THE MASSACRE AT MACKINAW.
It was while stationed in Montreal that our hero met Alexander Henry,
ex-fur-trader and adventurer and _coureur de bois_--then a merchant and
King's auctioneer--a notable personage and leader in many a wild exploit
in the far West, an old though virile man after Isaac's own heart.
From Henry he learned much of the Indian wars in the West, and the
strategic value of various points on the frontier, possession of which
in the event of war he foresaw would be worth a king's ransom. Not least
were details respecting Michilimackinac, the Mackinaw already referred
to. Nearly half a century before, Henry, a native of New Jersey, of
English parents--his ambition fired by tales of the fabulous fortunes to
be made in the fur trade--obtained from the commandant at Montreal a
permit to proceed west as a trader. He outfitted at Albany, and the
following summer set out for Mackinaw.
Meanwhile the Indian allies, under control of the great Pontiac, were
fighting immigration and civilization. Between Fort Pitt--Pittsburgh--
and the Fox River, in Wisconsin, the home of the Sacs and Foxes, they
had captured nine out of thirteen military posts, and were secretly
planning the downfall of Fort Mackinaw. This was regarded as an
impregnable post and vulnerable only through strategy--in Indian
parlance another name for duplicity. Fort Mackinaw, as Brock well knew,
was the most important trading _entrepôt_ west of Montreal. It served a
territory extending from the Missouri in the west to the far
Kissaskatchewan in the north.
On Henry's arrival his friendship was sought by an Indian chief,
Wawatam. Between these two men a remarkable attachment developed. They
became brothers by mutual adoption. At this time the fort was garrisoned
by ninety British regulars. One day, outside the walls on the
surrounding plateau, several hundred savages were encamped, ostensibly
for purposes of trade, some of them killing time by playing the Indian
game of ball--the _baggatiway_ of the red-man, _la jeu de la crosse_ of
the voyageur. Henry, acting upon a veiled warning by Wawatam, suggested
to the officer in command extra precaution.
"I told him," said he, while Brock drank in every word, "that Indian
treachery was proverbial." Now this recital was of the deepest interest
to our hero, for Mackinaw, then in the possession of the United States,
held the key to the Michigan frontier and control of the upper lakes.
While the huge log fire that roared in the chimney cast light and shadow
on polished wall and the oak beams of the big dining-hall, Brock puffed
away at his huge _partiga_, weighing every word that fell from the
bearded lips of the trader.
"Major Errington," continued Henry, "while thanking me, laughed at my
forebodings. Then Wawatam urged me, as his adopted brother, to depart
for Sault Ste. Marie. But I delayed and once more sought Errington, who
still ridiculed my fears. While I was yet expostulating with him we
heard the louder shouts of the Indians. They had rushed through the fort
gateway into the enclosure within the palisades in pursuit of a lost
ball. This was but a ruse to gain admittance, for in a moment the
laughter and shouts changed to wild yells and warwhoops. The guard was
overpowered in a flash, and in the attack that followed almost the
entire garrison was tomahawked and scalped."
"Ah!" said Brock, "so British lethargy and self-complaisance succumbed
to Indian duplicity."
Then his thoughts turned to Niagara. He saw the open portals of Fort
George, and Tuscarora youths playing the Indian game of ball in the
meadows of the Mohawk village.
"Those who escaped massacre at Mackinaw," said Henry, refilling his
stone pipe and resuming his story, "were preserved for a worse fate.
Pontiac's allies--and you, Colonel, know something of these matters from
the tales told you by the officers of the North-West Company--entered on
a carnival of blood. From a garret, where a Pawnee Indian woman had
secreted me, I saw the captured soldiers tomahawked and scalped, and
some butchered like so many cattle, just as required for the cannibal
feast that followed."
"Tortured?" interrogated Brock.
"Tortured!" repeated Henry. "Why, the diabolical devices that those men
resorted to to inflict acute physical agony were inconceivable--
unutterable, Colonel." He paused.... "After all, no worse, perhaps, than
the tortures that have been inflicted by civilized fanatics in Europe."
There was silence for a moment. Both men were buried deep in thought,
the one living in the past, the other striving to forecast the future.
"Through the intercession of Wennway, another friendly Indian,"
continued Henry, "my life was spared. Preparations were made for my
secret departure. As I shoved my canoe into the water, _en voyage_ for
Wagoshene, the prayers of Wawatam rang in my ears as, standing on the
yellow beach with outstretched arms, he invoked the _Gitche Manitou_,
the Great Spirit, to conduct me in safety to the wigwams of my people."
"Surely, Master Henry," commented Isaac Brock, "with all the latent
qualities for good that seem to underlie the outward ferocity of some
redmen, firmness and kindness are alone needed to convert them into
faithful friends."
"An Indian, or Indians collectively," said Henry, pausing before he
answered,--"I speak from personal experience only--are faithful so long
as you keep absolute good faith with them. In this particular they are
no different from white people; but never deceive them, even in trifles,
and never subject them to ridicule. Then, if you treat them with
consideration, you can reasonably depend upon their individual loyalty.
They expect a lot of attention. Yes! an Indian is naturally grateful,
probably far more so than the ordinary white man, and seldom forgets a
kindness. Should you come into closer contact with the redman, Colonel,
as I have a presentiment you will before long, never forget that an
Indian, by right of his mode of life, is deeply suspicious and painfully
sensitive. He has a keen sense of humour, however, and is quick to
discern and laugh at the weak points of others, which, until you
understand his language, you will be slow to suspect. On the other hand,
he won't stand being laughed at himself or placed in a foolish position.
For that matter, who can? Occasionally you will meet a savage with
strangely high principles. Among the redskins there is a proportion of
good and bad, as there is in all races, but less crime, under normal
conditions, than there is among the whites. So, summing up his vices and
virtues, the North American Indian, allowing for heredity and
surroundings, differs little from ourselves."
"They are brave," interrupted Brock.
"Oh, yes," said Henry, "splendidly reckless of life. The courage of the
fatalist I should say. You see, they are so constantly on the war-path
that fighting is a compulsory pastime."
"Still," said Brock, "with what daring they fight for their homes."
"True, Colonel," retorted Henry, "but when it comes to fighting for
home, a hummingbird will defend its nest. Their peculiar traits are
largely the result of a nomadic life and tribal strife, hence, their
duplicity. Superstition influences them greatly, as it does all savage
races. In one respect they are at least superior to some of our own
people--I refer to their treatment of their children. Their
lovingkindness is pathetic. Contact with civilization, as you may
discover, develops at first all their bad qualities, for they are apt
imitators, so when the pagan Indian meets a trader without a
conscience--and there are some, you know--why, he is not slow to adopt
the bad Christian's methods."
[Illustration: BROCK'S COCKED HAT]