The Man with the Iron Hand

by John Carl Parish

In their hearts the Indians saw the wisdom of flight, for they knew what had happened in the past. They did not forget the fate of other nations whom the Iroquois had practically exterminated. Would the invasion of the Illinois country have any other end? Yet it was with heavy and reluctant hearts that they gave up their lodges to the hated foe; and bands of warriors trailed back up the river for another look at their one-time home. Appearing on the hills a short distance behind the village they gazed down upon the ruined lodges which had been fired by the Iroquois, who had piled timber and half-burned posts in the form of a rude fort. In a lodge some distance away Tonty had been left still suffering from his wound and attended by his five men.

More and more of the Illinois gathered on the hill, until the array of warriors alarmed the Iroquois, who still nursed the belief that twelve hundred Illinois were haunting their rear. The Illinois continued their watch day by day and presently saw two men leave the town and climb the hill toward them. They soon distinguished the peculiar swing of their friend Tonty. With him was an Iroquois Indian. Joyfully they welcomed him and listened to his message. The Iroquois wished to make a treaty of peace and had sent one of their men as a hostage.

The Illinois in turn sent back with Tonty one of their own young men, and negotiations were soon begun. But the peacemaker had been badly chosen, for the young Indian, eager for a treaty of peace, promised everything and finally revealed to the Iroquois the true number of the Illinois warriors. The Iroquois said little to the Illinois messenger, but sent him back to his people that night to tell the chiefs to come next day within half a league of the fort and conclude the peace. Then they turned on Tonty with wrath and reproaches for having deceived them.

The next day at noon Illinois and Iroquois met not far from the village. The Iroquois, hiding their true plans, gave presents to their late opponents and bound themselves to a firm and lasting peace. But Tonty, who was not misled, managed to send Father Membré to the Illinois to tell them that the peace was only a pretense, that the Iroquois were making elm-bark canoes, and that if the Illinois did not flee at once they would be followed and their whole tribe massacred.

At night the Iroquois called Tonty and Father Membré into the rude fort, and having seated the white leader they laid before him presents consisting of six bundles of valuable beaver skins. By the first two presents the Iroquois meant to inform Governor Frontenac that they would not eat his children and that he should not be angry at what they had done. The third bundle of skins was to be a plaster for the white man’s wound. The fourth represented oil to be rubbed on the white men’s limbs because of the long journeys they had taken. With the fifth they told Tonty how bright the sun was; and with the sixth they said that he should profit by it and return the next day to the French settlements.

“When are you going to leave the Illinois country?” asked the dauntless white man.

“Not until we have eaten these Illinois,” replied the angered chiefs.

With a quick motion of his foot Tonty kicked the beaver skins from him—an unpardonable offense among Indians. Angry looks and gesticulations from the Indians greeted this act, but they hesitated to lay hands upon Tonty for he was a friend of Frontenac, the powerful governor of New France. Perhaps, too, they realized, better even than did the Illinois, the power of his heavy right hand, for he had lived in the land of the Iroquois before he had come out into these Western wilds.

Scarcely restraining themselves, they drove the two men from the fort. Tonty and the friar returned to their comrades at their lodge. No longer was their presence in the Iroquois camp useful to the Illinois or safe for themselves. Hardly expecting to see the dawn, they passed the night on guard resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible. But they were not molested, and when day came they embarked for the far-off settlements. They were the last white men to leave the valley of the Illinois where carnage and woe were to reign.

The journey of Tonty and his companions was a difficult one, and calamity met them early on the way. After some five hours’ paddling, they stopped to mend their canoe. The old friar Ribourde went off in the woods a little distance to pray, and was set upon and murdered by a roving band of Kickapoos. After searching for him in vain, the rest of his party went on. By short journeys they reached the Lake of the Illinois and turned northward. Winter overtook them; their food gave out; and they fell to eating acorns and grubbing up roots from beneath the snow. When their moccasins wore out,—for most of their travel was now by land,—they made themselves shoes out of a cloak which the murdered friar had left behind. Weeks passed by as they journeyed on. They came now and then upon deserted Indian camps, and, desperate with hunger, they tried to eat the leather thongs which bound together the poles of the Indian lodges. They even chewed the tough rawhide of an old Indian shield which they had found. Tonty was sick almost constantly with fever and scarcely able to walk. Not until December did the party of five men reach Green Bay, where at last they were given a warm welcome by the Indians and some Frenchmen in a Pottawattomie village.