Merry’s Adventures.
CHAPTER XXI.
With a heavy and doubting heart, I proceeded on my way to New York. My situation was, in every respect, gloomy and depressing. I was alone in the world, and utterly unpractised in taking care of myself. I was cast forth to work my way in the rough voyage of life. I was like a person, who, while sailing confidently upon a raft, sees it suddenly sink in the waves, leaving him no other resource than to swim for his life, and that too, without preparation or practice.
It is, however, true, that necessity is, not only the mother of invention, but of exertion also, and by degrees I began to brace myself up to the emergency in which I was placed. It is a great thing—it is, indeed, the first requisite in order to obtain success—to have the mind and feelings prepared. I saw and felt that I had no other dependence now, than myself; that even my food, my clothing, my shelter, must henceforth, be the fruit of my own toil. It was a strange and startling position; and it was necessary for me to go over the events which had recently transpired, again and again, before I could realize a state of things so utterly at variance with the whole tenor of my life, my education, and my habits of thought.
It was long before, I could bring my pride down to my humble condition; it was long before I could resolve to grapple earnestly and heartily with the burthen which a life of toil presented to my imagination. I had heard of a punishment of criminals in Holland, in which they were obliged to work at a pump incessantly, to save themselves from being drowned; if they relaxed for a moment, the fatal element would rise over their heads and they would be lost forever. In my hour of distress, I looked upon my condition as little better than this. But necessity, necessity, that stern teacher, admonished me hour by hour, and at last its lesson was indelibly written on my heart. From that moment, fully estimating my dependence, I felt assured, and with a firmer step pushed on toward the place of my destination.
The day after my departure from Salem, as I was passing through the town of Bedford, I came to a handsome white house, the grounds of which seemed to bespeak wealth and taste on the part of its owner. It was at this moment beginning to snow, the flakes falling so thickly as to obscure the air. It was evidently setting in for a severe storm, and I was casting about for some place of shelter, when a tall, thin gentleman, of a very dignified appearance, approached me. There was that air of kindness about him, which emboldened me to inquire if he could tell me where I could get shelter till the storm was over.
“Come in with me, my friend,” said he kindly; at the same time opening the gate, and walking up the yard toward the house I have mentioned. I did not hesitate, but followed on, and soon found myself in a large room, richly carpeted, bearing every aspect of ease and luxury. Being desired to take a seat, I placed myself by the cheerful fire, and waited to be addressed by the hospitable host.
“It is a stormy day,” said the old gentleman; “have you far to travel?”
“I am on my way to New York, sir;” said I.
“Indeed! and on foot?” was his reply; “then you had better stay here till the storm is past.” He then proceeded to make some inquiries, and soon learnt my story. He had known my uncle well, and seemed on his account to take some interest in my behalf. The day passed pleasantly, and when evening came, there was quite a circle, consisting of the members of a large family, gathered around the fireside. The conversation was lively and entertaining. The host appeared to be about sixty years of age, but he had a look of calm dignity, an aspect of mingled simplicity and refinement, which made a strong impression on my mind. I had never seen any one who so much excited the feeling of reverence. I did not know his name, but I had a feeling that I was in the presence of a great man. The deference paid him by all around, tended to heighten this impression.
About ten o’clock in the evening, the servants of the family were called in, and all kneeling, the aged man offered up a simple, but fervent prayer to heaven. It seemed like the earnest request of a child to a father; a child that felt as if he had offended a parent whom he loved, and in whom he confided. The scene to me was very striking. To see a man so revered by his fellow-men—a man of such wisdom and knowledge—kneeling in humiliation, like a very child, and pouring out his soul in tears of supplication before the Father of the Universe, affected me deeply. It was one of those things which was calculated to have a decisive and abiding effect. I had then heard little of religion, except as a matter of ridicule. I have since met with the scoffer and the unbeliever; but the scene I have just described, taught me that the truly great man may be a sincere, meek, pious Christian; it taught me that the loftiest intellect, the most just powers of reasoning, may lead to that simple faith which brings the learned and the great to the same level as the unlettered and the humble—submission to God. If, in after days, I have ever doubted the truth of the Bible; if I have ever felt contempt for the Christian, that good man’s prayer, that great man’s example, have speedily rebuked my folly. These things have led me to frequent and serious reflection, and, during the subsequent stages of my life, have induced me to remark, that the unbeliever, the scoffer, is usually a person of weak mind, or ill-balanced judgment. I have met many great men, who were Christians. I never have met a great man who was a doubter.
In the morning the storm had abated, and after breakfast, I took my leave, having offered sincere thanks for the hospitality I had shared. As I was departing, the gentleman put into my hands a letter, addressed to a friend of his in New York; and which he requested me to deliver in person, on my arrival. This I promised to do; but candor compels me to say that I did not keep my promise; and bitterly have I had occasion to repent it. It is true, I sent the letter to the gentleman, but I did not deliver it myself. I had not yet learned the importance of a precise and accurate fulfilment of duty, and performance of promises. Had I done as I was directed, it would, no doubt, have altered the whole tenor of my life. I afterwards learned, but all too late to be of avail, that the letter was to an eminent merchant of New York, commending me warmly to him, and requesting him to take me into his counting-room; and this letter was from a man of such distinction,[12] that his request would not have been slighted. Yet, through my carelessness, I missed this excellent chance for getting forward in life.
I proceeded on my journey, but although I travelled very industriously, the snow was so deep, that at night I had made little progress. The fourth day after my departure, however, just at evening, I entered the city of New York, and took up my lodgings at a small tavern in Pearl street. Having taken supper, I went to the bar-room, where were about a dozen men, drinking and smoking. One of them, rather genteely dressed, came and sat by me, and we fell into conversation. After a little while, he ordered some flip, and we drank it. I felt my heart warmed, and my tongue loosed, and I told the stranger my story. He appeared to take great interest in me and pretty soon proposed to go into another room. Here were two other persons; and we sat down—my new friend ordering more liquor, and introducing me to the strangers. The liquor was brought, and also a pack of cards. In an easy way my companion began to shuffle the pack, and handed them to me to cut; seeming to take it as a matter of course that I would play. I had not the courage to refuse, and drew up to the table. The game went on, and in a very short time, I had lost every dollar in my pocket!
“Wit that is bought, is worth twice as much as wit that is taught,” says the proverb. We have good counsels bestowed upon us, but words make a faint impression. It is only when these counsels have been despised, and we are made actually to suffer, that we obtain lessons which stick by us, and influence us. A father once warned his son against certain evil ways. “Why do you counsel me, thus?” said the boy. “Because I have tried these things and seen the folly of them,” said the parent. “Well, father,” replied the inexperienced youth, “I want to see the folly of them too!” Thus it is that we will not take the experience of others; we will not heed the warnings of wisdom; we must needs taste of evil, and then, but not till then, do we bear in mind the bitterness that is in the cup of indulgence.
So it was with me; I had heard the dangers of gambling, but I had not seen and felt the folly of it. But now the lesson of experience had come, and it was deep and bitter. I went to bed with a heavy heart. Sleep came not to my eyelids that long, long night. My fancy was filled with real and imaginary evils. The death of my uncle; the loss of my fortune; the desolation of my condition; my visit to old Sarah’s cave; the bitter disappointment connected with the continental notes; my farewell to friends; my launching forth upon the sea of adventure;—all, came again and again to mind, each thought with oppressive force and distinctness. Ideas seemed like living images marching and countermarching in fearful procession, through the grisly shadows of the night. Nor was this all. To these realities, were added the fantasies suggested by apprehension, the painful emotions of an offended conscience, and the bitter self-distrust, which a conviction of my weakness and folly, at the very threshold of active and responsible life, forced upon me. All these came in to increase my misery. In vain did I try to close my eyes in repose; in vain did I seek to shut out the truth from my mind. The more I courted sleep, the more wakeful I became; the more I tried not to think, the more bright and vivid were my conceptions. My soul was like an illuminated house, filled with bustle and noise, when the proprietor would fain have sought the silence and repose of the pillow.
Morning at last came, and with it something like comfort. “I have learnt a lesson,” said I, “and will never gamble again.” Such was the fruit of my experience, and it was worth all it cost me; for from that time I have kept my resolution. I went to deliver the letters which had been given me by Raymond and his brother. The persons to whom they were addressed, received me kindly, and one of them, a bookseller, took me into his shop as a clerk, on trial.
It its scarcely possible for any one to conceive of a youth so poorly qualified to be useful, as I was at this time. My education was very imperfect; I had no habits of industry; I was not accustomed to obey others; I had no experience in doing the thousand little things which are to be done, and which practice alone can render easy. On the contrary, I had grown up in idleness, or at least to work, or play, or do nothing, just as my humor might dictate.
Now those children who have had the guidance of parents, and who have been taught habits of industry and obedience, ought to be very thankful—for they will find it easy to get along in life; but, alas, I had grown up almost to manhood, and had been educated to none of these things; and now I was to reap the bitter fruits of my own neglect and the misfortune of having no parent and no friend, save a too indulgent uncle. How much I suffered, from these sources, I cannot express; but my experience may warn all children and youth against the foolish desire of being indulged in their wishes and humors. ’T is far better that they should learn to perform their duties, to help themselves, to be industrious, and to obey those in whose charge they are placed.
The bookseller with whom I was now placed, was named Cooke—a large man, with red hair standing out like bristles, and staring, fiery eyes. When he first spoke to me, he was soft as cream in his tones, but I soon learnt that when roused, he was hot as a volcano. For two or three days he was, indeed, very gentle, and I fancied that I should get along very well. But soon the fair sky was overcast with clouds, and a terrible tempest followed.
[12] I suppose that Robert Merry here refers to John Jay, one of the greatest and best men who ever lived; for about this period he dwelt in the town of Bedford, and was such a person as is described. He had filled many important offices; had been a member of congress, governor of New York, ambassador to Spain and England, and chief justice of the United States. At the period of Merry’s journey from Salem to New York, he had retired to private life, devoting himself to religious and philosophical inquiries. In 1798, he negotiated a famous treaty with England, which was the subject of much discussion. There is a simple anecdote which shows the excitement on this subject, and exhibits Governor Jay in a pleasing light. One day being at market, the butcher said to him, “There is a great pother about this treaty of yours, governor; pray what sort of a treaty is it?” “Well, my friend,” said Mr. Jay, “there is some good and some bad in it; but, on the whole, I think it a pretty good treaty: it is much like your beef—there’s a streak of fat and a streak of lean—but it’s very good beef after all.”
Irish wit.—A soldier in an Irish corps observed to his comrade that a corporal was to be drummed out of the regiment. “By my faith,” said he, “I hope it’s the corporal that is so troublesome to our company.” “Pray, what’s his name?” enquired the soldier. “Why, Corporal Punishment, to be sure, Pat!”
Mode of Invitation in China.—An invitation to a party or feast in China is sent several days before, on a crimson colored ticket to the person expected, on which is written the time appointed, and the guest is entreated to bestow the “illumination of his presence.”
Uncas and Miantonimo.
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, &c., of the Indians of America.
CHAPTER XXI.
Dutch settlement in New York.—Indian account of the matter.—Uncas, chief of the Mohicans.—His war with the Narragansets.—Philip.—His wars and death.—Present state of the Indians in New England.
The country around the mouth of the Hudson, and the island on which the great city of New York is situated, were first settled by the Dutch. They found the land occupied by a powerful tribe of Indians, descended from the Delawares, called the Mohicans, by whom they were received with the greatest kindness and respect. The natives give an amusing account of the first arrival of these strangers.
“A great many years ago,” say they, “when men with a white skin had never been seen in this land, some Indians, who were out a fishing at a place where the sea widens, espied at a distance something remarkably large floating on the water, and such as they had never seen before. These Indians, immediately returning to the shore, apprized their countrymen of what they had observed, and pressed them to discover what it might be. They hurried out together, and saw with astonishment the phenomenon which now appeared to their sight, but could not agree upon what it was: some believed it to be an uncommonly large fish or animal, while others were of opinion that it must be a very big house, floating on the water.
“Runners were sent off in every direction with the wonderful intelligence, and the people crowded to the shore to view the strange appearance. They concluded that the Manito, or Great Spirit, himself was coming to visit them, in this huge vessel. All the idols and temples were put in order, and a grand dance and feast was prepared to entertain him. While in this situation, fresh runners arrived, declaring it to be positively a large house, crowded with beings of quite a different color from that of the Indians, and clothed differently from them; that, in particular, one of them was dressed entirely in red, who must be the Manito himself.
“The house, or as some say, large canoe, at last stops, and a canoe of smaller size comes on shore, with the man in red, and some others in it; some stay with the canoe to guard it. The chiefs and wise men form a circle, towards which the man in red clothes advances with two others. He salutes them with a friendly countenance, and they return the salute after their manner; they are lost in admiration at the dress, the manners, and the whole appearance of the unknown strangers; but they are particularly struck with him who wore the red coat, all glittering with gold lace, which they could in no manner account for. He surely must be the great Manito, but why should he have a white skin?
“Meanwhile a large bottle is brought by one of his servants, from which he pours out an unknown liquid into a small cup or glass, and drinks:—he then fills it again, and hands it to the chief nearest him, who only smells of it, and passes it to the next, who does the same; and the glass is about to be returned to the red-clothed Manito, untasted, when one of the Indians, a brave man and a great warrior, suddenly jumps up and harangues the assembly on the impropriety of refusing the request of Manito, and not drinking the liquor, when he had set them the example. For himself, he declared, that rather than provoke the wrath of the Great Spirit by this conduct, he would, if necessary, devote himself to death for the good of the nation.
“He then took the glass, and bidding the whole assembly a solemn farewell, drank up its whole contents: he soon began to stagger, and at last fell prostrate to the ground. His companions now bemoan his fate, thinking that he has expired; suddenly he wakes, jumps up, and declares that he has enjoyed the most delicious sensations from drinking the liquor, and asks for more. The whole assembly imitate him, and all become intoxicated.
“After they had recovered from the effects of this scene, the strangers distributed among them presents of beads, axes, hoes, &c., and then departed. In about a year they returned, and concluded to settle there: for this purpose, they only asked for as much land as the hide of a bullock, which was then spread before them, would take in. The Indians readily granted this slight request; but the whites then took a knife, and cut the hide into a long strip of rope, not thicker than a child’s finger, with which they were able to encompass a large piece of ground. The Indians were surprised at the superior wit of the whites, but did not care to dispute about a little land, as they had still enough for themselves; and they lived for some time contentedly with their new neighbors.” The Dutch, however, did not long keep possession of the country, which they had thus unfairly gained; about fifty years afterwards, it was taken from them by the English, who called it New York.
The first grand chief, or sachem, of the Mohicans known to the English, was called Uncas: he was a crafty and ambitious chieftain, brave and cunning in war, and cruel to his conquered enemies. He was always a firm friend to the English, probably because he saw that it was for his interest to be so; for he was generally at war with the Six Nations on the north, and the Narragansets, a numerous warlike people on the east, who inhabited the country now called the state of Rhode Island.
In one of these wars, Miantonimo, the Narraganset chief, suddenly invaded the country of the Mohicans, with eight hundred of his bravest warriors, giving Uncas only time to collect about half that number to meet him. He saw that if he should attempt to oppose him by main force, he should certainly be beaten; he therefore resolved to attempt a stratagem.
When the two armies had approached near each other, ordering his warriors to conceal themselves in the long grass, he advanced before them, and challenged his adversary to single combat, saying that it was a great pity that so many brave men should be killed, merely to decide a private quarrel. But Miantonimo knew well that he had the advantage in numbers, and he was resolved not to lose it. “My warriors,” said the fierce chieftain, “have come a long way to fight, and they shall fight.”
Uncas had expected this answer, and instantly fell flat to the ground. His men, rising, poured on their enemies a volley of arrows, rushed on them with a hideous yell, and soon put them to flight. Miantonimo was taken prisoner; he scorned to beg his life of his victorious enemy, and was put to death, but without cruelty, on account of the request of the English.
After the death of Uncas, which happened about the year 1680, his tribe gradually dwindled away, under their continual wars with the whites, and the other Indians, and their own evil passions, until the feeble remnant of a once powerful people was compelled to abandon their ancient hunting-grounds, and flee for protection to their grandfather, the Delawares, now almost as wretched and powerless as themselves; some even joined their old enemies, the Six Nations, by whom they were generously adopted into that warlike confederacy.
But the greatest and the most renowned of all the New England sachems, was undoubtedly the great chief of the Pokanokets, called by the English, King Philip. He was the son of Massassoit, who ruled the Indians around Plymouth, where the Pilgrim Fathers first landed. He received them kindly, sold them a large tract of land for their settlement, and made a treaty of friendship with them, which lasted unbroken for about fifty years.
The good feeling, however, of the old sachem did not descend to his son Philip, who succeeded him. He saw that the English were gradually encroaching upon the grounds of his race, and that, unless their progress should soon be arrested, the red man would not have where to lay his head in the country of his forefathers. He resolved, therefore, to unite, if possible, all the Indians of New England, from the Penobscot to the Hudson, in one last great attempt to recover from their white invaders their ancient dominions. In a short time, by this artful manœuvre, he had gained over to his cause the warlike nation of the Narragansets, and all the tribes of Maine, for two hundred miles along the coast. But the Indians of New Hampshire, for the most part, kept aloof from the contest, and the Mohicans, under their sachem Uncas, remained ever faithful to the English.
The war between the colonies and the English, commonly called Philip’s War, broke out in the summer of 1675. The savage chief is said to have wept when he heard of the first outrage of the war. He called to mind the long, unbroken friendship, that for half a century had subsisted between the red man and the whites; and his stern heart relented, when he saw that it must now be broken, and forever. But it was too late to retreat. From that hour he never smiled; but his whole soul was bent upon the business before him.
At first, his success was tremendous; in a short time the country was in flames, from one end of the colonies to the other. Thirteen towns were entirely destroyed; seven hundred dwelling houses burnt; and as many Englishmen killed. There was not a family throughout New England, which did not mourn the loss of a relation. But his good fortune did not continue long; the colonies gathered all their strength to meet him; the Mohicans assailed him from the south; and the Mohawks on the north were his implacable enemies. He was defeated in several battles; his allies deserted him; his friends and relations were killed or made prisoners by the English; and he himself was hunted, like a spent deer by blood-hounds, from place to place. Still, even in his worst days, he would not think of peace; one of his attendants, who dared to propose it to him, he killed with his own hand. It was by the brother of the same man, that he was himself slain.
A few minutes before his death, he is said to have been telling his few remaining friends of his gloomy dreams, and urging them to leave him, and provide for their own safety. On a sudden, the swamp in which he lay concealed, was surrounded by the English, and in attempting to escape, he was shot.
With this great man and noble warrior, perished the last hopes of the natives of New England. From that moment they rapidly melted away before the advance of the whites, and finally became extinct, or mingled with other nations of the west; who, in their turn, sunk under the power of their civilized invaders. A few Indians still remain, scattered about in various parts of Massachusetts, Rhode-Island, and Connecticut. At Marshpee, on Cape Cod, and on Martha’s Vineyard, there are still a few hundreds; but they have forgotten their ancient habits and language. They are mostly in a wretched state, idle and dissolute. A number of the young men, however, are employed in the whale fishery, and are skilful and industrious. The powerful tribe of the Narragansets are reduced to about four hundred persons, who live at Charlestown, in the southern part of Rhode Island.
Death of Tecumseh.
CHAPTER XXII.
What has been told.—The Western sachems.—Pontiac and Tecumseh.—Account of their tribes.—Alliance with the French.—Pontiac attacks the white men.—Tecumseh and Elkswatawa.—Their efforts against the Americans.—Death of Tecumseh.
We have seen how, as the tide of European emigration poured on, the tribes of the Atlantic coast gradually disappeared before it, either retreating into the depths of the western forests, or dying in bold but fruitless attempts to recover from the hand of the grasping European the land of their forefathers. The flood of civilization still rolled on; and again the savage girded himself to meet it. The desperate struggle for life and freedom, for wealth and power, which had crimsoned the waters of the Connecticut, the Delaware, and the Potomac, with blood, was to be repeated on the banks of the Ohio, the Wabash, and the Mississippi.
We have seen how Powhattan in the south, and Philip in the north, strove with all the powers of their great minds, to unite the numerous tribes of their race in a great effort, to stay the encroachments of the whites; but in vain. In like manner, among the numerous tribes of the West, there arose, from time to time, men of wisdom and bravery, to guide their councils and turn their arms towards the same great purpose. Such men were Pontiac and Tecumseh.
Before we proceed to give an account of the lives of these great men, we must first say something about the tribes of Indians to which they belonged, or with which they were connected.
The native tribes which lived beyond the Allegany range, and north of the Ohio, were all nearly related to each other, being descended from the same grandfather, the Delawares. The Wyandots or Hurons, however, claimed to be the most ancient of all the great Indian family, and were always addressed by the Delawares as their Uncle.
The Shawanese were a warlike and powerful people, dwelling on the Ohio, in the southern part of the State of the same name. They formerly inhabited the southern country near Savannah, in Georgia. From their restless and ferocious disposition, they were constantly engaged in wars with their neighbors, who, at length, tired of being continually harassed, formed a league to expel them from the country. The Shawanese, seeing their danger, fled for protection to their grandfather, the Delawares, who received them kindly, and assigned them lands upon the river Ohio. Here their bold and turbulent spirit soon involved them again in a constant warfare with their neighbors, both Indians and whites. This was the tribe of Tecumseh, the Indian Bonaparte.
The Miami and Wabash tribes lived on the rivers of the same names in Ohio and Indiana; they were formidable in bravery, and could bring into the field many hundred warriors. The Wyandots or Hurons inhabited the country around Detroit, partly in Michigan and partly in Canada. They were not many in number, but possessed great influence, from being acknowledged as the head of the great Indian family.
The Ottawas, Chippeways, and Potawattomies were three tribes, scattered along the shores of the great lakes, in Michigan and the Northwest Territories. They were strong in numbers and bravery, and were always united in the bonds of friendly alliance. Of the first of these, Pontiac was chief, and his influence extended over the other two.
During the French war, which ended in the conquest of Canada by the English, 1762, the natives, with the exception of the Six Nations, were almost all on the side of the French. Hence, when the war was finished in a manner so disastrous to their white friends, it was no wonder that the Indians should be extremely dissatisfied, and ill-disposed towards the conquerors.
Pontiac, an artful and ambitious chief, and a great warrior, saw this feeling, and resolved to take advantage of it to unite the various tribes in an attempt to recover from the English their newly-acquired possessions. He used every art and inducement that he knew would have power over the minds of his savage brethren; he reminded them of the long series of wrongs which they had received from the hands of the English; he showed them that while two hostile European nations were settled in the country, each would court the friendship of the Indians, by kindness and favors; but when all was in the hands of one, they would have nothing to do but to wrench from the feeble grasp of the red man, their few remaining possessions. Above all, he pretended that the Great Spirit had made a revelation to a man of the Delaware tribe—commanding the Indians to unite and drive their white invaders from the land.
By such means, he succeeded in forming the greatest league ever known among the native tribes of America. Besides the numerous tribes of the west as far as the Mississippi, he had obtained the assistance of many of the Delawares and Six Nations in Pennsylvania and New York, and the Messissagas, far in the north of Canada.
His plans were as grand as his means. On the same day, throughout an extent of more than a thousand miles of frontier, from Lake Superior to the Potomac, every British fort was to be taken; every Englishman killed. His plan, however, through the treachery of his allies, was only partially successful: as it was, nine of the English forts were taken, and nearly all the garrisons put to death; the whole line of frontier settlements was wrapt in blood and flames.
In all their undertakings, the savages like better to succeed by cunning, than by open force. Henry, the traveller, gives a lively account of the manner in which the fort at Michilimackinac was taken, and the garrison destroyed.
This being an important post, its capture was committed to the united forces of the Sacs and Chippeways. They made use of the following stratagem. On a certain day, the warriors collected in great numbers around the fort, as they had been accustomed to do, in a friendly manner. They then began a game of baggatiway, or ball, a favorite amusement with the Indians; and the soldiers of the garrison poured out to see the sport. Suddenly the ball was knocked, as if by chance, over the wall of the fort, and the crowd of players and spectators rushed in, pell-mell, to obtain it—no one caring to prevent them.
The savages were now secure of their prey; on a sudden, the war-cry was given and the work of destruction commenced. At this time Henry was engaged in writing: suddenly he heard a confused noise, followed by a loud Indian war-cry. Rushing to his window, he saw a crowd of Indians within the fort, furiously cutting down and scalping every Englishman they found; and he could plainly witness the last struggles of some of his intimate friends.
His heart died within him at the horrid sight. He knew that it would be vain for him alone to resist, and resolved to make an attempt to escape. He saw many of the French villagers looking out of the windows at the scene, without being in any manner molested by the savages. The thought struck him, that he might find a refuge in one of their houses; accordingly, he managed to reach unseen the nearest of them, and concealed himself behind some birchbark vessels in the garret.
When the massacre in the fort was over, the Indians scattered themselves about the village in search of new victims. Henry heard them enter the house in which he was, and inquire if there were any Englishmen within. The Frenchman answered that he did not know of any; they might look for themselves. He heard them approach the garret; they entered, and began to search around the room. The trembling Englishman thought that his last hour was come. But the darkness of the place saved his life; and his bloody pursuers departed without finding him.
Such was the fate of Michilimackinac; but at Detroit, the assailants were not so successful, though led by Pontiac himself. A few days before the time appointed for the attack, an Indian woman, grateful for some kindnesses which she had received from the commandant, revealed to him the whole plot. She told him that Pontiac would soon present himself before the fort, with a long train of followers, having each his rifle concealed under his cloak, and request to be admitted to an interview with the commandant; that at the end of his speech, the chieftain would present to him a belt, the wrong side outwards. This would be the signal for a general massacre of all the English.
The officer rewarded the woman for her information, and took his measures accordingly. Exactly as she had said, Pontiac soon appeared before the gates with a large retinue, and was admitted, at once, to an interview. His speech was bold and threatening, and his manner vehement and angry; but just as he arrived at the critical moment when the belt was to be presented, the drums at the door of the council-house suddenly rolled the charge, the guards levelled their pieces, and the British officers drew their swords. The heart of the bold chief failed him, at this evident proof that his treachery was discovered. He trembled, gave the belt in the usual manner, and retired without striking a blow.
Thus foiled in his stratagem, Pontiac resolved to try the effect of a siege; and he actually maintained it for several months. But this is a method of warfare which an Indian can by no means endure, and he soon found himself deserted by his allies; while the garrison still continued to hold out. At the same time he heard that an army of English was advancing to the relief of the fort. He was compelled to raise the siege, and retreat with all possible despatch. Soon after, he concluded a peace with the British; and thus his mighty efforts, his grand designs, his long series of cunning stratagems, bold surprisals, and ruthless massacres, were worse than vain.
For a long time after the death of Pontiac, no wars of any consequence took place between the whites and the Indians. But about the year 1804, there arose among the natives two men, chiefs of the warlike and restless tribe of the Shawanees, who conceived, as Philip and Pontiac had done before them, the design of uniting their scattered countrymen for a common purpose. But it was not to expel the white men from the country; they knew that such an attempt must be worse than useless. But they wished to prevent them from encroaching more on the lands of the natives. “We have retreated far enough,” said they; “we will go no farther.”
Their names were Tecumseh and Elkswatawa; they were brothers, but different in mind and heart. The one was brave, frank, and high-minded; the other cautious, subtle, and cruel. Each took the part that suited his character. Elkswatawa was the prophet. He informed his countrymen that the Great Spirit was about to take from the white men and restore to the Indians the power and wisdom which rightfully belonged to them. To bring about this desirable change, the red men must return to the good old customs of their ancestors. They must dress in skins; they must not quarrel, lie, or steal; and there must be no more fighting between the tribes.
Tecumseh was the war-chief, and the orator. He visited the councils of every tribe from the Gulf of Mexico to Lake Superior, haranguing them on the wrongs which they had received from the white men, the loss of their power and land, and the blessing which awaited them if they would but attend to the words of the prophet.
The eloquence of the young warrior produced a great effect. Many of the tribes declared themselves ready to adopt his scheme; and others would soon have followed. But while on a visit to the Cherokees, he received the mortifying intelligence that his brother, the prophet, had given battle to the troops of the United States, under General Harrison, and had been defeated. This was most unfortunate for the cause of Tecumseh. His brother’s influence was nearly lost, many of his allies wavered, and others deserted them altogether.
But the die was cast. He saw that war must follow; and he resolved to meet it like a man; he redoubled his exertions to gain adherents. About this time, (1812,) the war between England and the United States commenced, and he immediately joined himself, with all his forces, to the British cause. Throughout the war, his labors, his dangers, and his exertions were unceasing. By his influence the British obtained their immense force of Indian auxiliaries; his voice was heard at every council-fire; he was foremost in every battle, the last in every flight.
But he fought in vain; the American arms prevailed; his European allies deserted him; and his faithful savage friends had fallen under the rifles of the enemy. Still he disdained to yield. In the battle of the Moravian towns, while his men were falling or fleeing around him, he pressed forward into the hottest of the fight, sounding the war-cry, and plying the tomahawk with desperate energy.
Suddenly there was a wavering in the ranks of the savages; a voice of command was no longer heard among them. Tecumseh had fallen, and with him fell the hopes of his followers. They fled, leaving the Americans masters of the field.
He was buried near the place on which he fell; and it is said that his grave is kept clear from shrubbery, by the frequent visits of his countrymen, who thus shew the care with which they cherish the memory of their last great chief.