St. Lawrence. He was a week’s journey
from Three Rivers, but Algonquin canoes were on their way up the blue
St. Lawrence for a fight with the Iroquois. He jumped into one of them,
and, in a very short time, once more sprang ashore at the stockade of
Three Rivers where he was welcomed as one risen from the dead.
Not long after this, we find Radisson at the stockade of Onondaga, a
French fort built upon a hill above a lake upon the Oswego River. Here
the French had established a post, the farthest in the wilderness; and
here about sixty Frenchmen were spending the winter, waiting for the
Spring to break up the ice so that they could return to Quebec. The
redskins seemed to be friendly; but, early in February, vague rumors
of a conspiracy against them came to the ears of the white men. A
dying Mohawk confessed to a Jesuit priest that the Iroquois Council
had decided to massacre half the garrison, and to hold the other half
captive until their own Mohawk hostages were released from Quebec.
These were held there by the French to ensure good treatment of their
own people at this far-distant fortress.
What were the French to do? Here they were, miles and miles from Three
Rivers, surrounded by hostiles, with Winter at hand. How could they
escape? Radisson was quite equal to the emergency and proposed a way to
outwit the savages, which was as cunning as it was amusing. He would
invite all of the braves to a big feast, he would get them stupefied
with food and with drink, then, when all were asleep, the sixty
Frenchmen would take to their boats and would make a break for it down
the river. A bold idea—this. Let us see how it worked out?
Radisson told the redskins that he had had a “big dream,” a dream
to the effect that the white men were to give a great feast to the
Iroquois. They greeted the news with joy, and, as couriers ran through
the forest, bidding the Mohawks to the banquet, the warriors hastened
to the walls of Onondaga. To sharpen their appetites, they were kept
waiting outside for two whole days.