CHAPTER VII.
A FOREST ADVENTURE.
THE Canadians, reduced to the last extremity by the vacillating policy of the late Governor, Denonville, had found in the Count de Frontenac a chief whom they could trust. Frontenac, realizing that prompt and bold action was necessary to sustain this confidence, resolved to take the initiative, and revive the prestige of the French arms by striking swift blows. The wandering Iroquois appeared as evasive as ghosts; but the English remained open to attack. Rumors began to circulate through the settlement that a war party was about to be organized. It was noticed that arms and provisions were being quietly collected. The women became anxious. The older men discussed the question gravely; the younger were wildly excited at the prospect of fighting.
Soon it became known that three bands of picked men were to start from Ville Marie, Three Rivers and Quebec, respectively; the first to strike at Albany, the second at the border settlements of New Hampshire, and the third at those of Maine. The party from Ville Marie was ready first. It consisted of two hundred and ten men, of whom ninety-six were Christian Iroquois from the two mission villages of Sault St. Louis and the Mountain of Ville Marie.
The French were mostly coureurs de bois. These restless spirits had shared in the general demoralization, and under Denonville’s rule had proved unmanageable. Their chief virtues were hardihood and skill in woodcraft; their principal faults insubordination and lawlessness. Tact and address were needed in guiding them. The leaders of the present expedition, thoroughly trained in the roving and adventurous character of Indian warfare, enjoyed the entire confidence of the hardy bushrangers. Le Moyne de St. Helène and d’Ailleboust de Mantet had the first command, supported by the brothers Le Moyne d’Iberville and Le Moyne de Bienville, with Repentigny de Montesson, Bonrepos, Le Ber du Chesne, and many other scions of the sturdy Canadian nobility.
There was difficulty in finding sufficient provisions for the expedition; but finally, by seeking from house to house, getting here a few biscuits and there a flitch of bacon, enough was collected to supply a considerable party.
They began their march in the depth of winter. As they passed over the surface of the frozen St. Lawrence, each man had the hood of his blanket-coat drawn over his head and held a gun in his mittened hand; a knife, a hatchet, a tobacco-pouch and a bag for holding bullets hung at his belt; he bore a pack on his shoulders, while his pipe, in a leather case, was suspended at his neck. The blankets and provisions of the expedition were conveyed on Indian sledges.
Du Chesne was the gayest of the party, most of whom appeared to regard this adventure more as a frolic than a serious adventure. War was a pastime to these young Canadian seigniors, as well as the almost constant employment of their lives.
Crossing the forest to Chambly, they advanced up the frozen Richelieu towards Lake Champlain, for more than a century the great thoroughfare of war parties. The trees stood white as ghosts in the sheltered hollows of the woods, or shivered bare and gray on the wind-swept ridges. The Canadians made their way on snowshoes, with bodies half bent, struggling through frozen pine swamps, along deep ravines, and under frowning hill-sides. Their snowshoes broke on the hard crust or were shivered against rocks or the trunks of fallen trees. The woods resounded with jest and laughter as the gay bushrangers shouted at seeing one another catch and trip to sprawl awkwardly in the deep snow.
St. Helène, wishing to hold a council, ordered the company to halt. Frontenac had left the precise point of attack to the discretion of the Canadian leaders, who were familiar with all the conditions of the country through which they were passing, and the men had been kept in ignorance of their destination. The Indians had become distrustful, and now demanded to know where they were being taken. Fickle, wayward, and inconsequent as children, these allies must at the same time be conciliated and controlled, for it was impossible to do without their help. There always existed serious danger that they might repudiate the French alliance, join hands with the English traders, make peace with the Iroquois, and sacrifice their former friends without the slightest compunction.
“We are going to attack Albany,” d’Ailleboust de Mantet said firmly. “We must reach that place or die in the attempt. We must obey the orders of our great father Onontio.”
The Indians muttered angrily together. They declared the French had surrendered through cowardice the prisoners they had caught by treachery. The palefaces had expected their allies to bear the brunt of the war, and then left them to their fate. The Iroquois had actually burnt French captives in their towns.
“How long is it since the French have grown so bold?” shouted one in derision. “They have been shut up in their forts. Will they now fight in the light of day like men?”
“We shall fight or die,” answered St. Helène boldly. “Are our Indian allies squaws that they should fly at the first approach of danger? Before Onontio protected you you felt the teeth of the ravenous Iroquois dog. Our Governor tamed him and tied him up, but when Onontio was far away he devoured you worse than ever. We are strong enough to kill the English, destroy the Iroquois, and whip you if you fail in your duty to us. Will you let the English brandy that has killed you in your wigwams lure you into the kettles of the Iroquois?”
The Christian chief of Sault St. Louis, known as the “Great Mohawk,” harangued his followers, exhorting them to wash out their wrongs in blood, but the savages remained turbulent, and seemed to be upon the point of deserting in a body. Their defection would mean the failure of the enterprise. At this juncture Le Ber du Chesne came to the rescue. Persuasion having failed he tried the effects of taunts.
“You are cowards!” he cried. “You do not know what war is; go back to your women and children. You never killed a man, and you never ate one except those that were given you tied hand and foot. Go home; we do not need your services.”
Du Chesne gained his point. The pride of the warriors was aroused, and for the moment they were full of fight. The decision as to the point of attack was postponed, however, and the expedition moved on. When, after a march of eight days, they reached the Hudson, and found the place where two paths diverged, the one leading to Albany and the other to Schenectady, they took the latter. All agreed that an attack on Albany would be an act of desperation.
They bivouaced in the forest in squads of twelve or more. Digging away the snow in a circle, they covered the bare earth with a bed of spruce boughs, made a fire in the centre and gathered around it to smoke their pipes. Here crouched the Christian savage muffled in his blanket, his unwashed face bearing traces of the soot and vermilion he had assumed for the war-dance in the square of the mission village. There sat the Canadian, hooded like a Capuchin monk, but irrepressible in loquacity. The camp-fire glowed on their bronzed and animated features and lighted up the rocks and pines behind them. The silent woods beyond presented a region of enchanted romance and mystery.
Their slender store of provisions having been almost all consumed or shared with the Indians, Le Ber du Chesne was detailed to head a reconnoitring expedition of less than a score of men. Progress through the snow-clogged woods was slow and painful; the lengthening days had brought a partial thaw, and the little band waded through the melting snow and the mingled ice, mud and water of the gloomy swamps. Lowering gray clouds stretched monotonously over the desolate waste. Their provisions soon exhausted, they boiled moccasins for food, or scraped away the snow to find hickory and beech nuts. Fires could not be lighted lest the smoke should betray their presence. Many suffered from frost-bites, and the men soon were half dead with cold, fatigue and hunger.
The weather changed. Pelted by a cold, gusty snowstorm, they lost the track and toiled on, shaking down at every step a shower of fleecy white from the burdened branches. It seemed impossible either to advance or retreat. Thoroughly discouraged, shivering and famishing, it appeared as if nothing remained but to lie down and die.
“I would that I could see the little home, or that I could at least have the blessing of a priest. It is ill to die like a rat in a hole,” murmured le Canotier drowsily, as he sank down on the snow.
“Rouse thee, my fine big fellow!” shouted du Chesne. “Rouse thee if thou wouldst again see Ville Marie and Baboche and the little ones. I look to thee to show the spirit of a man, and to uphold the spirits of thy comrades.”
“And what is this, mon Capitaine?” suddenly exclaimed le Canotier, starting up keenly alert, his hand instinctively grasping his knife.
Glancing over his shoulder du Chesne saw close beside him a plumed and painted Indian, standing motionless as a bronze statue.
“Adarahta comes to his French brother as a friend,” muttered the Indian in guttural accents.
“And what would Adarahta?” demanded the young Canadian, his keen eyes striving to read the savage’s expressionless features.
“Adarahta has been sent by the white chief to seek his young brother, who he feared was lost in the storm, to lead him to the spot where the French war-party camps.”
“But you are not of our allies. You are an Iroquois,” returned du Chesne, still distrustful.
“No, Adarahta, is a son of the Great Mohawk. Taken captive by the Iroquois, treated as their slave, he would pay the debt he owes to his enemies. Is my French brother ready to follow?”
Still du Chesne hesitated. This might be some snare planned by the wily Indian to entrap them. Their circumstances were desperate, and this offer presented the possibility of escape. Action held a relief from hopeless suffering. It might be better to risk something than to perish miserably in the snow. The Canadians, feeble and emaciated, found it almost impossible to arouse themselves, but their leader addressed them in terms so animating that they caught his spirit and declared their readiness to push on.
“We follow,” du Chesne decided. “Adarahta shall walk before me. At the first sign of treachery I shall shoot him like a wolf.”
The Indian made no response. He moved silently in front, closely followed by the young commander, while the weary bushrangers dragged themselves through the drifts.
“Is the camp of our brothers far?” asked du Chesne.
“Close at hand,” responded the guide, as his eyes darted furtive glances in every direction.
“I would we were well out of this scrape. That painted fox means us ill,” whispered le Canotier.
They had reached a narrow defile, the bed of a frozen stream, guarded on either side by high banks clothed with a labyrinth of bushes. Suddenly the air was filled with whoops and yells as scores of savages leaped from their hiding-places. As a rapid fire opened from the thickets, Adarahta fell beneath a death-blow from the leader of the expedition.
“Treachery! we are betrayed. Courage, my brave fellows!” shouted du Chesne. “Better to die fighting than to freeze in inaction. We shall sell our lives dearly.”
So dense was the snowstorm that the Canadians could not well distinguish their advancing foes from those of their own party. The cries of the combatants were redoubled by the echoes of the narrow valley. In this moment of intense bewilderment the Canadians became broken and confused. Du Chesne ran to where the uproar was greatest, shouting, gesticulating, encouraging his men. Then he was suddenly plunged into a horror of thick darkness, and fell unconscious.
When Le Ber du Chesne recovered his hold on life he was lying in a wigwam attended by two squaws, who were awaiting the return of a party of Iroquois. The young Canadian alternately shivered and burned in the fever occasioned by his wounds. The Indian women were indifferently kind. They told him that he was to be carried to a distant Iroquois village; informing him also that the most of his party had been killed—only a few had managed to escape.
The young man’s mind was still confused; fancy and reality blended inextricably together. Dreadful scenes of bloodshed, privation and misery mingled with memories of mirth and pastime. His thoughts travelled back to his home in Ville Marie. The father, stern and reticent, whose affection this youngest son had never doubted; the dead mother, whose tender care had been so sadly missed; the sister whose superior virtue he regarded with distant and respectful reverence—his heart turned to them with homesick yearning. Fancy dwelt most persistently upon the dear companion of his childhood, Diane de Monesthrol. He remembered her on her first arrival from France, a weary, dejected little stranger. Nanon’s sharp tongue had been quick to remind the boy of the deference he owed to his father’s noble guests, but the little French girl’s affection had obliterated all class distinctions. What frolics and escapades they had had together! Diane had shown herself a trusty comrade, always ready to shield him, generously sharing with him every benefit. Far away in Ville Marie she would not forget to pray for him. This conviction brought comfort to his soul.
When he began to recover strength du Chesne’s natural buoyancy of temperament soon reasserted itself. If he could become sufficiently strong to travel before his enemies returned he could easily make his escape. Each day his physical powers improved, and he had arranged all the details of flight when his hopes were abruptly crushed by the arrival of the Iroquois.
The Indians carried numerous scalps, and brought with them a number of prisoners. They vaunted their own exploits, and had no hesitation in proclaiming that there was nothing on earth so great as the Iroquois League. Being in haste to reach their own country they started at once, taking du Chesne with them.
The journey westward along the Mohawk valley was long and toilsome. They passed the first Mohawk town, Kughuawaga, standing on a hill, encircled by a strong palisade. Here the crowded dwellings of bark were shaped like the arched coverings of huge baggage waggons, and decorated with the tokens or armorial bearings of their owners. Gandagora was situated in a meadow. Tionondogue, the last and strongest of these fortified villages, stood, like the first, on a hill overlooking the river. On through the dense columns of primeval forest they marched, through swamps and brooks and gullies, until they emerged from the shadows of the woods into the broad light of an Indian clearing, where the town of the Oneidas stood. This place contained about one hundred bark dwellings, and numbered twice as many warriors.
Still advancing, they came at length to a vast open space where the rugged fields sloped upwards into a broad, low hill crowned with the lodges of Onondaga. In this capital of the Confederacy burned the council fires of five tribes. Here in time of need were gathered their wisest and best to debate questions of war and policy.
At a distance of some leagues they had been met by a crowd of the inhabitants, among them a troop of women bringing venison and corn, beaten together in a pulp and boiled, to regale the triumphant warriors. Here they halted and spent the night in songs of victory, mingled with the dismal chants of the prisoners, who were forced to dance for the entertainment of their captors. The next day, as they approached the town, the savage hive sent forth its swarms to meet them, and they were greeted with demonstrations of the wildest joy.
Du Chesne had visited many Indian villages. The bronzed groups gathered around the blazing fires, the flames of which painted each face in vivid light; the shrivelled squaws, grisly warriors scarred by many wounds, young braves whose honors were yet to be won, brown damsels flaunting in beads and ochre, the noisy children rollicking with restless dogs—all these were familiar sights to him. He was sufficiently intimate with their customs and prejudices to render himself agreeable. The adaptable young Canadian lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself. His good humor, gay songs, and clever mimicry afforded his hosts constant amusement. He knew these dusky denizens of the forest far too well, however, to suppose that his fate would be influenced by the favor in which he was held. In this focus of untrained savagery, ferocity was cultivated as a virtue, and every soft emotion was stifled as unworthy of a man. The son of the rich trader of Ville Marie, a youth who had already made a name for himself in the annals of Indian warfare, was far too rich a prize to be willingly relinquished. By words and signs he was constantly warned that his hour was come, and each day with renewed astonishment he found himself still among the living. Yet life contained many chances; any moment might bring opportunity of escape. So du Chesne betrayed no sign of trepidation, but jested as merrily as though he were safe within the precincts of Ville Marie.
It had been decided that the prisoners should be distributed among the different towns of the Confederacy; only a young French lad named Gervais Bluet remained with du Chesne. As a preliminary torment an old chief tried to burn the captive’s finger in the bowl of his pipe. This was too much for the Canadian’s philosophy, and without wasting words on the matter he knocked his assailant down. A murmur of approval arose from the spectators. If du Chesne had begged for mercy their hearts would have been hard as stone, but this proof of courage pleased the warrior throng. He even contrived to make friends among the savages, the most powerful of whom was the famous Onondaga orator, Otréouate.
“If you destroy the wasp’s nest you must crush the wasps or they will sting you,” declared the old man, fixing his gaze reflectively on a great mask with teeth and eyes of brass before which the Iroquois performed their conjurations. “When our young men have sung the war-song they will listen only to the sound of their own fury. I would gladly save you, but it is not in my power to do so.”
“And what will be the manner of my death?” the prisoner asked coolly.
“You will run the gauntlet. It has been decided that the young white chief shall furnish entertainment for the women and children. After that you will be devoured by fire.”
“It is well,” responded the young man quietly.
That day he gave his farewell feast, after the custom of those who know themselves to be at the point of death. When the company had gathered the condemned man addressed them in a clear voice:
“My brothers, I am about to die. Onontio’s arm is long, and he will certainly avenge his children. That concerns you, not me. Do your worst; you cannot make me shrink. I do not fear torture or death.”
That night the white prisoners were closely watched. Two Indians slept one on either side of them, another being stretched across the door of the lodge. Du Chesne had formed no plan, he could depend upon no hope of reprieve, yet never did he entirely lose heart.
The next evening the captives were led out amidst the shouts of the women and children. The village was all alive with the bustle of preparation. The young white chief would furnish ample entertainment. The Iroquois formed themselves into long double lines, armed with clubs, thorny stocks, or slender iron rods bought from the Dutchmen on the Hudson. The prisoners were started to run between the two lines. They were saluted with yells and a tempest of blows. Bruised and lacerated from head to foot, and streaming with blood, young Bluet fell senseless to the ground. At the sight a sort of frenzy took possession of du Chesne. Seizing a club from one of the assailants, he used it with such vigor that his persecutors fell right and left beneath his blows. It was a valor born of sheer desperation, but it served him well. In their amazement the Iroquois became confused, and in the excitement du Chesne darted through an opening in the lines, and seeking shelter behind a wood-pile, found beneath it a hole into which he contrived to creep, and which afforded temporary concealment. A howl of furious consternation arose from the Indians. The prisoner had suddenly vanished. They ranged fields and forests in vain pursuit, and then concluded that their captive was a sorcerer who had been delivered by his Manitou.
From his place of hiding in the deepening darkness du Chesne could see much of what was going on around him. Once a tall savage passed so near that he could have touched him with his hand. The fate that awaited him if he were discovered, and the scarcely less terrible dangers of the wilderness that lay between him and his home, filled him with despair. Spent and exhausted he lay through the night in his cramped hiding-place, creeping out once to grope for a few ears of corn left from the last year’s harvest. He wisely judged that his safety lay in remaining there till the savages out in search of him should return. So, though cramped and stiffened, he lay beneath the wood-pile till the following night; then when all was still, he slipped out, and had reached the outskirts of the village when, to his dismay, he stumbled over a log of wood. A sentinel immediately gave the alarm and the whole village started in furious pursuit. Du Chesne had been the fleetest runner among all his companions. He now had the advantage of a start and kept in advance of his pursuers, who took up the chase like hounds seeking game. When daylight came he showed himself from time to time to lure them on, then yelled defiance and distanced them again. At night all but two had given up the chase. Seeing a hollow tree, du Chesne crept into it, while the Iroquois, losing the trace in the dark, lay down to sleep near by. At midnight he emerged from his retreat, brained his enemies with a club, and continued his journey in triumph.
Du Chesne directed his course by the sun, and for food dug roots or peeled the soft inner bark off the trees; sometimes he succeeded in catching tortoises in muddy brooks. He had the good fortune to find a hatchet in a deserted camp and with it made one of those wooden implements which the Indians used for kindling fire by friction. This saved him from his worst suffering, as he had but little covering and was at night exposed to tortures from cold. Building a fire in some deep nook of the forest he warmed himself, cooked the food he had found, and slept till daybreak, taking the precaution to throw water on the embers lest the rising smoke should attract attention. Through all hope beckoned him on. Life held so many prizes, offered so many delights, that at no time could he give way to despair.
Once he found himself near a band of Iroquois hunters, but he lay concealed, and they passed without perceiving him. Du Chesne followed their trail back, and found a bark canoe which they had hidden near the banks of the river. It was too large for his use, but he reduced it to convenient size, embarked and descended the stream. After that progress was comparatively easy. Finally, after enduring many hardships, he reached Ville Marie, where he was welcomed as one restored from the dead—the main expedition having, on returning from its successful attack on Schenectady, reported his capture by the Iroquois, from whom no mercy could be expected.