On the 17th May the memorable landing took place. All of the expedition—some fifty in number—fell upon their knees, and from their lips fell a prayer of thankfulness to Almighty God. But they did not deceive themselves as to their danger. They all knew—even the women—that there was to be more work and fighting than praying. As yet no treacherous red-man, tomahawk in hand, lurked behind the tall trees, but the alarm was sure to come, and no time was to be lost. So to the task of chopping and hewing and hammering they flew without delay. The site was quickly enclosed with palisades and several cannon brought from the ship and put in position. As for the hospital which Mademoiselle de Mance had been given the money to build, it could safely be reared outside the walls, being of stone and almost a little fortress of itself. For two centuries and a half this hospital withstood all the attacks of the Iroquois, until a mighty city pressing in upon it forced it to a peaceful surrender to the interests of trade and commerce.
Winter came and went. Spring found Ville Marie quite snug and comfortable, and the inhabitants wondering where the Iroquois were. They had not long to wait. A solitary Algonquin one day fled within the palisades for refuge. He told Maisonneuve that he was being pursued by the Iroquois, coveting his scalp. In a few hours his pursuers had discovered Ville Marie, and, shaking their tomahawks at its inhabitants, vowed vengeance on the bold pale-faces who had ventured to settle in a part of Canada which they had cruelly decreed should for ever remain a desert. Thereafter they patrolled the borders of the town, watching stealthily where they might strike down man, woman, or child. No longer was it possible in safety to sow or reap. Nor were the wooden palisades strong enough for protection. Stout walls and bastions were needed, and accordingly stone was quarried across the river, and willing hands toiled night and day to build what was henceforth little more than a prison. When the colony was two years old, the Iroquois summoned all their braves.
"Let us destroy these insolent Frenchmen," said their chief; "let us carry off their white girls to drudge for us in our lodges."
Maisonneuve covering the Retreat of his Followers, 1644
Maisonneuve, hearing that they had collected a large force, unwisely sallied out to give them battle. It was springtime, but the deep snow had not yet melted. The little company of French settlers, their hearts beating high with valour and courage, looked about for the foe. Not finding him at first, they were drawn farther and farther into the surrounding forest. Then it was that the redskins, hidden behind trees, darted forth a volley of arrows, and the founders of Ville Marie became an easy target and fell by the dozen. They were unused to this kind of warfare, the only kind the red-men really knew. Maisonneuve, shocked but undaunted, gave the signal for retreat, and the French drew back to the walls of Ville Marie, dragging their dead and wounded with them. Close followed the enemy with ear-splitting yells and flourishing their blood-stained tomahawks. Maisonneuve, pistol in hand, was the last man to enter the gate. Just as he was crossing the threshold an Iroquois chief sprang forward to drag him back, but quick as the savage was, not quick enough was he. The Governor's pistol rang out, and the chief dropped in his tracks. His baffled companions, shrieking in anger and dismay, saw the gates of the little town shut, and for that day the rest of its defenders were safe. To-day, if you should chance to visit the great city of Montreal, you may see the very spot where this encounter took place. It is called the Place d'Armes, and in the middle is a bronze statue of the brave Maisonneuve, on whose pedestal is a representation of his narrow escape from death.
Such terrible experiences were not confined to Montreal alone, or even to Quebec and Three Rivers. About the whole country the Iroquois prowled like wild beasts. Especially did they frequent the northern outlets of the Ottawa River to waylay the friendly Hurons in their passage to the St. Lawrence, bringing furs for barter to the French. Observing this, Governor Montmagny set about building a fort at the mouth of the Richelieu River, and notwithstanding the attempts of 700 Iroquois to destroy it and kill the workmen, it was completed in a short time and christened Fort Richelieu. Forced to retreat, the savages managed to carry off with them a Jesuit priest, Father Isaac Jogues, and two young students named Goupil and Couture, who were coming down the river with a party of fur-hunters. They did not kill their prisoners at once, as they expected, but, after putting them through a course of dreadful tortures, carried them to the home of one of their tribes, the Mohawks. After cutting off Goupil's thumb with a clam-shell, so as to prolong the pain, they scalped him and flung his body down a steep waterfall. Couture, adopted into the tribe, turned Mohawk in order to save his life.
After a time Father Jogues was taken by the Iroquois in one of their trading visits to the Dutch of New Netherlands, now called New York. This is the first time any of the French in Canada had any communication with the European settlers to the south of them, in what are now known as the United States. The Dutch Governor of Albany took pity on the poor Jesuit priest and helped him to escape. Ultimately he was sent back in a ship to France, where he thrilled the King and Court by the sight of his wounds and the story of his wonderful adventures. Never once had he lost courage, but went on baptizing Indian children and giving the sacrament to the dying. Once when no water was forthcoming to baptize a Huron prisoner in the throes of death, Jogues shook off a few scant drops of dew which still clung to an ear of maize that had been thrown to him for food.
After all the intrepid father's starvation and sufferings you would think he had had enough of mission work amongst the red-men and would remain in a peaceful French curacy for the rest of his days. But that is because you do not understand what kind of men these Jesuit priests were. Undaunted by pains or privations, they wished nothing better than to be martyred in the cause of their religion. Isaac Jogues went back again to Canada a year later. In his absence the Mohawks had made peace with the French, and the intrepid priest took up his residence in one of their villages. When it became necessary to visit the Governor of Quebec on business, Jogues left behind him a small box containing a few medicine bottles and other simple things. No sooner was the priest's back turned than the medicine-man or sorcerer of the tribe, who hated the missionaries because they exposed their foolish practices, told the Mohawks that this innocent box contained magic, which would bring all of them ill-luck, disease, and death. Some believed this story, others were incredulous; so that when Father Jogues came back, he found the village divided on the question of killing him or sparing his life. He was invited to a feast, which he dared not refuse. As he entered, a tomahawk clove its way to his brain, and the priest was made a martyr at last. Poor brave Father Jogues was the first to suffer martyrdom in New France. The savages cut off his head and fastened it to a long pole, and the savage children threw pebbles at it in sport.