THE WILDERNESS
In a new country the changes effected during sixteen years are apt to
be greater than those of a lifetime in long-established communities.
Certainly this was the case in North America during the sixteen years
immediately preceding that of 1763. The bitter fighting between
England and France for the supremacy of the new world that began with
the signal defeat of the English army under Braddock, in 1755, was
ended four years later by Wolfe's decisive victory on the Plains of
Abraham. A year later France retired from the conflict and surrendered
Canada, with all its dependencies, to the English. These dependencies
included a long chain of tiny forts, about some of which were clustered
thrifty French settlements that extended entirely around the Great
Lakes and south of them into the valley of the Ohio. Among these were
Niagara at the mouth of the river of that name, Presque Isle on the
site of the present city of Erie, Sandusky, Detroit, Mackinac, Fort
Howard on Green Bay, and Fort St. Joseph near the southern end of Lake
Michigan. While from its commanding position the most important of
these forts was the first named; the largest, and the one surrounded by
the most thriving settlement was at Detroit. Here the fort itself was
a palisaded village of one hundred compactly built houses standing on
the western bank of the Detroit river. Beyond it, on both sides for
nearly eight miles, stretched the prosperous settlement of French
peasants, whose long, narrow farms reached far back from the river,
though in every case the tidy white houses and outbuildings stood close
to the water's edge.
The English settlements at the close of the war with France had not
crossed the Alleghanies, and in the province of New York the western
bank of the Hudson was an almost unbroken wilderness. Through the
country of the Six Nations, and by their especial permission, a
military route, guarded by a line of forts, had been established,
though it was clearly understood by the Indians that all these should
be abandoned as soon as the war was ended. This route began at the
frontier town of Albany. Here the traveller left the clumsy but
comfortable sloop on board which he had perhaps spent a week or more on
the voyage from New York, and embarked in a canoe or flat-boat, which
was laboriously poled against the swift current of the Mohawk river.
Thus he passed the old Dutch town of Schenectady, Johnson Hall and
Johnson Castle, Forts Hunter and Herkimer, and at length reached the
head of river navigation at Fort Stanwix. From here a short portage
through the forest led him to the waters of Wood creek, where he might
again embark and float with the sluggish current to the Royal
Blockhouse on the shore of Oneida lake. Crossing this, and passing
under the walls of Port Brewerton at the source of the Oswego river, he
would descend the swift waters of that stream to Fort Oswego on the
shore of Lake Ontario. From here his course in any direction lay over
the superb waterways of the great inland lakes whose open navigation
was only interrupted by a toilsome portage around the great cataract of
the Niagara river.
Beyond these few isolated dots of white settlements and the slender
lines of communication between them, the whole vast interior country
was buried in the shade of an unbroken forest that swept like a billowy
sea of verdure over plains, hills, valleys, and mountains, screening
the sunlight from innumerable broad rivers and rushing streams, and
spreading its leafy protection over uncounted millions of beasts,
birds, and fishes. Here dwelt the Indian, and before the coming of the
white man the forest supplied all his simple needs. Its gloomy mazes
were threaded in every direction by his trails, deep-trodden by the
feet of many generations, and forming a network of communication
between all villages and places of importance. So carefully did these
narrow highways follow lines of shortest distance and easiest grade,
that when the white man began to lay out his own roads he could do no
better than adopt their suggestions.
With the coming of the whites, the life of the Indian was subjected to
sudden and radical changes. Having learned of the existence and use of
guns, knives, kettles, blankets, and innumerable other things that
appealed to his savage notions of comfort and utility, he must now have
them, and for them would trade furs. So the fur traders became
important features of the forest life, and their business grew to be so
immensely profitable that its control was one of the prime objects for
which England and France fought in America. The little forts that the
French scattered over the country were only trading-posts, and at them,
so long as their builders ruled, the Indians were treated with a
fairness and courtesy that won their firm friendship and made them
stanch allies in times of war. But when the French power was broken,
and the Indians, without at all understanding why, found that they must
hereafter deal only with English fur traders, all this was changed.
There was no longer a war on hand nor a rival power in the land,
therefore the necessity for conciliating the Indian and gaining his
friendship no longer existed. The newcomers did not care so much for
furs as they did for land. For this they were willing to trade rum,
but not guns, knives, powder, or bullets. These must be kept from the
Indian, lest he do mischief. He no longer found in the white man a
friend, but a master, and a very cruel one at that.
It was now considered good economy to withhold the presents that in war
time had been so lavishly bestowed on the Indians, and the one problem
that the English sought to solve was how to get rid of the undesirable
red man as cheaply and quickly as possible. The little trading-posts,
in which he had been made a welcome guest, were now filled with
red-coated soldiers, who called him a dog and treated him as such. He
became ragged and hungry, was driven from the homes of his fathers, and
finally began to perceive that even the privilege of living was not to
be granted him much longer. He grew desperate, and his hatred against
those who had driven away his kind French friends and brought about all
his present misery became very bitter. He saw plainly that if he did
not drive these redcoats back to the sea whence they came, they would
soon sweep his race from the face of the earth. There seemed to be
only a few white men and many Indians; but while the former were united
under one great leader, the latter were divided into many tribes with
many little leaders. If they, too, would only find some great chief,
under whom all the tribes could unite, how quickly would they wipe out
the hated redcoats and teach the English to respect their rights.
Perhaps as soon as they began to fight for themselves the white-coated
soldiers of France would come again to help them. At any rate, certain
white men told them this would happen, and they were believed. If only
they could find a leader!
Gradually, but with convincing proof, it dawned upon the unhappy
Indians that a great leader had arisen among them, and was ready to
deal the decisive blow that should set them free. To tribe after tribe
and to village after village came messengers bearing broad belts of
wampum and the crimson hatchet of war. They came in the name of
Pontiac, war chief of the fierce Ottawas, head medicine man of the
powerful Metai, friend of Montcalm, stanch ally of the French during
the recent war, and leader of his people at the battle of the
Monongahela, where stubborn Braddock was slain with his redcoats, and
even the dreaded "long-knives" from Virginia were forced to fly.
Far and wide travelled the messengers of this mighty chieftain, and
everywhere was his war hatchet eagerly accepted. Far and wide went
Pontiac himself, and wherever his burning words were heard the children
of the forest became crazed with the fever of war. Finally, the fierce
plan was perfected. The blow was to be struck at every British post
west of Niagara on the same day. With the fall of these, the
triumphant forest hordes were to rush against the settlements and visit
upon them the same cruel destruction that had overtaken their own
villages whenever the white man had seen fit to wipe them from his
patch.
While this movement had gained ground until the fatal storm was just
ready to burst, it had been conducted with such secrecy that only one
white man even suspected its existence, and his name was Graham Hester.