24: Part 2: Chapter XIV
<< 23: Part 2: Chapter XIII || 25: Part 2: Chapter XV >>
The lot of the favored guest of an Indian camp or village is idleness
without repose, for he is never left alone, with the repletion of
incessant and inevitable feasts. Tired of this inane routine, Champlain,
with some of his Frenchmen, set forth on a tour of observation.
Journeying at their ease by the Indian trails, they visited, in three
days, five palisaded villages. The country delighted them, with its
meadows, its deep woods, its pine and cedar thickets, full of hares and
partridges, its wild grapes and plums, cherries, crab-apples, nuts, and
raspberries. It was the seventeenth of August when they reached the
Huron metropolis, Cahiague, in the modern township of Orillia, three
leagues west of the river Severn, by which Lake Simcoe pours its waters
into the bay of Matchedash. A shrill clamor of rejoicing, the fixed
stare of wondering squaws, and the screaming flight of terrified
children hailed the arrival of Champlain. By his estimate, the place
contained two hundred lodges; but they must have been relatively small,
since, had they been of the enormous capacity sometimes found in these
structures, Cahiague alone would have held the whole Huron population.
Here was the chief rendezvous, and the town swarmed with gathering
warriors. There was cheering news; for an allied nation, called
Carantonans, probably identical with the Andastes, had promised to join
the Hurons in the enemy's country, with five hundred men. Feasts and the
war-dance consumed the days, till at length the tardy bands had all
arrived; and, shouldering their canoes and scanty baggage, the naked
host set forth.
At the outlet of Lake Simcoe they all stopped to fish,—their simple
substitute for a commissariat. Hence, too, the intrepid Etienne Brule,
at his own request, was sent with twelve Indians to hasten forward the
five hundred allied warriors,—a dangerous venture, since his course
must lie through the borders of the Iroquois.
He set out on the eighth of September, and on the morning of the tenth,
Champlain, shivering in his blanket, awoke to see the meadows sparkling
with an early frost, soon to vanish under the bright autumnal sun. The
Huron fleet pursued its course along Lake Simcoe, across the portage to
Balsam or Sturgeon Lake, and down the chain of lakes which form the
sources of the river Trent. As the long line of canoes moved on its way,
no human life was seen, no sign of friend or foe; yet at times, to the
fancy of Champlain, the borders of the stream seemed decked with groves
and shrubbery by the hands of man, and the walnut trees, laced with
grape-vines, seemed decorations of a pleasure-ground.
They stopped and encamped for a deer-hunt. Five hundred Indians, in
line, like the skirmishers of an army advancing to battle, drove the
game to the end of a woody point; and the canoe-men killed them with
spears and arrows as they took to the river. Champlain and his men
keenly relished the sport, but paid a heavy price for their pleasure. A
Frenchman, firing at a buck, brought down an Indian, and there was need
of liberal gifts to console the sufferer and his friends.
The canoes now issued from the mouth of the Trent. Like a flock of
venturous wild-fowl, they put boldly out upon Lake Ontario, crossed it
in safety, and landed within the borders of New York, on or near the
point of land west of Hungry Bay. After hiding their light craft in the
woods, the warriors took up their swift and wary march, filing in
silence between the woods and the lake, for four leagues along the
strand. Then they struck inland, threaded the forest, crossed the outlet
of Lake Oneida, and after a march of four days, were deep within the
limits of the Iroquois. On the ninth of October some of their scouts met
a fishing-party of this people, and captured them,—eleven in number,
men, women, and children. They were brought to the camp of the exultant
Hurons. As a beginning of the jubilation, a chief cut off a finger of
one of the women, but desisted from further torturing on the angry
protest of Champlain, reserving that pleasure for a more convenient
season.
On the next day they reached an open space in the forest. The hostile
town was close at hand, surrounded by rugged fields with a slovenly and
savage cultivation. The young Hurons in advance saw the Iroquois at work
among the pumpkins and maize, gathering their rustling harvest. Nothing
could restrain the hare-brained and ungoverned crew. They screamed their
war-cry and rushed in; but the Iroquois snatched their weapons, killed
and wounded five or six of the assailants, and drove back the rest
discomfited. Champlain and his Frenchmen were forced to interpose; and
the report of their pieces from the border of the woods stopped the
pursuing enemy, who withdrew to their defences, bearing with them their
dead and wounded.
It appears to have been a fortified town of the Onondagas, the central
tribe of the Iroquois confederacy, standing, there is some reason to
believe, within the limits of Madison County, a few miles south of Lake
Oneida. Champlain describes its defensive works as much stronger than
those of the Huron villages. They consisted of four concentric rows of
palisades, formed of trunks of trees, thirty feet high, set aslant in
the earth, and intersecting each other near the top, where they
supported a kind of gallery, well defended by shot-proof timber, and
furnished with wooden gutters for quenching fire. A pond or lake, which
washed one side of the palisade, and was led by sluices within the town,
gave an ample supply of water, while the galleries were well provided
with magazines of stones.
Champlain was greatly exasperated at the desultory and futile procedure
of his Huron allies. Against his advice, they now withdrew to the
distance of a cannon-shot from the fort, and encamped in the forest, out
of sight of the enemy. "I was moved," he says, "to speak to them roughly
and harshly enough, in order to incite them to do their duty; for I
foresaw that if things went according to their fancy, nothing but harm
could come of it, to their loss and ruin. He proceeded, therefore, to
instruct them in the art of war."
In the morning, aided doubtless by his ten or twelve Frenchmen, they set
themselves with alacrity to their prescribed task. A wooden tower was
made, high enough to overlook the palisade, and large enough to shelter
four or five marksmen. Huge wooden shields, or movable parapets, like
the mantelets of the Middle Ages, were also constructed. Four hours
sufficed to finish the work, and then the assault began. Two hundred of
the strongest warriors dragged the tower forward, and planted it within
a pike's length of the palisade. Three arquebusiers mounted to the top,
where, themselves well sheltered, they opened a raking fire along the
galleries, now thronged with wild and naked defenders. But nothing could
restrain the ungovernable Hurons. They abandoned their mantelets, and,
deaf to every command, swarmed out like bees upon the open field,
leaped, shouted, shrieked their war-cries, and shot off their arrows;
while the Iroquois, yelling defiance from their ramparts, sent back a
shower of stones and arrows in reply. A Huron, bolder than the rest, ran
forward with firebrands to burn the palisade, and others followed with
wood to feed the flame. But it was stupidly kindled on the leeward side,
without the protecting shields designed to cover it; and torrents of
water, poured down from the gutters above, quickly extinguished it. The
confusion was redoubled. Champlain strove in vain to restore order. Each
warrior was yelling at the top of his throat, and his voice was drowned
in the outrageous din. Thinking, as he says, that his head would split
with shouting, he gave over the attempt, and busied himself and his men
with picking off the Iroquois along their ramparts.
The attack lasted three hours, when the assailants fell back to their
fortified camp, with seventeen warriors wounded. Champlain, too, had
received an arrow in the knee, and another in the leg, which, for the
time, disabled him. He was urgent, however, to renew the attack; while
the Hurons, crestfallen and disheartened, refused to move from their
camp unless the five hundred allies, for some time expected, should
appear. They waited five days in vain, beguiling the interval with
frequent skirmishes, in which they were always worsted; then began
hastily to retreat, carrying their wounded in the centre, while the
Iroquois, sallying from their stronghold, showered arrows on their
flanks and rear. The wounded, Champlain among the rest, after being
packed in baskets made on the spot, were carried each on the back of a
strong warrior, "bundled in a heap," says Champlain, "doubled and
strapped together after such a fashion that one could move no more than
an infant in swaddling-clothes. The pain is extreme, as I can truly say
from experience, having been carried several days in this way, since I
could not stand, chiefly on account of the arrow-wound I had got in the
knee. I never was in such torment in my life, for the pain of the wound
was nothing to that of being bound and pinioned on the back of one of
our savages. I lost patience, and as soon as I could bear my weight I
got out of this prison, or rather out of hell."
At length the dismal march was ended. They reached the spot where their
canoes were hidden, found them untouched, embarked, and recrossed to the
northern shore of Lake Ontario. The Hurons had promised Champlain an
escort to Quebec; but as the chiefs had little power, in peace or war,
beyond that of persuasion, each warrior found good reasons for refusing
to lend his canoe. Champlain, too, had lost prestige. The "man with the
iron breast" had proved not inseparably wedded to victory; and though
the fault was their own, yet not the less was the lustre of their hero
tarnished. There was no alternative. He must winter with the Hurons. The
great war party broke into fragments, each band betaking itself to its
hunting-ground. A chief named Durantal, or Darontal, offered Champlain
the shelter of his lodge, and he was glad to accept it.
Meanwhile, Etienne Brule had found cause to rue the hour when he
undertook his hazardous mission to the Carantonan allies. Three years
passed before Champlain saw him. It was in the summer of 1618, that,
reaching the Saut St. Louis, he there found the interpreter, his hands
and his swarthy face marked with traces of the ordeal he had passed.
Brule then told him his story.
He had gone, as already mentioned, with twelve Indians, to hasten the
march of the allies, who were to join the Hurons before the hostile
town. Crossing Lake Ontario, the party pushed onward with all speed,
avoiding trails, threading the thickest forests and darkest swamps, for
it was the land of the fierce and watchful Iroquois. They were well
advanced on their way when they saw a small party of them crossing a
meadow, set upon them, surprised them, killed four, and took two
prisoners, whom they led to Carantonan,—a palisaded town with a
population of eight hundred warriors, or about four thousand souls. The
dwellings and defences were like those of the Hurons, and the town seems
to have stood on or near the upper waters of the Susquehanna. They were
welcomed with feasts, dances, and an uproar of rejoicing. The five
hundred warriors prepared to depart; but, engrossed by the general
festivity, they prepared so slowly, that, though the hostile town was
but three days distant, they found on reaching it that the besiegers
were gone. Brule now returned with them to Carantonan, and, with
enterprise worthy of his commander, spent the winter in a tour of
exploration. Descending a river, evidently the Susquehanna, he followed
it to its junction with the sea, through territories of populous tribes,
at war the one with the other. When, in the spring, he returned to
Carantonan, five or six of the Indians offered to guide him towards his
countrymen. Less fortunate than before, he encountered on the way a band
of Iroquois, who, rushing upon the party, scattered them through the
woods. Brule ran like the rest. The cries of pursuers and pursued died
away in the distance. The forest was silent around him. He was lost in
the shady labyrinth. For three or four days he wandered, helpless and
famished, till at length he found an Indian foot-path, and, choosing
between starvation and the Iroquois, desperately followed it to throw
himself on their mercy. He soon saw three Indians in the distance, laden
with fish newly caught, and called to them in the Huron tongue, which
was radically similar to that of the Iroquois. They stood amazed, then
turned to fly; but Brule, gaunt with famine, flung down his weapons in
token of friendship. They now drew near, listened to the story of his
distress, lighted their pipes, and smoked with him; then guided him to
their village, and gave him food.
A crowd gathered about him. "Whence do you come? Are you not one of the
Frenchmen, the men of iron, who make war on us?"
Brule answered that he was of a nation better than the French, and fast
friends of the Iroquois.
His incredulous captors tied him to a tree, tore out his beard by
handfuls, and burned him with fire-brands, while their chief vainly
interposed in his behalf. He was a good Catholic, and wore an Agnus Dei
at his breast. One of his torturers asked what it was, and thrust out
his hand to take it.
"If you touch it," exclaimed Brule, "you and all your race will die."
The Indian persisted. The day was hot, and one of those thunder-gusts
which often succeed the fierce heats of an American midsummer was rising
against the sky. Brule pointed to the inky clouds as tokens of the anger
of his God. The storm broke, and, as the celestial artillery boomed over
their darkening forests, the Iroquois were stricken with a superstitious
terror. They all fled from the spot, leaving their victim still bound
fast, until the chief who had endeavored to protect him returned, cut
the cords, led him to his lodge, and dressed his wounds. Thenceforth
there was neither dance nor feast to which Brule was not invited; and
when he wished to return to his countrymen, a party of Iroquois guided
him four days on his way. He reached the friendly Hurons in safety, and
joined them on their yearly descent to meet the French traders at
Montreal.
Brule's adventures find in some points their counterpart in those of his
commander on the winter hunting-grounds of his Huron allies. As we turn
the ancient, worm-eaten page which preserves the simple record of his
fortunes, a wild and dreary scene rises before the mind,—a chill
November air, a murky sky, a cold lake, bare and shivering forests, the
earth strewn with crisp brown leaves, and, by the water-side, the bark
sheds and smoking camp-fires of a band of Indian hunters. Champlain was
of the party. There was ample occupation for his gun, for the morning
was vocal with the clamor of wild-fowl, and his evening meal was
enlivened by the rueful music of the wolves. It was a lake north or
northwest of the site of Kingston. On the borders of a neighboring
river, twenty-five of the Indians had been busied ten days in preparing
for their annual deer-hunt. They planted posts interlaced with boughs in
two straight converging lines, each extending mere than half a mile
through forests and swamps. At the angle where they met was made a
strong enclosure like a pound. At dawn of day the hunters spread
themselves through the woods, and advanced with shouts, clattering of
sticks, and howlings like those of wolves, driving the deer before them
into the enclosure, where others lay in wait to despatch them with
arrows and spears.
Champlain was in the woods with the rest, when he saw a bird whose novel
appearance excited his attention; and, gun in hand, he went in pursuit.
The bird, flitting from tree to tree, lured him deeper and deeper into
the forest; then took wing and vanished. The disappointed sportsman
tried to retrace his steps. But the day was clouded, and he had left his
pocket-compass at the camp. The forest closed around him, trees mingled
with trees in endless confusion. Bewildered and lost, he wandered all
day, and at night slept fasting at the foot of a tree. Awaking, he
wandered on till afternoon, when he reached a pond slumbering in the
shadow of the woods. There were water-fowl along its brink, some of
which he shot, and for the first time found food to allay his hunger. He
kindled a fire, cooked his game, and, exhausted, blanketless, drenched
by a cold rain, made his prayer to Heaven, and again lay down to sleep.
Another day of blind and weary wandering succeeded, and another night of
exhaustion. He had found paths in the wilderness, but they were not made
by human feet. Once more roused from his shivering repose, he journeyed
on till he heard the tinkling of a little brook, and bethought him of
following its guidance, in the hope that it might lead him to the river
where the hunters were now encamped. With toilsome steps he followed the
infant stream, now lost beneath the decaying masses of fallen trunks or
the impervious intricacies of matted "windfalls," now stealing through
swampy thickets or gurgling in the shade of rocks, till it entered at
length, not into the river, but into a small lake. Circling around the
brink, he found the point where the brook ran out and resumed its
course. Listening in the dead stillness of the woods, a dull, hoarse
sound rose upon his ear. He went forward, listened again, and could
plainly hear the plunge of waters. There was light in the forest before
him, and, thrusting himself through the entanglement of bushes, he stood
on the edge of a meadow. Wild animals were here of various kinds; some
skulking in the bordering thickets, some browsing on the dry and matted
grass. On his right rolled the river, wide and turbulent, and along its
bank he saw the portage path by which the Indians passed the neighboring
rapids. He gazed about him. The rocky hills seemed familiar to his eye.
A clew was found at last; and, kindling his evening fire, with grateful
heart he broke a long fast on the game he had killed. With the break of
day he descended at his ease along the bank, and soon descried the smoke
of the Indian fires curling in the heavy morning air against the gray
borders of the forest. The joy was great on both sides. The Indians had
searched for him without ceasing; and from that day forth his host,
Durantal, would never let him go into the forest alone.
They were thirty-eight days encamped on this nameless river, and killed
in that time a hundred and twenty deer. Hard frosts were needful to give
them passage over the land of lakes and marshes that lay between them
and the Huron towns. Therefore they lay waiting till the fourth of
December; when the frost came, bridged the lakes and streams, and made
the oozy marsh as firm as granite. Snow followed, powdering the broad
wastes with dreary white. Then they broke up their camp, packed their
game on sledges or on their shoulders, tied on their snowshoes, and
began their march. Champlain could scarcely endure his load, though some
of the Indians carried a weight fivefold greater. At night, they heard
the cleaving ice uttering its strange groans of torment, and on the
morrow there came a thaw. For four days they waded through slush and
water up to their knees; then came the shivering northwest wind, and all
was hard again. In nineteen days they reached the town of Cahiague, and,
lounging around their smoky lodge-fires, the hunters forgot the
hardships of the past.
For Champlain there was no rest. A double motive urged him,—discovery,
and the strengthening of his colony by widening its circle of trade.
First, he repaired to Carhagouha; and here he found the friar, in his
hermitage, still praying, preaching, making catechisms, and struggling
with the manifold difficulties of the Huron tongue. After spending
several weeks together, they began their journeyings, and in three days
reached the chief village of the Nation of Tobacco, a powerful tribe
akin to the Hurons, and soon to be incorporated with them. The
travellers visited seven of their towns, and then passed westward to
those of the people whom Champlain calls the Cheveax Releves, and whom
he commends for neatness and ingenuity no less than he condemns them for
the nullity of their summer attire. As the strangers passed from town to
town, their arrival was everywhere the signal of festivity. Champlain
exchanged pledges of amity with his hosts, and urged them to come down
with the Hurons to the yearly trade at Montreal.
Spring was now advancing, and, anxious for his colony, he turned
homeward, following that long circuit of Lake Huron and the Ottawa which
Iroquois hostility made the only practicable route. Scarcely had he
reached the Nipissings, and gained from them a pledge to guide him to
that delusive northern sea which never ceased to possess his thoughts,
when evil news called him back in haste to the Huron towns. A band of
those Algonquins who dwelt on the great island in the Ottawa had spent
the winter encamped near Cahiague, whose inhabitants made them a present
of an Iroquois prisoner, with the friendly intention that they should
enjoy the pleasure of torturing him. The Algonquins, on the contrary,
fed, clothed, and adopted him. On this, the donors, in a rage, sent a
warrior to kill the Iroquois. He stabbed him, accordingly, in the midst
of the Algonquin chiefs, who in requital killed the murderer. Here was a
casus belli involving most serious issues for the French, since the
Algonquins, by their position on the Ottawa, could cut off the Hurons
and all their allies from coming down to trade. Already a fight had
taken place at Cahiague the principal Algonquin chief had been wounded,
and his band forced to purchase safety by a heavy tribute of
wampum[FN#33] and a gift of two female prisoners.
All eyes turned to Champlain as umpire of the quarrel. The great
council-house was filled with Huron and Algonquin cltiefs, smoking with
that immobility of feature beneath which their race often hide a more
than tiger-like ferocity. The umpire addressed the assembly, enlarged on
the folly of falling to blows between themselves when the common enemy
stood ready to devour them both, extolled the advantages of the French
trade and alliance, and, with zeal not wholly disinterested, urged them
to shake hands like brothers. The friendly counsel was accepted, the
pipe of peace was smoked, the storm dispelled, and the commerce of New
France rescued from a serious peril.
Once more Champlain turned homeward, and with him went his Huron host,
Durantal. Le Caron had preceded him; and, on the eleventh of July, the
fellow-travellers met again in the infant capital of Canada. The Indians
had reported that Champlain was dead, and he was welcomed as one risen
from the grave. The friars, who were all here, chanted lands in their
chapel, with a solemn mass and thanksgiving. To the two travelers, fresh
from the hardships of the wilderness, the hospitable board of Quebec,
the kindly society of countrymen and friends, the adjacent gardens,—
always to Champlain an object of especial interest,—seemed like the
comforts and repose of home.
The chief Durantal found entertainment worthy of his high estate. The
fort, the ship, the armor, the plumes, the cannon, the marvellous
architecture of the houses and barracks, the splendors of the chapel,
and above all the good cheer outran the boldest excursion of his fancy;
and he paddled back at last to his lodge in the woods, bewildered with
astonishment and admiration.
<< 23: Part 2: Chapter XIII || 25: Part 2: Chapter XV >>
