{Transcriber's Note: Quotation marks have been standardized to modern usage. Footnotes have been placed to immediately follow the paragraphs referencing them. Transcriber's notes are in curly braces; square brackets and parentheses indicate original content.}

LIVES of FAMOUS
INDIAN CHIEFS

FROM COFACHIQUI, THE INDIAN PRINCESS, AND
POWHATAN; DOWN TO AND INCLUDING
CHIEF JOSEPH AND GERONIMO.

Also an answer, from the
latest research, of the query,

WHENCE CAME THE INDIAN?

Together with a number
of thrillingly interesting

INDIAN STORIES AND ANECDOTES FROM HISTORY

COPIOUSLY AND SPLENDIDLY ILLUSTRATED, IN PART,
BY OUR SPECIAL ARTIST.

By

NORMAN B. WOOD

Historian, Lecturer, and Author of "The White Side of a Black Subject" (out
of print after twelve editions) and "A New Negro for a New Century,"
which has reached a circulation of nearly a hundred thousand copies.

PUBLISHED BY

AMERICAN INDIAN HISTORICAL PUBLISHING COMPANY

Brady Block, Aurora, Ill.

Copyrighted in 1906 by American Indian Historical Publishing Co.,
Aurora, Illinois.

All rights of every kind reserved.

PRINTING AND BINDING BY THE HENRY O. SHEPARD CO.
ENGRAVING BY THE INLAND-WALTON CO.
CHICAGO.

TO

THEODORE ROOSEVELT,

PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES,

Who has observed closely and recorded justly the character of the Red Man, and who, in the words of Chief Quanah Parker, "is the Indian's President as well as the white man's," this volume is respectfully dedicated by

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

[INTRODUCTION.]

We do not propose to apologize for writing this book, for the reasons that those who approve would not consider it necessary and those who oppose would not accept the apology. Therefore, we can only offer the same explanation as that made twenty-four centuries ago by the "Father of History" when he said: "To rescue from oblivion the noble deeds of those who have gone before, I, Herodotus of Halicarnassus, write this chronicle."

We deem it well, however, to mention a few of the many reasons which impelled us to attempt the somewhat laborious but congenial task of preparing this work.

First of all, we were gratified and inspired by the kind reception accorded our first literary venture, "The White Side of a Black Subject," which is now out of print after reaching twelve editions. Added to this was the still more generous treatment of our second production, "A New Negro for a New Century." Nearly a hundred thousand copies of this book have been sold up to date, and the demand is still increasing.

Having done what we could to vindicate the Afro-American, we next began to consider the First American, when by chance a copy of Thatcher's "Indian Biography" fell into our hands. We read this book with much interest, and were impressed with two facts. First of all, we noticed that while the author gave the lives of a few chiefs well known to this generation, he filled the book up with village or sub chiefs, of whom even historians of this age never heard. Then, too, the book in question was seventy-four years old.

Thatcher's biography tended to create an appetite for that kind of literature, and we inquired for other lives of noted Indians, but, strange to say, could only hear of one other book devoted to that subject. This was a small volume written by S. G. Goodrich, sixty-two years ago, and he gave only short sketches of perhaps half a dozen Indians of the United States, but the greater portion of the contents was devoted to the Indians of Peru and Mexico.

We now concluded that if there were only two books giving the lives of famous Indians, and both of these published so many years ago, there was certainly room for another book on the subject, which should be confined to the Indian tribes of the United States and cover their entire history from Powhatan to the present time.

We trust we will not be misunderstood. We know that many Indian books have been written since the date of those mentioned, but they were on "The Indian Wars," "The Pioneer and the Indian," "The Winning of the West," "The Manners and Customs of the Indian," "Folklore Tradition and Legend," and many other phases of the question. We know that Pontiac, Brant, Red Jacket, Tecumseh, Shabbona, Black Hawk, Sitting Bull, and perhaps others, have had their lives written, but in each of these cases an entire book is devoted to one Indian and his war. Our claim is that we have written the only book giving in a condensed form the lives of practically all the most famous Indian chiefs from the Colonial period to the present time.

Lest it be thought that we have an exaggerated idea of our people's interest in the Indian, we will digress long enough to prove the statement to our own satisfaction, and we trust also to that of the reader.

Mrs. Sigourney has well said with reference to this point

"Ye say they all have passed away, That noble race and brave, That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave That 'mid the forests where they roamed There rings no hunter's shout, But their name is on your waters Ye may not wash it out. "Ye say their cone like cabins That clustered o'er the vale Have fled away like withered leaves Before the autumn gale. But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore; Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore."

We have ventured to add a third verse

Ye say no lover wooes his maid, No warrior leads his band. All in forgotten graves are laid, E'en great chiefs of the clan; That where their council fires were lit The shepherd tends his flock. But their names are on your mountains And survive the earthquake shock.

The mark of our contact with the Indian is upon us indelibly and forever. He has not only impressed himself upon our geography, but on our character, language and literature.

Bancroft, our greatest historian, is not quite right when he says, "The memorials of their former existence are found only in the names of the rivers and mountains." These memorials have not only permeated our poetry and other literature, but they are perpetuated in much of the food we eat, and every mention of potatoes, chocolate, cocoa, mush, green corn, succotash, hominy and the festive turkey is a tribute to the red man, while the fragrance of the tobacco or Indian weed we smoke is incense to their memory.

On one occasion, according to Aesop, a man and a lion got into an argument as to which of the two was the stronger, and thus contending they walked together until they came to a statue representing a man choking and subduing a lion. "There," exclaimed the man, "that proves my point, and demonstrates that a man is stronger than a lion." To which the king of beasts replied, "When the lions get to be sculptors, they will have the lion choking and overcoming the man."

The Indians are neither sculptors, painters nor historians.

The only record we have of many of their noblest chiefs, greatest deeds, hardest fought battles, or sublimest flights of eloquence, are the poor, fragmentary accounts recorded and handed down by their implacable enemies, the all-conquering whites.

It is hard indeed for one enemy to do another justice. The man with whom you are engaged in a death struggle is not the man to write your history; but such has been the historian of the Indian. His destroyer has covered him up in an unmarked grave, and then written the story of his life.

Can any one believe that the Spaniards, cruel, hard-hearted and remorseless as the grave, who swept whole nations from the earth, sparing neither men, women nor children, could or would write a true story of their silent victims?

Is it not reasonable to believe that had Philip, Pontiac, Cornstalk, Tecumseh, Black Hawk or Chief Joseph been able to fling their burning thoughts upon the historic page, it would have been very different from the published account?

We believe that God will yet raise up an Indian of intellectual force and fire enough to write a defense of his race to ring through the ages and secure a just verdict from generations yet unborn.

In the preparation of this work we have honestly tried to do the subject justice, and have endeavored to put ourself in the Indian's place, as much as it is possible for a white man to do.

We have prosecuted the self-imposed task with enthusiasm and interest from its inception to its completion. We fully agree with Bishop Whipple when he said: "Our Indian wars were most of them needless and wicked. The North American Indian is the noblest type of a heathen man on the earth. He recognizes a Great Spirit; he believes in immortality; he has a quick intellect; he is a clear thinker; he is brave and fearless, and until betrayed, he is true to his plighted faith; he has a passionate love for his children, and counts it joy to die for his people. Our most terrible wars have been with the noblest types of the Indians, and with men who had been the white man's friend. Nicolet said the Sioux were the finest type of wild men he had ever seen. Old traders say it used to be the boast of the Sioux that they had never taken the life of a white man. Lewis and Clark, Governor Stevens and Colonel Steptoe bore testimony to the devoted friendship of the Nez Percé for the white man."

One evidence that our Indian wars were unnecessary is seen in the fact that while our country has been constantly involved in them, Canada has not had any; although our Government has spent for the Indians a hundred dollars to their one.

They recognize, as we do, that the Indian has a possessory right to the soil. They purchase this right, as we do, by treaty but their treaties are made with the Indian subjects of His Majesty, the King, while our Government has enacted the farce of making treaties with Indian tribes or their representatives, as if they were sovereign nations. Those tribes of blanket Indians, roaming the wilderness and prairie, living by hunting, trapping, fishing or plundering, without a code of laws to practice, or a government to maintain, are not nations, and nothing in their history or condition could properly invest them with a treaty-making power.

There are other lessons we can learn from Canada concerning the Indian question. They set apart a permanent reservation for them; they seldom move them, while our Government has continually moved whole tribes at the demand of greedy white men who were determined to have the Indian's land by fair means or foul, generally the latter. Moreover, the Canadian government selects agents of high character, who receive their appointments for life; they make fewer promises, but they fulfil them; they give the Indians Christian missions, which have the hearty support of Christian people and all their efforts are toward self help and civilization.

In 1862 Bishop Whipple visited Washington, and had a long talk with President Lincoln. Said he: "I found the President a willing listener. As I repeated the story of specific acts of dishonesty (on the part of Indian agents of that period) the President said: 'Did you ever hear of the Southern man who bought monkeys to pick cotton? they were quick; their long, slim fingers would pull out the cotton faster than Negroes; but he found it took two overseers to watch one monkey. This Indian business needs ten honest men to watch one Indian agent.'" In speaking of this interview with the Bishop, Lincoln afterwards said to a friend "As I listened to Bishop Whipple's story of robbery and shame, I felt it to my boots;" and, rising to his full height, he added: "If I live this accursed system shall be reformed." But unfortunately he did not live to carry out his plans. However, we are glad to note an improvement in the condition of our Indians, of recent years, which shows that the public conscience has at last been aroused, and one object of this book is to further that good work.

Another object is to disprove the oft-quoted saying of General Sherman that "the only good Indian is a dead one." {FN} We have written the biographies of twenty or more famous chiefs, any one of whom was a good Indian, or would have been had he received kind treatment from the whites, who were almost invariably the aggressors. It makes one's soul sick to read of the white men selling the Indian "firewater," to brutalize and destroy; of violated treaties; of outrageous treatment which aroused the worst passions of the Indian's nature.

{FN} General Sherman used this phrase at a banquet at Delmonico's, New York, in the winter of 1879.

In selecting the subjects for our biographical sketches, we were confronted with an embarrassment of riches. And while there are none in the book which could well have been omitted, yet there are many outside richly deserving a place in it. There are so many famous chiefs, we found it impossible to give them all a place in one volume. So we tried to select those who, in our judgment, were the greatest, those who for special reasons could not be omitted, and those whom we thought would make the most interesting sketches.

We may say in this connection, that we refrained from writing the biographies of mixed breeds, such as Osceola Powell, Weatherford or Red Eagle, simply because we knew, from our experience with other books, that people would be prone to say that their greatness was due to the infusion of the blood of the superior white race. As far as we know, all of our subjects treated at length were full-blooded Indians, except Sequoyah and Quanah Parker, and most of them, as we shall see, were nature's noblemen.

We have enjoyed peculiar facilities for prosecuting our studies on Indian biography and history, having free access to the four great libraries of Chicago.

For the benefit of others interested in the same subject, we will mention a few of the many books we found helpful, in the preparation of this work, besides the two already named.

At the head of the list we place Roosevelt's "Winning of the West," Parkman's "Conspiracy of Pontiac," Mason's "Pioneer History," Ellis's "Indian Wars of the United States." In our judgment these are about the strongest books we have read on the subject, especially in relation to the Indian, the pioneer, and the border wars.

In the next group we place Dunn's "Massacres of the Mountains," Finerty's "War-path and Bivouac," Helen Hunt Jackson's "Century of Dishonor," and Eggleston's "Biographies of Brant, Red Jacket, Tecumseh," etc.

In addition to our library work, we spent much time traveling among the Indian tribes and making the acquaintance of many of the most famous living chiefs, and cultivating their friendship, so we record many of the incidents in the book as an eye-witness.

We referred to the Indian in this introduction as a so-called "vanishing race." As a matter of fact the Indian is not vanishing at all but slowly increasing in numbers. The census of 1890 gave the number of Indians in the United States as 248,258, while that of 1900 gave the total as 270,544, a net gain of 22,291 in ten years.

Another erroneous conception many people have of the Indian we can only call attention to here. They somehow have come to believe that the Red Man is very dignified and solemn, has no appreciation of the ludicrous, or conception of a joke. Never was a greater mistake. No one enjoys what he considers a good joke more than an Indian. You will find some evidence that he can be as funny as his white brother, in the chapter on "Indian Anecdotes."

We determined to have the illustrations one of the very best features of the book, fully in keeping with the subject matter; and, wherever possible, absolutely authentic. For this reason alone, the publication has been held back several months, the publishers sparing neither pains nor expense in procuring pictures from photographers and collectors, who made a specialty of the Indian, such as D. F. Barry, Drake, the Field Museum, the Newberry Library and the Ethnological Bureau at Washington; some of the latter being copies of paintings made before photography was known. We also procured photographs of several rare paintings never published in any book before.

Should the book prove instructive in demonstrating that there is a brighter, better side to Indian life and character than is usually seen, the author will feel that he has not written in vain, and he will be gratified if, in addition to this, it also gives pleasure.

[CHAPTER I.]

Cofachiqui, the Indian Princess.
A True Story of De Soto and His Cavaliers.

Cofachiqui seems to have been the name of a populous and wealthy Indian province visited by Hernando De Soto and his army of adventurers and cavaliers in their wanderings in search of gold. They also applied this name to the beautiful and intelligent young queen or princess who ruled the Indians of this and a confederation of neighboring tribes.

It is impossible to trace the route traversed by De Soto, as it was at times an aimless wandering through what is now the States of Florida, Georgia, and, perhaps, the border of South Carolina. But Indian traditions locate Yupaha, the capital of the province of Cofachiqui, at what is now Silver Bluff, on the east bank of the Savannah river, in Barnwell county, South Carolina. From time to time rumor reached De Soto and his men of this great princess, a veritable "She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed," whose subjects were so devoted and faithful that her slightest wish was law.

One day an Indian youth, who had been brought into camp with other prisoners, told the Spaniards that all the neighboring chiefs paid tribute to this great ruler, and sent her at stated intervals provision, fine clothing and gold. The cavaliers cared nothing for the provision and clothing, but they were all interest when gold was mentioned, and asked the youth many questions, through their interpreter, which he answered in full. He told how the gold was taken from the earth, how it was melted and refined. His description was so exact that the Spaniards had no longer any doubt. They were greatly elated at the news, and after robbing and plundering the Indians who had fed and sheltered them during the winter months—the usual return for such kindness—they broke camp and marched northward. Many times during the march the Spaniards were on the verge of starvation and wandering aimlessly in the wilderness, where they must have perished, had they not been rescued and fed by the simple-minded, hospitable natives. Even those from whom they received such timely aid were often robbed and murdered indiscriminately. No doubt the Indians regarded them as demons rather than Christians, for the unprovoked savage ferocity of the Spaniards would be beyond belief if the sickening details were not piously set forth by the historian of the expedition.

On the 28th day of April, 1540, De Soto and his Spaniards reached the neighborhood of Cofachiqui. While the army camped for the night the enterprising Juan De Añasco with a band of thirty foot-soldiers went out to reconnoiter. They soon found a broad, well-worn path leading along the banks of a large river, probably the Savannah. They followed this path about two leagues when, just as it grew dark, they reached a landing opposite a large Indian town. There was no means of crossing the river, neither would it have been prudent to have crossed with such small numbers, not knowing the kind of reception to expect, or the force they might encounter.

So Añasco dispatched couriers back in the night to inform De Soto of their discovery. By daylight the vanguard of the army, consisting of one hundred horse and as many foot, was in motion, led by De Soto himself. When he reached the banks of the river, and the natives upon the opposite shore caught sight of his glittering dragoons on their magnificent steeds, they were struck with amazement and consternation.

The interpreter shouted loudly for some one to bear a message to their chief. After some little hesitation and deliberation, the Indians launched a large canoe, in which six warriors took seats. They were men of fine appearance and probably the counselors of the chief. Quite a number of lusty men grasped the oars, and the canoe was driven rapidly through the water. De Soto, who had watched these movements with interest, knew he was about to be visited by the head men of the town, He therefore ordered his showy throne or chair of state, which he had with him for such occasions, to be placed in position. Here he took his seat with his officers around. The distinguished natives landed without any apparent fear, and, advancing toward the Spaniards, all six of them at the same time made three profound bows, the first toward the east, to the sun, the second toward the west, to the moon, and the third to De Soto. "Sir," said their spokesman, "do you wish peace or war?" "Peace," answered the Spanish general, as usual, "not war"; adding that he only asked passage through the territory and provision, in order to reach other provinces, which were his destination; he desired rafts and canoes also to cross the army over the river, and lastly friendly treatment while he was marching through the country so that he might cause it the least damage possible.

Peace, the ambassadors said they could promise; as for food, they had themselves but little, because during the past year a pestilence had swept off many of their people and driven others from their villages into the woods, so that they had not planted their fields; and although the pestilence was now over, yet many of the Indians had not returned to their homes. The settlement opposite alone had escaped the scourge. They went on to explain that their chief was a woman—a young princess, but recently raised to the position. They would return and bear to her the request of the strangers, who in the meantime must await her answer with good confidence, however, for although their ruler was a maiden, she had the judgment and spirit of a man, and they doubted not would do for the Spaniards all she possibly could. With this the six envoys returned to their boats, and crossing the river were soon lost to sight in the waiting crowd upon the other shore. After a short interval the Spaniards saw a decided commotion among the Indians. A large and highly decorated canoe appeared and was hastily made ready, mats and cushions were placed in it and a canopy raised over one end. Then quite a gorgeous palanquin was seen borne by four stalwart men, descending toward the stream a young squaw, evidently the princess descended from it, and seated herself in the canoe that had the awning.

Eight Indian women followed, taking the paddles; the men went in the other canoes. The women rowed the princess across the river, and when she stepped out of her barge they followed, walking up the bank after her. If there were any among the cavaliers who knew classical history they must have been reminded (although the scene was rustic and simple in comparison) of Cleopatra going up the river Cydnus to meet Mark Antony, when according to Shakespeare,

"The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water. . . . . . . For her own person, It beggar'd all description: she did lie In her pavilion. . . . Her gentlewomen, like the Nereids, So many mermaids, tended her . . . . . . At the helm A seeming mermaid steers."

The princess, making a low and graceful bow before the Spanish general, seated herself upon the throne, which he brought and placed for her at his side, and without waiting an instant began to speak. She repeated what her warriors had said; that the pestilence of the past year made it impossible for her to furnish the amount of provision she would wish, but that she would do all in her power. And that De Soto might see her will in her deed, she gave him at once one of her two storehouses of corn, collected in her village for the relief of her people who had escaped from the pestilence; the other one she requested De Soto to kindly spare, for her own necessities were great.

She said she had another store of corn in a neighboring village, part of which he could take if necessary. She offered half of her own residence for De Soto's accommodation, and half of the houses in the village as barracks for his soldiers. If it would please him more, she and all her people would abandon the village and retire to a neighboring one. She also promised that by the next day rafts and canoes should be in readiness to transport the Spaniards across the river.

Abbott informs us that "The generous soul of De Soto was deeply touched as he assured her of his lasting friendship and that of his sovereign." But there is not the slightest evidence that De Soto was ever actuated by a generous motive. We are inclined to believe, with Joel Chandler Harris, that the truth seems to be that De Soto and his men cared nothing for the courtesy and hospitality of the Queen and that they were not moved by her beauty and kindness.

According to the historian of the expedition, the Spaniards had quite a conversation with the young princess and were astonished at her sound judgment and well ordered ideas. But they also noticed that the Indians of this tribe were more refined and intelligent in appearance, more affable and less warlike, than the others they had met in their explorations. They were, moreover, quite graceful and attractive, and almost as white as the Spaniards.

While talking the princess had quietly and slowly unwound a long string of pearls, as large as hazelnuts, that coiled three times around her neck and fell to her waist. When the interview was over she handed the string of pearls to Juan Ortiz, the interpreter, and told him to give them to the governor. The interpreter told her his commander would appreciate them more if presented with her own hands. She replied that she dare not do that for fear of being considered immodest. De Soto now inquired of the interpreter what was said, and being informed, answered with much earnestness like a truly gallant cavalier (which he was not) "More than the pearls themselves would I value the favor of receiving them from her hands; and in acting so she would not go against modesty, for we are treating of peace and friendship, of all things the most important, most serious between strange people." Having heard this the princess arose and with her own fair hands suspended the string of costly pearls around the neck of De Soto. The governor then arose and taking from his finger a gold ring set with a handsome ruby that he always wore (which he had probably pillaged from the Peruvians) he gave it to the princess. She received it with great dignity and placed it on one of her fingers.

Grace King, in her book, "De Soto and His Men in Florida," says, in this connection: "This little ceremony over, she took her leave and returned to her village, leaving the Spanish cavaliers charmed and half in love with her, not only on account of her mind, but of her beauty, which they vowed then and ever afterward she possessed to the extreme of perfection. And so also then and afterward they called her by no other name or title than La Sanora, the lady of Cofachiqui; and the name was right, says the chronicler, for a lady she was in all respects." The master of camp arrived with the rest of the army and it was put across the river next day by means of the rafts and canoes provided by the Indians.

De Soto and his cavaliers found themselves surrounded by the most hospitable Indians they had yet seen. They were supplied with everything the land afforded and rested in comfortable houses and wigwams under the shades of the mulberry trees.

The soldiers were so delighted with the situation that they were anxious to form a settlement there; but De Soto refused to forget the only object of the expedition, which was to search for gold and other treasures. The general was a man of few words but an iron will, and his determination had the desired effect. His men soon recovered their energies. While enjoying the hospitalities of the princess they found out the burial place of her people, and robbed their graves, according to the Spanish historian, of three hundred and fifty weight of pearls, and figures of babies and birds made from iridescent shells.

Learning that the widowed mother of the princess lived in retirement about forty miles down the river, and that she was said to be the owner of many fine pearls, De Soto determined to get her in his power. He pretended, however, to be actuated only by a desire to make sure of peace and tranquillity as long as he was in the country.

At his request Cofachiqui dispatched twelve of her principal officers inviting her mother to come to town and meet a people never before seen by the Indians and see the wonderful animals on which they rode. The Queen's mother, instead of complying, sent her daughter a severe reprimand for having admitted into her capitol a body of strangers of whom she knew nothing. All this being reported to De Soto made him more determined than ever to get her in his power. Accordingly he ordered Juan De Añasco to take thirty soldiers, and disregarding the privacy and seclusion of the queen mother to bring her kindly but with force with him to the camp. Añasco, although the day was well advanced, set out at once on his mission. A young warrior about the age of the princess was appointed by her to be guide for the party. The princess also gave him special instructions that when the men neared the dwelling place of the queen mother, he was to go in advance and warn her of the Spaniards coming, and supplicate her to go peaceably and as a friend with them, and he was to be sure and say that her daughter and all her people made the same petition to her. The young warrior had been reared in the very arms of the queen mother, and she loved him as her own son, and the princess chose him for this very reason, hoping that love for the messenger would mitigate the pain inflicted by this message. The young warrior matched his princess chief in looks and learning and was strikingly attractive in face and figure. He wore a diadem of rarest feathers, a mantle of finest and softest deerskin. At his back was a magnificent bow just his own height and an elegant quiver of arrows.

About midday the party stopped to eat and to rest a while under the shade of a grove of trees, for it was quite warm. Sitting apart the guide seemed to give himself up to thought, resting his head on his hand and every now and then breathing a low sigh. Presently he took his quiver of arrows and placing it before him on the ground, began slowly to draw them out one by one and passed them to the Spaniards, who broke into exclamations of surprise and pleasure, for each one was different from the other and had a beauty and novelty of its own. In polish and workmanship they were indeed remarkable. Some were tipped with staghorn, others with fishbones wonderfully and cunningly adapted. At last the young warrior drew out a flint head, pointed and edged like a dagger. Casting an anxious glance around and seeing the attention of the Spaniards engrossed in examining his weapons, he plunged the sharp-pointed arrow into his throat, severing an artery, and fell. Before the Spaniards could rush to him he was dead. There were several Indian attendants in the company who seemed overwhelmed with distress, uttering loud cries of grief over the corpse. These were now questioned by the Spaniards, and it was learned that the young guide knew that the queen mother was very unwilling to have any acquaintance with the Spaniards, because she had emphatically refused to meet them when first importuned; and now for him to guide those same Spaniards to her that they might compel her to come by fair means or foul, would make him appear as a miserable ingrate after her great kindness. On the other hand the princess, whom he revered and loved, had commissioned him to conduct the Spaniards to her mother's abode. He did not dare to disobey her commands. Either alternative was more to be dreaded by him than death. The ingenious young man had therefore endeavored to escape the dilemma by self-destruction.

Savage history offers not, perhaps, another instance of such refined and romantic devotion. He could not live to please both, so he determined to die for both.

The other Indians were now pressed to act as guides, but they all swore, truly or falsely, that they did not know where the queen mother lived; that the young warrior alone knew the secret of her hiding place. The cavaliers pushed on as best they could without a guide, but the bad walking, the excessive heat and the weight of their armor wearied and disgusted them, and after two days they returned empty-handed to the camp.

Two days after his return an Indian came to Añasco and offered to conduct him down the river in a canoe to the home of the queen mother. He gladly accepted the proposition. Two large canoes with strong rowers were quickly made ready, and Añasco with twenty companions set out on this second expedition. But it was also doomed to failure. The queen mother heard of his approach and with a few attendants secretly fled to another retreat far away. After a fruitless search of six days, the canoes returned. De Soto never again attempted to get possession of the widow.

In the meantime, while Añasco was engaged in these unsuccessful expeditions, De Soto had been making anxious inquiries respecting the silver and gold he had been informed was to be found in the province. He began by summoning the princess before him and his officers and commanding her to bring all the yellow and white metals and pearls she possessed, like the finger rings and pieces of silver and pearls and stones set in the rings that the Spaniards showed her. The princess replied that both the white and yellow metals were to be found in great abundance in her territory. She immediately sent out Indians to bring him in specimens. They quickly returned laden with a yellow metal somewhat resembling gold in color, but which proved to be copper. The shining substance which he had supposed was silver was nothing but a worthless species of mica or quartz. The sight of these articles dissipated, in an instant, all the bright and chimerical hopes which had prompted the Spaniards to undertake this long and perilous expedition.

It would seem that the warm-hearted princess sympathized with the Spaniards in their great disappointment, or she may have feared they would vent their rage on her hapless people; certain it is, she informed them that while there were no precious stones in her realm, they did have great abundance of pearls. Pointing with her fingers to a temple that stood upon a neighboring mound, she said: "That is the burial place of the warriors of this village, there you will find our pearls. Take what you wish; and if you wish more not far from here there is a village which was the home of my forefather; its temple is far larger than this, you will find there so many pearls that even if you loaded all your horses with them and yourselves with as much as you could carry, you would not come to the end of them. Many years have my people been collecting and storing pearls. Take all, and if you still want more, we can get more, and even more still for you from the fishing places of my people."

This great news and the magnificently queenly manner in which it was told soon raised the drooping spirits of the Spaniards and consoled them for the bitter disappointments about the gold and silver.

The fact of her inviting the Spaniards to ransack the tombs of her forefathers for pearls, seems, as Goodrich says, "utterly inconsistent with all our notions of the reverence for ancestry which is so striking a characteristic of the Indians. We should have a strong doubt of the truth of the statement, were it not distinctly asserted in both the narratives of the expedition." To our mind there is only one of two explanations of it—either the two historians deliberately falsified their statements to cover up the impious sacrilege of De Soto and his cavaliers, or else the princess was intimidated until she pursued the peace-at-any-price policy, even to the profanation of her ancestors' tombs.

The Spaniards soon visited the temple which the princess had pointed out and took from it pearls amounting to fourteen bushels, according to one author, while others record a very much larger amount.

Two days later De Soto, with a large retinue of his own officers and of the household of the princess, started out to visit the large temple at Talomeco, as it was called, situated upon the high bank of the river about three miles distant.

The country through which they passed en route was very fertile and in places covered with fruit trees filled with ripe fruit which the Spaniards picked and ate with relish, while they congratulated themselves that the golden dawn of a realization of their dreams was brightening before them.

They found this village contained about five hundred cabins, all substantially built, and from its superiority of size and appearance over other villages they inferred it had one day been the seat and residence of several powerful chiefs. The chief's residence on a mound rose larger and more conspicuous than the others, but it was in turn dominated by the temple. The Spaniards' eyes, in fact, could see nothing but the temple as it loomed up before them on a commanding eminence at the side of this deserted village. As it was by far the largest and most imposing edifice they saw in their journey through the Southland it merits a description. It was about three hundred feet in length by one hundred and twenty in breadth, with a tall pointed roof that glittered like an enchanted palace. Canes, slender and supple, woven into a fine mat, served for thatching, and this was studded with row upon row of all kinds and sizes of shells with the bright side out. There were great sea shells of curious shapes, conchs and periwinkles—a marvel of playing light and color.

Grace King has given such a full description of the interior of this temple that she must have received her information from the records of the historians of the expedition. Said she, "Throwing open the two large doors the Spaniards paused at the threshold spellbound. Twelve gigantic statues of wood confronted them, counterfeiting life with such ferocity of expression and such audacity of posture as could not but awe them. Six stood on one side and six on the other side of the door as if to guard it and to forbid any one to enter. The first ones, those next the door, were giants about twelve feet high, the others diminished in size by regular gradation. Each pair held a different kind of weapon and stood in attitude to use it. The first and largest raised in both hands great clubs, ornamented a quarter of their length with points and facets of copper; the second brandished broadswords of wood shaped much like the steel swords of the Spaniards. The next wielded wooden staves about six feet long, the end flattened out into a blade or paddle. The fourth pair had tomahawks with blades of brass or flint; the fifth held bows with arrows aimed and strung, drawn ready to shoot; the sixth and last statues grasped pikes pointed with copper.

"Passing between the file of monsters the Spaniards entered the great room. Overhead were rows of lustrous shells such as covered the roof, and strands of pearls interspersed with strings of bright feathers, all seemed to be floating in the air in wildering tapestry. Looking lower the Spaniards saw that along the upper sides of the four walls ran two rows of statues, figures of men and women of natural size, each placed on a separate pedestal. The men held various weapons and each weapon was ornamented with strings of pearl. The women had nothing in their hands. All the space around these statues was covered with shields of skins and fine cane mats. The burial chests were placed on benches around the four sides of the room, but in the center upon the floor were also rows of caskets, placed one on top of another in regular gradation like pyramids. All the caskets, large and small, were filled with pearls; and the pearls, too, were distributed according to size, the largest in the largest caskets, the smallest, the seed pearls, in the smallest caskets. In all there was such a quantity of pearls that seeing it with their own eyes, the Spaniards confessed that what the princess had told them about the temple was truth and not pride and exaggeration. As she declared, even if they loaded themselves with as much as they could carry (and there were more than nine hundred of them) and loaded their three hundred horses with them, they could not take them all, there would still be hundreds of bushels of them left. And in addition there were great heaps of the largest and handsomest deerskins, dyed in different colors, and skins of other animals dressed with the hair on—cured and dressed as perfectly, the Spaniards said, as could have been done in Germany or Muscovy. Around this great room were eight small rooms all filled with different weapons—pikes, clubs, tomahawks, bows and arrows of all varieties and of the most exquisite workmanship; some with three-pronged heads, like harpoons, some two-pronged; some with chisel edges, like daggers; some shaped like thorns. In the last room were mats of cane, so finely woven that there were few among the Spanish crossbowmen could have put a bolt through them."

The revenue officers now proposed to take from the spoils the royal fifth that belonged to his imperial majesty and to carry it away with them. But De Soto said that this would only embarrass the movements of the army with excessive luggage, that even now it could not carry its necessary munitions and provisions. "They were not dividing the land now," he reminded them, "only exploring it."

Such is the story taken from the historians of the expedition. But, as Joel Chandler Harris says "It is just as well to believe a little of this as to believe a great deal. It was an easy matter for the survivors of the expedition to exaggerate these things and they probably took great liberties with the facts, but there is no doubt the Indians possessed many pearls. Mussels like those from which they took the gems are still to be found in the small streams and creeks of Georgia, and an enterprising boy might even now be able to find a seed pearl if he sought for it patiently."

It is not to be doubted that rich stores of pearls were found. Some were distributed to the officers and men, but the bulk of them, strange to say, were left undisturbed to await the return of the Spaniards another day. It is said that De Soto dipped into the pearls and gave his two joined hands full to each cavalier to make rosaries of, he said to say prayers for their sins on. We imagine if their prayers were in proportion to their sins they must have spent the most of their time at their devotions.

The Spaniards were greatly elated at the discovery of these riches. Some of them must have known that real pearls were estimated at a value next to diamonds, and there were undoubtedly many real pearls of great value in so large a collection, possibly rivaling the one possessed by Philip II. of Spain, which was about the size of a pigeon egg and valued at one hundred and sixty thousand dollars, or that of Cleopatra, which was valued at three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.

De Soto was urged to establish his colony in this country, which was at once beautiful, fertile and rich in treasures. But the persistent spirit of De Soto was not to be turned from its one great all-absorbing object, the search for gold. He was a man of few words but of wonderful will power.

Accordingly he eagerly inquired of the Indians if they knew of any still greater land or chief farther inland. The princess and her advisers had learned by this time that the best way to get rid of such unwilling guests was to answer such questions in the affirmative. They assured him that further on was a greater and more powerful chief ruling over a richer country called Chiaha. He determined at once to march thither. In answer to the objections of those who wished to remain where they were, he urged that in consequence of the recent pestilence there was not sufficient provision in the country to support the army for a month. That by continuing their march they might find gold mines. Should they fail, they could then return, and in the meantime, the Indians having replanted their land, there would be abundance of food. He had his way and preparations were made for the journey.

The conduct of the Spaniards had been so cruel during their stay at Cofachiqui that the princess and her people had come to regard them with fear and hatred. There were some indications that the princess so far distrusted the treacherous and marble-hearted Spaniards, that, like her more prudent mother, she was about to secretly escape from them by flight. In some way De Soto heard of this and appointed a guard who was to keep a constant watch upon the princess, so that she could by no possibility escape. And when he took up his march for Chiaha, May 4, 1540, the princess who had received him with so much grace, dignity and hospitality was compelled to accompany him on foot with an escort of female attendants. Even the old Spanish chronicler is moved to remark that, "it was not so good usage as she deserved for the good will she showed and the good entertainment that she made him."

We fully agree with him, for there are but few instances in all history of baser ingratitude. One reason why De Soto made the princess his prisoner and carried her with the expedition was to use her influence in controlling the Indians along his line of march. In fact, the Indians of Florida, Mexico and Peru were so loyal and devoted to their rulers that they often refrained from attacking the Spaniards, lest they should imperil their lives. It was true in this case that the Indians not only did not attack the invaders while the princess was with them, but at her command they supplied them with guides to conduct them through the wilderness, porters to carry their extra baggage and provision as it was needed along the route through her domain.

But had the Spaniards treated the princess and her people kindly and with justice all this would have been done from motives of hospitality and good will. Kindness begets kindness even among savage races.

De Soto did not accept the spirit of the letter from the noble Isabella, in which she wrote, "I will no longer persevere in this invasion of the lands of others which is always plunging me more and more deeply into difficulties." Instead of this he followed the infamous example which Pizarro, in Peru, and Cortez, in Mexico, had set him. There is nothing whatever to justify his action, as it was alike cruel, dastardly and unnecessary.

After being dragged a prisoner in the Spanish army for two or three weeks and covering a distance of about three hundred miles, she found an opportunity to escape from her treacherous and brutal captors. Passing one day through a thick forest she and her attendants suddenly darted from the train and disappeared. De Soto never saw her or heard from her again, though every effort was made to recapture her, partly because of the casket of splendid pearls which one of her attendants carried off with her. Undoubtedly a band of her warriors were in rendezvous there to receive her.

The historian of Florida, Garcilasode la Vega, terminates his account of this princess by declaring that she possessed a truly noble soul and was worthy of an empire. Shame for his country-men has induced him to suppress all mention of the brutal indignity to which she was subjected by De Soto, and for which, as a Castilian knight, he deserved to have been deprived of his spurs. The Portuguese narrator who accompanied the expedition states the facts too circumstantially to leave us in any doubt about the matter, and the noble and generous Cofachiqui is to be numbered among those who suffered by trusting to the honor and justice of the plunderers of the New World.

Again quoting from Joel Chandler Harris (Uncle Remus), we feel moved to say that "De Soto's expedition was organized by the spirit of greed. It spread desolation wherever it went and it ended in disaster and despair. De Soto himself found a grave in the waters of the Mississippi, and the survivors who made their way back home were broken in health and spirit."

An attempt has been made to throw a halo of romance over the march of the Spaniards through the wilderness of the New World, but there is nothing romantic or inspiring about it. It was simply a search for riches in which hundreds of lives were most cruelly sacrificed and thousands of homes destroyed.

The only permanent good which resulted from it was the discovery of the Father of Waters and this noble, Indian Princess Cofachiqui.

[CHAPTER II.]

POWHATAN, OR WAH-UN-SO-NA-COOK.

When the English colonists first landed in Virginia, in 1607, they found the country occupied by three large tribes of natives known by the general names Mannahoack, Monacans and Powhatans.

Of these the two former might be called highland or mountain Indians, because they occupied the hill country east of the Alleghany ridge, while the Powhatan nation inhabited the lowland region extending from the seacoast westward to the falls of the rivers and from the Patuxent southward to Carolina.

Mr. Jefferson, in his "Notes on Virginia," estimates that the Powhatan confederacy at one time occupied about eight thousand square miles of territory, with a population of about eight thousand people, of whom twenty-four hundred were warriors. When it is remembered that there were thirty tribes in this coalition, and that this estimate is less than one hundred warriors to the tribe, it seems moderate enough, especially since it is recorded by an early writer that three hundred warriors appeared under one Indian chief in one body at one time and seven hundred at another, all of whom were apparently of his own tribe.

Moreover, the Powhatan confederacy inhabited a country upon which nature bestowed her favors with lavish profusion. Their settlements were mostly on the banks of the James, Elizabeth, Nansamond, York and Chickahominy rivers, all of which abounded with fish and fowl. The forest was filled with deer and wild turkey, while the toothsome oyster was found in great abundance on the shores of the Chesapeake and its numerous inlets. Indeed, the whole region seems to have been a veritable paradise for hunter and fisherman. Vast quantities of corn, too, yearly rewarded even the crude agriculture of the Indians, bestowed as it was upon the best portion of a fertile soil.

Captain John Smith, the hero and historian of early Virginia, informs us that at one time "the rivers became so covered with swans, geese, ducks and cranes that we daily feasted with good bread, Virginia pease, pumpions (pumpkins) and putchamins (a wild plum), fish, fowl and diverse sorts of wild beasts so fat as we could eat them." He might have added, "And the barbarous people showed us no little kindness," but at first were ready to divide with them their ample store, for on one occasion when Smith undertook an exploring tour into the interior late in the season a violent storm obliged him and his men to keep Christmas among the savages. "And we were never more merry," he relates, "nor fed on more plenty of good oysters, fish, flesh, wild fowl and good bread, nor ever had better fires in England."

The mention of oysters here is the first account of this palatable bivalve we have found in history. They also graced the first Thanksgiving dinner, as will be seen in another chapter. But it might be asked, why is it, since Virginia was a land of such great abundance of food, we read so much of famine and "the starving time" among the colonists at Jamestown? Simply because the men sent over by King James were for the most part so idle, improvident and utterly worthless that they would have literally starved to death "with stewed pigeons flying into their mouths." Shortly after the settlement at Jamestown Captains Smith and Newport, accompanied by twenty-three others, sailed up the James river to its falls. A few miles below where Richmond now stands, near what is known as Mayo's plantation, they visited an Indian village of a dozen houses called Powhatan. Here they met and were entertained by the leading chief, or werowance, of the Powhatan confederacy, who, strange to say, was also called Powhatan. Indeed, the English understanding but little of the Indian language, and hearing this name often mentioned, and always with awe or reverence, by turns regarded it as the name of a river, of the country, of the people, of a town and of their head sachem.

But little is known of this, the first interview between Captain Smith and company and the great sagamore and his people, but it is recorded that the English were kindly and hospitably received, as they usually were, and feasted on fruit, fish and vegetables, as well as roast deer and cakes.

Bancroft says the savages at first murmured at this intrusion of strangers into the country; but their crafty chief disguised his fear and would only say, "They hurt you not; they take but a little waste land."

But even Powhatan grew suspicious of a cross which Newport insisted on erecting as a sign of English dominion until the latter, probably at the suggestion of Smith, told him the arms represented Powhatan and himself, and the middle their united league. The interview ended by the return of the explorers to Jamestown, but before doing so Newport presented the chief with a hatchet, with which he was much delighted.

The English invested savage life with all the dignity of European courts. Powhatan was styled "king" or "emperor," his wives, of whom he had many, were "queens," his daughter was a "princess" and his principal warriors were "lords of the kingdom."

In his younger days Powhatan had been a great warrior. Hereditarily he was sachem of eight tribes and by his arms he subdued twenty-two others, so that at this time he was the mighty werowance, or sagamore, of thirty of the forty tribes of Virginia. This great chief has been called the Indian Cæsar, and certainly his system of government was strikingly similar to that of the Roman Empire, for the hereditary chiefs or "kings" of the subject tribes were permitted to rule their own people as before the conquest and their local laws and customs were not interfered with on condition of their paying annual tribute to Powhatan of "skinnes, beads, copper, pearle, deere, turkies, wild beasts and corne. What he commandeth they dare not disobey in the least thing." Moreover, as if to make the resemblance more remarkable, his subjects regarded him as half man and half god, just as the Roman people regarded their emperors as demi-gods.

He is described as a "tall, well-proportioned man with a sower looke, his head somewhat gray, his beard so thinne that it seemeth none at all, his age neare sixtie, of a very able and hardy body, to endure any labor." And certainly the extent of his conquests, his unlimited power over his subjects and the pomp which he maintained invested Powhatan with no little courtly though savage dignity.

Besides this village of his own name where he entertained Smith and Newport, Powhatan had a larger town on the York river called We-ro-wo-co-mo-co, a hunting town in the wilderness called Orapax, and others. At each of his hereditary towns there was a house built in the form of a long arbor for his especial reception, and when the great chief made a visit to one of his towns a feast was made ready in advance and spread in the long house. A mile from Orapax, deep in the woods, he had another arbor-like house in which he kept all his treasures, such as furs, copper, pearls and beads, to have them ready for his burial. Though isolated, the contents of this treasure-house were never disturbed, but whether this was due to the terror inspired by the owner or to superstitious reverence is not known. Perhaps it was both.

It is said that Powhatan had twenty sons and eleven daughters living at the time of the Jamestown settlement. We know nothing of his sons except Nantaquans, who is described as "the most manliest, comliest and boldest spirit, ever seen in a savage."

Pocahontas, the favorite daughter of Powhatan, was thought to have been born in 1594, which would make her about thirteen years of age at the time of Captain Smith's trial before her august father. Nothing is known of her mother; she was simply one of Powhatan's numerous wives, and it is within the bounds of possibility that, growing tired of her, the chief had presented her to one of his subjects whom he wished to honor, for such was his custom.

The Indians believed that a knowledge of the real names of persons gave their enemies power to cast spells upon them, so they were frequently known by several names and endeavored to conceal their true ones. They also had a custom of changing the name upon great occasions.

Pocahontas, signifying, it is said, "Bright Stream Between Two Hills," was the household name of Powhatan's "dearest daughter." She had also two other names, Amonate and Matoaka, the last being her "real name." Besides her favorite brother, Nantaquans, we know the names of two sisters, Matachanna and Cleopatre. The real name of Powhatan, it seems, was Wah-un-so-na-cook. This powerful Indian sagamore was at first attended by a bodyguard of forty or fifty tall warriors, which was increased to two hundred after hostilities commenced with the English.

Captain Smith informs us that "every night upon the foure quarters of his house are four sentinels, each from other a slight shoot, and at every halfe houre one from the corps on guard doth hollow, shaking his lips with his finger betweene them, unto whom every sentinel doth answer round from his stand; if any faile, they presently send forth an officer that beateth him extremely." This is the first description we have of the Indian warwhoop still in vogue among certain tribes, and while it was a safeguard to prevent surprise, it must have tended to murder sleep about every half-hour during the watch of the night.

We also read that Powhatan had a fleet, of which he was very proud. It consisted of a large number of the canoes called "dugouts," which are still in use among some tribes of Indians. These boats were made by a very laborious process. Trees of a kind of timber which would float readily were felled by fire and from the trunks a boat was shaped and hollowed out by means of burning and scraping with shells and tomahawks.

The family of Powhatan was numerous and influential. Besides his sons and daughters there were also three brothers younger than himself; and upon them successively (and not his sons) according to their several ages, custom seems to have required that the government should devolve after his own death. The eldest, Opitchipan, accordingly succeeded him, in form at least. But this chief proved to be an inactive and unambitious man, owing in part to the fact that he was well advanced in years. He was soon thrown into the shade by the superior energy and greater talent of Ope-chan-ca-nough, who, before many years, ruled the entire federation acquired by Powhatan. Of the younger brother, Kekataugh, scarcely anything is known. He is thought to have died before an opportunity occurred to show his ability in a public station.

It was Ope-chan-ca-nough, then sachem of the Pamunkies, who captured the indomitable Captain Smith while the latter was engaged in exploring the Chickahominy river.

Having gone as far as they could in a barge, Captain Smith left it moored in the middle of a small lake out of the reach of the savages on the banks, and accompanied by Robinson, Emry and two friendly Indians, pushed on up the stream in a smaller boat. Those with the barge were ordered on no account to go ashore. But the order was disobeyed and they came near forfeiting their lives by their rashness, for two or three hundred Indians lay in ambush on the banks. When, on landing, the English discovered the crouching savages, they fled precipitately to their boat and escaped, leaving one of their number, George Cassen, a prisoner. Him the Indians compelled to show the direction taken by Smith, after which he was put to death in a barbarous manner.

Smith's party was overtaken among the Chickahominy swamps or "slashes," as they are called in Virginia, Robinson and Emry were killed and Smith himself captured, but only after a terrible resistance. He fought like a lion at bay, tied one of the Indian guides to his left arm for a shield, killed three Indians, wounded several others and would have escaped had he not stepped backward into a deep quagmire.

He now surrendered to the Indian sachem Ope-chan-ca-nough, who conducted him in triumph through the Indian villages on the Potomac and the Rappahannock, thence to his own town, Pamunkey. At this place the medicine men practiced incantations and ceremonies for the space of three days, hoping to obtain some insight into the mysterious character and designs of the captive in order to determine his fate. By this time Smith had so overawed his captors that they feared to inflict the death penalty without the concurrence of their great werowance, Powhatan. Accordingly he was conveyed to We-ro-wo-co-mo-co, the favorite home of this chieftain of the chiefs, on the York river, a few miles from the historic field of Yorktown.

Arriving at We-ro-wo-co-mo-co, Captain Smith was detained near the town until preparations had been made to receive him in state. When Powhatan and his train had time to array themselves in all "their greatest braveries" the noted prisoner was admitted to the great chief's presence. Powhatan "looked every inch a king" as he sat on a kind of throne in the longhouse, covered with a robe of raccoon skin, and with a coronet of immense gaily colored plumes on his head. His two favorite daughters sat on right and left while files of warriors and women of rank, his favorite wives or sisters, were ranged around the hall.

On Smith's entrance into the hall of state a great shout arose from those present. At a signal a handsome Indian woman, perhaps a sister of the great chief, whom Smith styles "the Queen of Appamatuck," brought water in a copper basin to wash the prisoner's hands, while her companion presented a bunch of feathers with which to dry them.

Powhatan now proceeded to question Smith closely as to where he was from, where he was going, what brought the whites to his country, what were their intentions, what kind of a country they lived in and how many warriors they had. No doubt the captain was equal to the occasion, but it is quite probable that the grim old savage regarded him as a liar. Again quoting Smith, "A long consultation was held, but the conclusion was, two great stones were brought before Powhatan, then as many savages as could, layd hands on him, dragged him to them and thereon layd his head," in position to be crushed with a war club. A stalwart warrior was appointed executioner. The signal was given, the grim executioner raised his heavy war club and another moment had decided the fate both of the illustrious captive and his colony. But that uplifted bludgeon was not destined to fall upon the head of Smith. Matoaka, or Pocahontas, the eldest daughter of Powhatan, sprang from her seat, and rushing between the big warrior and his intended victim, she clasped "his head in her arms and laid her own upon his to save him from death." She held on with the resolution of despair until her father, yielding to her frantic appeals, lifted them up and ordered Smith to be released. "The Emperor was contented; he should live to make him hatchets" (like the one Newport had presented) "and her beads and copper trinkets."

Ridpath well says, "There is no reason in the world for doubting the truth of this affecting and romantic story, one of the most marvelous and touching in the history of any nation."

Bancroft also records the incident as a historical fact and moralizes on it by saying, "The gentle feelings of humanity are the same in every race and in every period of life; they bloom, though unconsciously, even in the bosom of a young Indian maiden."

The truth of this beautiful story was never doubted until 1866, when the eminent antiquarian, Dr. Charles Deane, of Cambridge, Massachusetts, in reprinting Smith's first book, "The True Relation of 1609," pointed out that it contains no reference to this hair-breadth escape. Since then many American historians and scholars have concluded that it never happened at all, and in order to be consistent they have tried to prove that Smith was a blustering braggadocio, which is the very last thing that could in truth be said of him. The rescue of a captive doomed to death, by a woman, is not such an unheard-of thing in Indian stories.

If the truth of this deliverance be denied, how then did Smith come back to Jamestown loaded with presents when the other three men were killed, George Cassen, in particular, in a most horrible manner? And how is it, supposing Smith's account of it to be false, that Pocahontas afterward frequently came to Jamestown with her attendants bringing baskets of corn and was, next to Smith himself, the salvation of the colony? She was also sent by her father to intercede with Smith for the release of prisoners. The fact is, nobody doubted the story in Smith's life time and he had enemies enough. Pocahontas never visited Jamestown after Smith went to England in October, 1609, until she was kidnapped and taken there in April, 1613, by the infamous Captain Argall, with the aid of Japazaws, the chief sachem of the Patawomekes or Potomacs.

It is true there is no mention of Pocahontas saving the life of Smith in the "True Relation," but it must not be forgotten that it is confessed that the editor came upon his copy at second or third hand; that is, we suppose that it had been copied in MS. He also confesses to selecting what he thought "fit to be printed." "Can any one doubt," says Eggleston, "that the 'True Relation' was carefully revised, not to say corrupted, in the interest of the company and the colony? And, if so, what more natural than that the hostility of so great a chief as Powhatan would be concealed? For the great need of the colony was a fresh supply of colonists. Nothing would have so much tended to check emigration to Virginia (especially women) as a belief that the most powerful neighboring prince was at war with the settlement."

But Smith does mention the thrilling incident in his letter to Queen Anne, on behalf of his protege, and rings the changes on it. Said he, "Pocahontas, the King's most dear and well-beloved daughter, being but a child of twelve or thirteen years of age, whose compassionate, pitiful heart, of desperate estate, gave me much cause to respect her." . . . For "at the minute of my execution she hazarded the beating out of her own brains to save mine; and not only that, but so prevailed with her father that I was safely conducted to Jamestown."

The amiable young "princess," Pocahontas, became the first Christian convert in Virginia, as well as the first bride, when she married John Rolfe, in 1613. At her baptism she received the name "Lady Rebecca," no doubt in allusion to Rebekah, the wife of Isaac, who became the mother of two distinct nations and two manner of people.

In 1616 she and her husband went to England. Here the "Lady Rebecca" received great attentions at court and was entertained by the Bishop of London. Pocahontas remained in England about a year; and when, with her husband and son, she was about to return to Virginia, with her father's counselor, Tomocomo, she was seized with smallpox at Gravesend and died in June,1617, aged twenty-two.

It may assist the reader to remember the place by recalling that at Gravesend her beautiful life came to an end and she found a grave under the chancel of the parish church.

John Rolfe returned to Virginia and became a prominent official of the colony. His son, Thomas Rolfe, was taken to London, where he was brought up by an uncle. When he was a young man he came to Virginia, and, as "Lieutenant Rolfe," commanded Fort James, on the Chickahominy.

In 1644, when about twenty-six, he petitioned the Governor for permission to visit his great uncle, Ope-chan-ca-nough, and his aunt, Cleopatre, who still lived in the woods on the York river. He married a young lady of England, became a gentleman of "note and fortune" in Virginia, and some of the most prominent families of that State are descended from him.

John Randolph, of Roanoke, was the best known of his descendants and was proud of his Indian blood. His manner of walking and the peculiar brightness of his eyes are said to have shown his origin, and he once said he came of a race who never forgot a kindness or forgave an injury. Randolph was sixth in descent from Pocahontas, through Jane Rolfe, her grand-daughter. "And," as John Esten Cook says, "the blood of Powhatan mingled with that of his old enemies. Dead for many years, and asleep in his sepulcher at Orapax, the savage old Emperor still spoke in the voice of his great descendant, the orator of Roanoke."

The crafty Powhatan, seeing how much superior the English weapons were to his own, determined to possess some of them. Accordingly, after sparing the life of Captain Smith, he told him that they were now friends and that he would presently send him home, and when he arrived at Jamestown he must send him two great guns and a grindstone. He also promised to consider him his son and give him the country of Capahowosick.

Smith was shortly afterward sent to Jamestown with twelve guides and arrived safely after seven weeks' captivity. Here he treated his savage guides with great hospitality and showed Rawhunt, their leader, two demi-culverins (long cannon carrying a nine-pound shot) and a millstone to carry to Powhatan. The Indians, however, "found them somewhat too heavy." To give them a wholesome fright, Smith caused a cannon to be loaded with stone and fired among the boughs of trees filled with icicles. The effect may easily be imagined.

Presents of various toys and trinkets were now given the Indians for Powhatan and his family and they went away satisfied.

During the same winter Smith visited Powhatan in company with Newport. Attended by a guard of thirty or forty men they sailed as far as We-ro-wo-co-mo-co the first day. Here Newport's courage failed him. But Smith, with twenty men, went on and visited the chief at his town.

Powhatan exerted himself to the utmost to give his adopted son a royal entertainment. The warriors shouted for joy to see Smith; orations were addressed to him and a plentiful feast provided to refresh him after his journey. The great sachem received him, reclining upon his bed of mats, his pillow of dressed skin lying beside him with its brilliant embroidery of shells and beads, and his dress consisting chiefly of a handsome fur robe. Along the sides of the house sat twenty comely females, each with her head and shoulders painted red and a great chain of white beads about her neck. "Before these sat his chiefest men in like order, and more than fortie platters of fine bread stood in two piles on each side of the door. Foure or five hundred people made a guard behind them for our passage; and Proclamation was made, none upon paine of death to presume to doe us any wrong or discourtesie. With many pretty discourses to renew their old acquaintance, this great king and our captain spent the time, till the ebbe left our barge aground. Then renewing their feast with feates, dauncing and singing, and such like mirth, we quartered that night with Powhatan."

The next day Captain Newport came ashore and was received with savage pomp, Smith taking the part of interpreter. Newport presented Powhatan with a boy named Thomas Salvage. In return the chief gave him a servant of his named Namontack, and several days were spent in feasting, dancing and trading, during which time the old sachem manifested so much dignity and so much discretion as to create a high admiration of his talents in the minds of his guests.

Newport had brought with him a variety of articles for barter, such as he supposed would command a high price in corn. Not finding the lower class of Indians profitable, as they dealt on a small scale and had but little corn to spare, he was anxious to drive a bargain with Powhatan himself. This, however, the haughty chief affected to decline and despise.

"Captain Newport," said he, "it is not agreeable to my greatness to truck in this peddling manner for trifles. I am a great werowance and I esteem you the same. Therefore lay me down all your commodities together; what I like I will take and in return you shall have what I conceive to be a fair value."

Newport fell into the trap. He did as requested, contrary to Smith's advice. Powhatan selected the best of his goods and valued his corn so high that Smith says it might as well have been purchased in old Spain. They did not get four bushels, where they expected twenty hogsheads.

It was now Smith's turn to try his skill; and he made his experiment not upon the sagacity of Powhatan but upon his simplicity. Picking up a string of large brilliant blue beads he contrived to glance them as if by accident, so that their glint attracted the eye of the chief, who at once became eager to see them. Smith denied having them, then protested he could not sell them as they were made of the same stuff as the sky and only to be worn by the greatest kings on earth.

Powhatan immediately became "half-mad" to own "such strange jewels." It ended by Smith securing two or three hundred bushels of corn for a pound or two of blue beads. Having loaded their barges, they floated with the next tide. They also visited Ope-chan-ca-nough before their return and "fitted this chief with blue beads on the same terms."

On September 10, 1608, Smith was made President of the colony and things had begun to run smoothly when the marplot Newport returned with several wild schemes. He brought with him orders from King James for a coronation of Powhatan as Emperor, together with elaborate presents for the old chief. A more foolish thing was never perpetrated. Smith, with his usual hard sense, protested against it. He well knew that it would tend to increase the haughty chief's notions of his own importance and make it impossible to maintain friendly relations with him. Finding his opposition in vain he insisted on at least trying to get Powhatan to come to Jamestown for the ceremony, and even offered to go himself and extend the invitation to the chief.

Smith took with him four companions only and went across the woods by land, about twelve miles, to We-ro-wo-co-mo-co. Powhatan was then absent at a distance of twenty or thirty miles. Pocahontas immediately sent for him and he arrived the following day. Smith now delivered his message desiring him to visit "his father" Newport at Jamestown for the purpose of receiving the newly arrived presents and also concerting a campaign in common against the Monacans. But this proud representative in the American forest of the divine right of kings haughtily replied, "If your King has sent me a present, I also am a King and this is my land; eight days I will stay to receive them. Your father is to come to me, not I to him, nor yet to your fort neither will I bite at such a bait; as for the Monacans I can revenge my own injuries."

"This is the lofty potentate," says a charming writer, "whom Smith could have tickled out of his senses with a glass bead and who would have infinitely preferred a big shining copper kettle to the misplaced honor intended to be thrust upon him, but the offer of which puffed him up beyond the reach of negotiation."

After some further general conversation Smith returned with his answer. If the mountain would not come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain. The presents were sent by water around to We-ro-wo-co-mo-co and the two captains with a guard of fifty men went by land. Smith describes the ridiculous ceremony of the coronation, the last act of which shows that the old sachem himself saw the size of the joke. "The presents were brought him, his basin and ewer, bed and furniture setup, his scarlet cloak and apparel with much adoe put on him, being assured they would not hurt him. But a foule trouble there was to make him kneel to receive his crown; he not knowing the majesty, nor wearing of a crown, nor bending of the knee, endured so many persuasions, examples and instructions as tyred them all. At last by bearing hard on his shoulders, he a little stooped, and three having the crown in their hands, put it on his head, when by the warning of a pistoll the boats were prepared with such a volly of shot, that the king started up in a horrible feare, till he saw all was well. Then, remembering himself, to congratulate their kindness, he gave his old shoes (moccasins) and his mantell (of raccoon skins) to Captain Newport." The mountain labored and brought forth a mouse.

Little was heard of Powhatan for some time after this, except occasionally through the medium of some of his tribes, who refused to trade with the English in consequence of his orders to that effect. He had evidently become jealous, but appearances were still kept up, and in December, 1608, the Emperor (for he is now one of the crowned heads) invited the captain to visit him. He wanted his assistance in building a house, and if he would bring with him a grindstone, fifty swords, a few muskets, a cock and hen, with a quantity of beads and copper, he might depend upon getting a ship load of corn.

Smith accepted the invitation and set off with a pinnace and two barges manned by forty-six volunteers. It was on this occasion that a severe storm drove Smith and his men to seek shelter and spend Christmas with friendly Indians, where they enjoyed the good cheer and hospitality mentioned elsewhere in this narrative.

They reached We-ro-wo-co-mo-co January 12, quartered without much ceremony at the first house they found, and sent to Powhatan for a supply of provisions. The wily old chief furnished them with plenty of bread, venison and turkeys, but pretended not to have sent for them at all. In reply Smith asked if he had forgotten his own invitation thus suddenly, and then produced the messengers who had carried it, and who happened to be near at hand. Powhatan affected to regard the whole affair as a mere joke and laughed heartily. Smith reproached him with deceit and hostility. The chief replied by wordy evasions and seemed very indifferent about his new house. He demanded guns and swords in exchange for corn, which Smith, of course, refused. By this time the captain was provoked and gave the chief to understand that necessity might force him to use disagreeable expedients in relieving his own wants and the need of the colony. Powhatan listened to this declaration with cool gravity and replied with corresponding frankness. Said he, "I will spare you what I can and that within two days. But, Captain Smith, I have some doubts as to your object in this visit. I am informed that you wish to conquer more than to trade, and at all events you know my people must be afraid to come near you with their corn so long as you go armed and with such a retinue. Lay aside your weapons then. Here they are needless. We are all friends, all Powhatans." The information here alluded to was probably gained from the two Dutchmen who had deserted the colony and gone among the Indians.

A great contest of ingenuity now ensued between the Englishman and the savage, the latter endeavoring to temporize only for the purpose of putting Smith and his men off their guard. He especially insisted on the propriety of laying aside their arms.

"Captain Smith," he continued, "I am old and I know well the difference between peace and war. I wish to live quietly with you and I wish the same for my successors. Now, rumors which reach me on all hands make me uneasy. What do you expect to gain by destroying us who provide you with food? And what can you get by war if we escape you and hide our provisions in the woods? We are unarmed, too, you see. Do you believe me such a fool as not to prefer eating good meat, sleeping quietly with my wives and children, laughing and making merry with you, having copper and hatchets and anything else—as your friend—to flying from you as your enemy, lying cold in the woods, eating acorns and roots, and being so hunted by you meanwhile that if but a twig break, my men will cry out, 'There comes Captain Smith.' Let us be friends, then. Do not invade us with such an armed force. Lay aside these arms."

But Smith was proof against this eloquence, which, it will be conceded, was of a high order. Believing the chief's purpose was to disarm the English and then massacre them, he ordered the ice broken and the pinnace brought nearer shore. More men were then landed preparatory to an attack.

The white man and the Indian were well matched in general intelligence, insight into character and craftiness. No diplomacy inferior to that of the Indian Emperor could have so long retained the upper hand of Smith. No leader of less courage and resources than John Smith could so long have maintained a starving colony in the hostile dominions of the great Powhatan.

While waiting until the re-enforcements could land. Smith tried to keep Powhatan engaged in a lengthy conversation. But the Indian outwitted him. Leaving three of his handsomest and most entertaining wives to occupy Smith's attention, Powhatan slipped through the rear of his bark dwelling and escaped, while his warriors surrounded the house. When Smith discovered the danger he rushed boldly out. Flourishing his sword and firing his pistol at the nearest savage he escaped to the river, where his men had just landed.

The English had already traded a copper kettle to Powhatan for eighty bushels of corn. This was now delivered, and with loaded muskets they forced the Indians to fill the boat.

By the time this was done night had come on, but the loaded vessel could not be moved until high tide. Smith and his men must remain ashore until morning. Powhatan and his warriors plotted to attack them while at their supper. Once again Pocahontas saved Smith. Slipping into the camp she hurriedly warned him of his danger and revealed the whole plot. The captain offered her handsome presents and rewards, but with tears in her eyes she refused them all, saying it would cost her her life to be seen to have them.

Presently ten lusty warriors came bearing a hot supper for the English and urging them to eat. But Smith compelled the waiters first to taste their own food as an assurance against poison. He then sent them back to tell Powhatan the English were ready for him.

No one was permitted to sleep that night, but all were ordered to be ready to fight any moment, as large numbers of Indians could be seen lurking around. Their vigilance saved them, and with the high tide of the morning the homeward trip was commenced.

Such benefits resulted from the marriage of Rolfe and Pocahontas that Governor Dale piously ascribed it to the divine approval resting on the conversion of the heathen, and reflecting that another daughter of Powhatan would form an additional pledge of peace, sent Ralph Hamer and the interpreter, Thomas Savage, to Powhatan to procure a second daughter for himself.

They found the aged chief at Matchcat, further up the river than We-ro-wo-co-mo-co, and after a pipe of tobacco had been passed around Powhatan inquired anxiously about his daughter's welfare, "her marriage, his unknown son, and how they liked, lived and loved together." Hamer answered that they "lived civilly and lovingly together," and "that his daughter was so well content that she would not change her life to return and live with him, whereat he laughed heartily and said he was very glad of it."

Powhatan now asked the particular cause of Mr. Hamer's visit. On being told it was private, the Emperor ordered the room cleared of all except the inevitable pair of queens, who sat on either side of the monarch. Hamer began by saying that he was the bearer of a number of presents from Governor Dale, consisting of coffee, beads, combs, fish hooks and knives, and a promise of the much-talked-of grindstone whenever Powhatan would send for it. He then added that the Governor, hearing of the fame of the Emperor's youngest daughter, was desirous of making her "his nearest companion and wife." He conceived there could not be a finer bond of union between the two people than such a connection; and, besides, Pocahontas was exceedingly anxious for her sister's companionship at Jamestown. He hoped that Powhatan would at least suffer her to visit the colony when he should return.

Powhatan more than once came very near interrupting the delivery of this message. But he controlled himself, and when Hamer had finished, the Emperor gracefully acknowledged the compliment, but protested that his daughter had been three days married to a certain young chief. To this the brazen Hamer replied that this was nothing; that the groom would readily relinquish her for the ample presents which Governor Dale would make, and further that a prince of his greatness might easily exert his authority to reclaim his daughter on some pretext. To this base proposition the old sachem made an answer of which the nobility and purity might have put to shame the unscrupulous Hamer. He confessed that he loved his daughter as his life and though he had many children he delighted in her most of all. He could not live without seeing her every day and that would be impossible if she went among the colonists, for he had resolved upon no account to put himself in their power or to visit them. He desired no other pledge of friendship than the one already existing in the marriage of his Pocahontas, unless she should die, in which case he would give up another child. He concluded with the following pathetic eloquence: "I hold it not a brotherly part for your King to endeavor to bereave me of my two darling children at once. Give him to understand that if he had no pledge at all, he need not distrust any injury from me or my people. There has already been too much of blood and war; too many of my people and of his have already fallen in our strife, and by my occasion there shall never be any more. I, who have power to perform it, have said it; no, not though I should have just occasion offered, for I am now grown old and would gladly end my few remaining days in peace and quiet. Even if the English should offer me injury, I would not resent it. My country is large enough and I would remove myself further from you. I hope this will give satisfaction to my brother, he can not have my daughter. If he is not satisfied, I will move three days' journey from him and never see Englishmen more."

His speech was ended. The barbarian's hall of state was silent. The council fire unreplenished had burned low during the interview and the great crackling logs lay reduced to a dull heap of embers—fit symbol of the aged chieftain who had just spoken.

As Mason well says, "Call him a savage, but remember that his shining love for his daughter only throws into darker shadow the infamous proposition of the civilized Englishman to tear away the three days' bride from the arms of her Indian lover and give her to a man who had already a wife in England. Call him a barbarian, but forget not that when his enemies hungered he gave them food. When his people were robbed, whipped and imprisoned by the invaders of his country, he had only retaliated and had never failed to buy the peace to which he was entitled without money and without price. Call him a heathen, but do not deny that when he said that, if the English should do him an injury, he would not resent it but only move further from them, he more nearly followed the rule of the Master, of whom he was ignorant, than did the faithless, pilfering adventurers at the fort, who rolled their eyes heavenward and called themselves Christians."

No candid person can read the history of this famous Indian with an attentive consideration of the circumstances under which he was placed without forming a high estimate of his character as a warrior, statesman and a patriot. His deficiencies were those of education and not of genius. His faults were those of the people whom he governed and of the period in which he lived. His great talents, on the other hand, were his own and these are acknowledged even by those historians who still regard him with prejudice.

Smith calls him "a prince of excellent sense and parts, and a great master of all the savage arts of government and policy."

He died in 1618, just one year after the untimely death of Pocahontas, "full of years and satiated with fightings, and the delights of savage life." He is a prominent character in the early history of our country and well does he deserve it. In his prime he was as ambitious as Julius Cæsar and not less successful, considering his surroundings. He and Pocahontas were the real "F. F. V.'s," for, beyond controversy, they were of the "First Families of Virginia."

[CHAPTER III]

MASSASOIT.
THE FRIEND OF THE PURITANS.

"Welcome, Englishmen!" A terrific peal of thunder from a cloudless sky would not have astonished the Plymouth Fathers as did these startling words. It was March 16, 1621, a remarkably pleasant day, and they had assembled in town meeting to plan and discuss ways and means for the best interests of the colony. So engrossed were they with the matter under consideration they did not notice the approach of a solitary Indian as he stalked boldly through the street of this village until he advanced towards the astonished group, and with hand outstretched in a friendly gesture and with perfectly intelligible English addressed them with the words, "Welcome, Englishmen!" The astonished settlers started to their feet and grasped their ever ready weapons. But reassured by his friendly gestures and hearty repetition of the familiar English phrase in which only kindness lurked, the settlers cordially returned his greeting and reciprocated his "welcome," which is the only one the Pilgrims ever received.

"He who would have friends must show himself friendly." This their dusky guest had done and it paved the way for a pleasant interview, which resulted in mutual good. Knowing that the way to the heart lies through the stomach, they at once gave their visitor "strong water, biscuit, butter, cheese and some pudding, with a piece of mallard."

The heart of the savage was gained: the taciturnity characteristic of his race gave way and he imparted valuable information, much of it pertaining to things they had long desired to know. They ascertained that his name was Samoset, that he was a subordinate chief of the Wampanoag tribe, and his hunting-grounds were near the island of Monhegan, which is at the mouth of Penobscot Bay. With a strong wind it was but a day's sail eastward, but it required five days to make the journey by land. This was a noted fishing place and he had learned something of the English language from crews of fishing vessels which frequented his coast. He told them the country in their vicinity was called Pawtuxet; that four years previous a terrible pestilence had swept off the tribes that inhabited the district, so that none remained to claim the soil.

He also informed them that a powerful sachem named Massasoit was their nearest neighbor. He lived about Montaup (afterward corrupted by the English into Mount Hope), and was chief of the Wampanoag tribe as well as head sachem of the Pokanoket confederacy of thirty tribes. Massasoit, he said, was disposed to be friendly. But another tribe, called the Nausets, were greatly incensed against the English, and with just cause. Samoset was able to define this cause, which also served to explain the fierce attack the Pilgrims received from the savages in their memorable "First Encounter."

It seems that a captain by the name of Hunt who had been left in charge of a vessel by Captain John Smith, while exploring the coast of New England in 1614, had exasperated the Indians beyond endurance. Captain Smith thus records this infamous crime in his "Generale Historie of New England." "He (Hunt) betraied foure and twentie of these poore salvages aboord his ship, and most dishonestly and inhumanely for their kind usage of me and all our men, carried them with him to Maligo, and there for a little private gaine sold those silly salvages for Rials of eight; but this vilde act kept him ever after from any more emploiement to these parts."

Samoset had heard from his red brothers all about this kidnapping, as well as the attack on the Pilgrims in revenge for it.

The sequel of Hunt's outrageous crime is quite interesting. He sold his victims, as we have seen, at Malaga, for eighty pounds each, but some of them, including an Indian by the name of Squanto, were ransomed and liberated by the monks of that island.

Squanto now went first to Cornhill, England, afterward to London. Here he acquired some knowledge of the English language and obtained the friendship and sympathy of Mr. John Slaney, a merchant of that city, who protected him and determined to send the poor exile back to his native land.

About this time (1619) Sir F. Gorges was preparing to send a ship to New England under the command of Captain Thomas Dermer, and it was arranged for Squanto to embark on board this ship. "When I arrived," says Dermer in his letter to Purchas, "at my savage's native country, finding all dead (because of the pestilence), I traveled along a day's journey to a place called Nummastaquyt, where, finding inhabitants, I dispatched a messenger a day's journey further west, to Pacanokit, which bordereth on the sea; whence came to see me two kings, attended with a guard of fifty armed men, who being well satisfied with that my savage and I discoursed unto them (being desirous of novelty) gave me content in whatsoever I demanded. Here I redeemed a Frenchman and afterwards another at Masstachusitt, who three years since escaped shipwreck at the northeast of Cape Cod."

One of these two "kings," as the sachems were frequently entitled by the early writers, must have been Massasoit, the other was probably his brother, Quadepinah.

The good Captain Dermer was faithful to his trust and delivered the poor exile Squanto to his native land, but not to his own people at Plymouth, as they had been swept off by the pestilence in his absence. He, however, became a loyal subject of Massasoit. He was introduced to the English settlers at Plymouth by Samoset on his third visit. Squanto was disposed to return good for evil, and forgetting the outrage of the knave who had kidnapped him and remembering only the great kindness which he had received from his benefactor, Mr. Slaney, and from the people generally in London, in generous requital now attached himself cordially to the Pilgrims and became their firm friend. His residence in England, as we have stated, had rendered him quite familiar with the English language, and he proved invaluable, not only as an interpreter, but also in instructing them respecting fishing, woodcraft, planting corn and other modes of obtaining support in the wilderness.

Squanto brought the welcome intelligence that his sovereign chief, the great Massasoit, had heard of the arrival of the Pilgrims and was approaching to pay them a friendly visit, attended by a retinue of sixty warriors. An hour later Massasoit and his warriors, accompanied by his brother, Quadepinah (sometimes written Quadequina) appeared on a neighboring hill. The wily sachem was well acquainted with the conduct of the unprincipled Hunt and other English seamen who had skirted the coast and committed all manner of outrages on the natives, and he was too wary to place himself in the power of strangers, respecting whom he entertained such well grounded suspicions. He therefore took a position on a hill where he could not be taken by surprise and in case of attack could retreat if necessary.

As they seemed unwilling to approach nearer, Squanto was sent to ascertain their designs, and was informed that they wished some one should be sent to hold a parley. Edward Winslow was appointed to discharge this duty, and he immediately waited on the sachem and conveyed a present consisting of a pair of knives and a copper chain with a jewel attached to it. Also a knife, a jewel to hang on his ear, "a pot of strong water, a good quantity of biscuit and some butter" for Quadepinah. Massasoit received him with dignity, yet with courtesy. Mr. Winslow, with the aid of Squanto as interpreter, addressed the chief in a speech of some length, to which the Indians listened with the decorous gravity characteristic of the race. The purport of the speech was that King James saluted the sachem, his brother, with the words of peace and love; that he accepted him as his friend and ally; and that the Governor desired to see him and to trade and treat with him upon friendly terms.

Massasoit made no special reply to these words, probably for the sufficient reason that he did not fully comprehend the drift of it, except the last clause. He observed the sword and armor of Winslow during the harangue, and, when he had ceased speaking, signified his disposition to commence the proposed trade immediately by buying them. They were not, however, for sale; and after a brief parley Winslow was left behind as a hostage in the custody of Quadepinah, while Massasoit and twenty unarmed followers met Standish, Williamson and six musketeers at the brook which divided the parties.

The sachem and his retinue, marching in Indian file one behind the other, led by the chief, were escorted to the best house in the village. Here a green rug was spread upon the floor and several cushions piled on it for his accommodation. Presently Governor Carver entered the house in as great state as he could command, with beat of drum and blare of trumpet, and a squad of armed men as a bodyguard. The Governor took the hand of Massasoit and kissed it. The Indian chieftain immediately imitated his example and returned the salute.

The two leaders now sat down together and regaled themselves with refreshments consisting chiefly of "strong waters, a thing the savages love very well; and the sachem took such a large draught of it at once as made him sweat all the while he staid." The white man's "firewater" thus in evidence in this treaty has been the most fruitful source of the red man's ruin from that day to the present time. Following are the terms of the treaty concluded upon this occasion:

1. That neither he nor any of his (Massasoit's) should injure or do hurt to any of their people.

2. That if any of his did any hurt to any of theirs, he should send the offender, that they might punish him.

3. That if anything were taken away from any of theirs, he should cause it to be restored, and they should do the like to his.

4. That if any did unjustly war against him, they would aid him; and if any did war against them, he should aid them.

5. That he should send to his neighbor confederates, to inform them of this, that they might not wrong them, but might be like wise comprised in these conditions of peace.

6. That when his came to them upon any occasion, they should leave their arms behind them.

7. That so doing, their sovereign lord, King James, would esteem him as his friend and ally.

Such was the first treaty made with the Indians of New England, which remained in force fifty-four years. Nor was Massasoit or any of the Wampanoags during his lifetime convicted by the harshest revilers of his race of having violated or attempted to violate any of its provisions. It was eminently satisfactory to both parties to the compact, but a close reading will show hints (as usual) of the white man overreaching his red brother. In the first place they got an immense territory for a few baubles and gewgaws, part of which were utterly useless. Then, too, the Indians were required to come unarmed in their interviews with the Pilgrims, but we fail to find it stated that the white men should leave their pieces behind them on going among the Indians. It is also noticed that the Indians were to aid the English should any foe war against them, and the English should aid the Indians should any foe "unjustly war against them." Why this word "unjustly" on the one side and not on the other? And who was to decide the matter? Certainly the Puritans. But to their credit be it said, they did send aid to their ally promptly in his time of need, as we shall see.

Massasoit is thus described in the Pilgrim's Journal: "In his person he is a very lusty man in his best years, an able body, grave of countenance and spare of speech; in his attire little or nothing differing from the rest of his followers, save only in a great chain of white beads about his neck; behind his neck, attached to the chain, hangs a pouch of tobacco which he drank (smoked) and gave us to drink. His face was painted with a seal red, and he was oiled both head and face that he looked greasily." He and his companions were picturesquely dressed in skins and plumes of brilliant colors. Being tall, strongmen, and the first natives whom most of the colonists had ever seen near at hand, they must have impressed them as a somewhat imposing as well as interesting spectacle.

After the conclusion of this famous treaty, Massasoit was conducted by the Governor to the brook and rejoined his party, leaving hostages behind. Presently his brother, Quadepinah, came over with a retinue, and was entertained with like hospitality. The next day, on an invitation from the chief, Standish and Allerton returned his visit and were regaled with "three or four ground-nuts and some tobacco." Governor Carver sent for the chief's kettle and returned it "full of pease, which pleased them well, and so they went their way."

The next interview the colonists had with Massasoit was in July, 1621. At this time an embassy consisting of Edward Winslow and Stephen Hopkins, with Squanto as interpreter, was sent to make the sachem a formal visit at Montaup, his seat near the Narragansett bay. The objects of this embassy were, says Mourt, "that forasmuch as his subjects came often and without fear upon all occasions amongst us, becoming, in fact, a sad annoyance to the colonists as they went to the sea shore in search of lobsters and to fish. Men, women and children always hanging about the village, clamorous for food and pertinaciously inquisitive." It was partly to abate this nuisance and "partly," says the old chronicle, "to know where to find our savage allies, if occasion served, as also to see their strength, explore the country, make satisfaction for some injuries conceived to have been done on our parts, and to continue, the league of peace and friendship between them and us." The "injuries" here mentioned refer to the fact that the colonists shortly after their arrival found corn buried in the ground. Seeing no inhabitants in the neighborhood, "but some graves of the dead newly buried," they took the corn with the intention of making full satisfaction for it whenever it became practicable. The owners of it were supposed to have fled through fear. It was now proposed that the owners of this corn should be informed by Massasoit, if they could be found, that the English were ready to pay them with an equal quantity of corn, English meal, or "any other commodities they had to pleasure them withal"; and full satisfaction was offered for any trouble which the sachem might do them the favor to take. All of which shows that the Pilgrim Fathers were scrupulously just in their dealings with the Indians.

The two ambassadors and their guide, bearing presents for the sachem, started on their journey through the forest. Much they marveled at the well-nigh infallible skill of Squanto in always leading right, even when confronted with a mazy labyrinth of paths pointing in every direction. They met several bands of Indians en route, and partook of such hospitality as they had to offer. Their number was augmented by six stalwart savages, who insisted not only on bearing them company but bearing their arms and baggage. At the various fords the friendly Indians carried the Englishmen over dry-shod upon their shoulders, which is quite remarkable, in view of the proverbial laziness of the Indians in general and those of the New England coast in particular.

In due time the envoys arrived at Montaup, or Sowams, the residence of Massasoit. The sachem was not at home, but was quickly summoned by a runner and was saluted by his visitors with a discharge of musketry. He welcomed them heartily after the Indian manner, took them into his lodge and seated them by himself. The envoys then delivered their message and presents, the latter consisting of a copper chain and a horseman's coat of red cotton embroidered with lace. Massasoit proudly hung the chain about his neck and arrayed himself in this superb garment without delay, evidently enjoying the admiration of his people, who gazed upon him at a distance. The great chief now gathered his leading warriors around him, and after the pipe of peace had been smoked by all, he answered the message in detail. Expressing his desire to continue in peace and friendship with his neighbors, he promised to promote the traffic in furs, to furnish a supply of corn for seed and, in short, to comply with all their requests.

The two commissioners stated the case concerning the too frequent and protracted visits of the Indians to the colony with great tact and delicacy, assuring the sachem that he himself or any he might send would always be welcome. "To the end that we might know his messengers from others," wrote Winslow, "we desired Massasoit, if any one should come from him to us to send the copper chain, that we might know the savage and harken and give credit to his message accordingly."

As it grew late and he offered no more substantial entertainment than this, "no doubt for the sound reason," as Thatcher says, "that he had nothing to offer," his guests expressed a desire to retire for the night. The chief at once complied with their request in the language of Winslow, "He laid us on the bed with himself and his wife, they at one end and we at the other, it being only planks laid a foot from the ground, and a thin mat upon them. Two more of chief men, for want of room, pressed by and upon us, so that we were worse weary of our lodging than of our journey."

The next day the two ambassadors had no breakfast, but the morning was taken up in receiving, as visitors, several subordinate sachems and their warriors, and in witnessing Indian games which had been gotten up for their entertainment. About noon Massasoit, who had gone hunting at dawn, returned, bringing with him two large fishes which he had speared or shot with arrows. These were soon boiled and divided among forty persons this was the first meal taken by the envoys for a day and two nights.

The afternoon passed slowly away and again the two white men went supperless to bed, only to spend another sleepless night, being kept awake by vermin, hunger and noise of the savages. Friday morning they arose at dawn resolved to immediately commence their journey home. At this Massasoit greatly importuned them to remain longer with him. "But we determined," they recorded in their graphic narrative, "to keep the Sabbath at home, and feared that we should either be light-headed for want of sleep, for what with bad lodgings, the savages' barbarous singing (for they used to sing themselves to sleep), lice and fleas within doors and mosquitoes without, we could hardly sleep all the time of our being there; we much fearing that if we should stay any longer we should not be able to recover home for want of strength; so that on the Friday morning before the sun rising we took our leave and departed, Massasoit being both grieved and ashamed that he could no better entertain us." It is thus apparent that Massasoit, in spite of his many virtues and the conceded fact that he was the greatest chief of all the New England tribes of this period, was in his housekeeping the smallest possible removed above brute life.

With the streams and bays swarming with fish, the neighboring forest filled with turkey, deer and other game, he and his people seem to have lived in semi-starvation. This fact is all the more startling when it is contrasted with the great abundance enjoyed by Powhatan, Joseph Brant, Red Jacket and others, mentioned elsewhere, and their tribes. But it is also true of this great chief that despite his pinching poverty, when the test came he proved to be pure gold refined by fire.

Thatcher informs us that "Massasoit's friendship was again tested in March, 1622, when an Indian known to be under Squanto's influence came running in among a party of colonists with his face gashed and the blood fresh upon it, calling out to them to flee for their lives, and then looking behind him as if pursued. On coming up he told them that the Indians under Massasoit were gathering at a certain place for an attack upon the colony; that he had received his wounds in consequence of opposing their designs and had barely escaped from them with his life. The report occasioned no little alarm, although the correctness of it was flatly denied by Hobbamak, a Pokanoket Indian residing at Plymouth, who recommended that a messenger be sent secretly to Sowams for the purpose of ascertaining the truth. This was done and the messenger, finding everything in its usually quiet state, informed Massasoit of the reports circulated against him. He was excessively incensed against Squanto, but sent his thanks to the Governor for the opinion of his fidelity which he understood him to retain, and directed the messenger to assure him that he should instantly apprise him of any conspiracy which might at any further time take place;" This whole affair seems to have been a plot on the part of Squanto, out of jealousy, to array the colonists against their ally, but happily for both parties it miscarried through the common-sense suggestion of Hobbamak.

Early in the spring of 1623 news came to Plymouth that Massasoit was very sick at his home, and it was determined to send Mr. Winslow to pay him a second visit in token of the friendship of the colonists. That gentleman started on his journey at once, taking with him Hobbamak as guide and interpreter, and accompanied by "one Master John Hampden, a London gentleman who had wintered with him and desired much to see the country and the Indians in their wigwam homes." This Hampden afterward became Cromwell's distinguished friend and counselor, and is alluded to in Gray's "Elegy."

The envoys had not gone far before they met some Indians who told them Massasoit was dead. The white men were shocked and Hobbamak began to wail forth his chief's death song: "Oh, great sachem. Oh, great heart, with many have I been acquainted, but none ever equaled thee." Then turning to his companions he said, "Oh, Master Winslow, his like you will never see again. He was not like other Indians, false and bloody and implacable; but kind, easily appeased when angry, and reasonable in his requirements. He was a wise sachem, not ashamed to ask advice, governing better with mild, than other chiefs did with severe measures. I fear you have not now one faithful friend left in the wigwams of the red men." He would then break forth again in loud lamentations, "enough." says Winslow, "to have made the hardest heart sob and wail." But time pressed, and Winslow, bidding Hobbamak "leave wringing of his hands" and follow him, trudged on through the forest until they came to Corbitant's village. The sachem was not at home but his squaw informed them that Massasoit was not yet dead, though he could scarcely live long enough to permit his visitors to close his eyes.

Believing that while there was life there was hope, the envoys pressed on and soon reached Massasoit's humble abode. "When we arrived thither," wrote Winslow, "we found the home so full that we could scarce get in, though they used their best diligence to make way for us. They were in the midst of their charms for him, making such a fiendish noise that it distempered us who were well, and therefore was unlike to ease him that was sick. About him were six or eight women who chafed his arms, legs and thighs, to keep heat in them. When they had made an end of their charming, one told him that his friends, the English, were come to see him. Having understanding left, but his sight was wholly gone, he asked who was come. They told him Winsnow, for they can not pronounce the letter L, but ordinarily N in the place thereof. He desired to speak with me. When I came to him they told him of it, he put forth his hand to me, which I took. Then he said twice, though very inwardly, 'Keen Winsnow?' which is to say, 'Art thou Winslow?' I answered 'Ahhe,' that is, 'Yes.' Then he doubled these words: 'Matta neen wonckanet namen Winsnow'; that is to say, '0, Winslow, I shall never see thee again;'" Hobbamak was now called in and desired to assure the sachem of the Governor's kind remembrance of him in his affliction, and to inform him of the medicine and delicacies they had brought with them for his use. Winslow, who seems to have possessed some knowledge of the healing art, then proceeded to use measures for his relief, consisting of a "confection of many comfortable conserves," which soon worked a cure. The convalescent sachem said, "Now I know that the English are indeed my friends, and love me; while I live I will not forget this kindness."

As Martyn well says, "Nobly did he keep his word; for, after requesting 'the pale-face medicine' to exercise his skill upon others of his tribe, who were down with the same disease which had laid him low, his gratitude was so warm that he disclosed to Winslow, through Hobbamak, the fact that a widespread and well matured conspiracy was afoot to exterminate Weston's colony, in revenge for injuries heaped upon the Indian; that all the northeastern tribes were in the league; and that the massacre was to include the Pilgrims also, lest they should avenge the fall of their neighbors."

"A chief was here at the setting of the sun," added Massasoit, "and he told me that the pale-faces did not love me, else they would visit me in my pain, and he urged me to join the war party. But I said, 'No.' Now, if you take the chiefs of the league and kill them, it will end the war-trail in the blood of those who made it, and save the setllements." The chief's advice was afterward taken by Miles Standish and his men, and proved to be successful in nipping the conspiracy in the bud.

Mr. Winslow remained several days and his fame as a physician spread so rapidly that great crowds gathered in an encampment around Montaup to gain relief from various ills. Some came from the distance of more than a hundred miles. But on hearing of the plot above mentioned, immediately started for home.

The other leading events in the life of Massasoit may be soon detailed. In 1632 he was assaulted at Sowams by a party of Narragansetts and obliged to take refuge in the home of an Englishman. His situation was soon ascertained at Plymouth, and an armed force being promptly dispatched to his relief under his old friend Standish, the Narragansetts were compelled to retreat.

Massasoit and ninety of his people were also present at the first celebration of Thanksgiving in the autumn of 1621, and were feasted by the colonists for three days, though the Indians contributed five fat deer to the festivity. Oysters, turkey and pumpkin pie also graced this occasion, and no Thanksgiving feast is considered complete to-day without these essentials.

Governor Winthrop records this anecdote of the great sachem: "It seems that his old friend 'Winsnow,' made a trading voyage to Connecticut, during the summer of 1634. On his return he left his vessel upon the Narragansett coast for some reason or other, and commenced his journey for Plymouth across the woods. Finding himself at a loss, probably, as to his route, he made his way to Sowams, and called upon his ancient acquaintance, the sachem. The latter gave him his usual kind welcome, and upon his resuming his journey offered to conduct him home, a pedestrian journey of two days. He had just dispatched one of his Wampanoags to Plymouth with instructions to inform the friends of Winslow that he was dead, and to persuade them of this melancholy fact by specifying such particulars as their own ingenuity might suggest. All this was done accordingly, and the tidings occasioned, as might be expected, a very unpleasant excitement throughout the colony. In the midst of it, however, the sachem entered the village attended by Winslow, with more than his usual complacency in his honest and cheerful countenance. He was asked why such a report had been circulated the day previous. 'That Winsnow might be the more welcome,' he answered, 'and that you might be the more happy; it is my custom.' He had come thus far to enjoy the surprise personally; and he returned homeward more gratified by it, without doubt, than he would have been by the most fortunate foray among the Narragansetts."

We have seen it intimated more than once that Massasoit's fear of those warlike neighbors lay at the foundation of his friendship for the English settlers. It might have been nearer the truth, considering all the known facts in the case, to say that his interest happened to coincide with his inclination. At all events, it was in the power of any of the other sachems of the surrounding country to have established the same friendly relation with the colonists had they been prompted by as much good breeding or good sense. "On the contrary," as Thatcher says, "the Massachusetts were plotting and threatening on one hand, as we have seen—not without provocation, it must be allowed—while the Narragansett sachem, upon the other, had sent in his compliments as early as 1622, in the shape of a bundle of arrows, tied up with a rattlesnake's skin. Nor should we forget the wretched feebleness of the colony at the period of their first acquaintance with Massasoit. Indeed the instant measures which he took for their relief and protection look more like the promptings of compassion than either hope or fear. A month previous to his appearance among them, they were reduced to such a pitiable condition by sickness, that only six or seven men of their whole number were able to perform labor in the open air; and probably their entire fighting force, could they have been mustered together, would scarcely have equaled that little detachment of twenty which Massasoit brought with him into the village, delicately leaving twice as many with the arms of all behind him, as he afterward exchanged six hostages for one. No wonder the colonists 'could not yet conceive but that he was willing to have peace with them.'"

Massasoit was unique among Indian sachems, in the fact that he was ever a lover of peace; nor is he known to have been once engaged in waging war with the powerful and warlike tribes who environed his territory. All the native tribes of New England but the Pokanoket confederation were involved in dissensions and wars with each other and the white settlers; and all shared sooner or later the fate which he avoided. This chief vied with Canonicus and Miantonomoh, the Narragansett sachems, in giving a hearty welcome to Roger Williams at the time of his banishment from Salem, when he "fled from Christians to the savages, who knew and loved him, till at last he reached the kind-hearted but stupid Indian heathen, Massasoit." These three friends in his time of distress shouted their welcome salutation of "Wha-cheer, wha-cheer?" and grasped his hand with cordial sympathy as he stepped ashore.

The reason for this warm welcome accorded Roger Williams the Baptist, the father of "soul liberty," is obvious when it is remembered that he took great interest in the Indians, so mastering their dialects as to be able to prepare "a key to the languages of America." Except Eliot, his coworker, he was the most successful missionary among the Indians of this period. "My soul's desire," he said, "was to do the natives good." And later he wrote. "God was pleased to give me a painful patient spirit, to lodge with them in their filthy, smoky holes to gain their tongue."

While at Plymouth he had written a pamphlet against the validity of the colonial charter and submitted it to Governor Bradford. This he afterward published while at Salem, and in it he said: "Why lay such stress upon your patent from King James? Tis but idle parchment; James has no more right to give away or sell Massasoit's lands, and cut and carve his country, than Massasoit has to sell James' kingdom or to send his Indians to colonize Warwickshire." Thus did he run a tilt against the established law and order of his time; but while it endeared him to Massasoit, who became to him "a friend in need and a friend in deed," it led to his banishment from Salem "in winter snow and inclement weather"—without guide, without food, without shelter, he suffered tortures. "Fourteen weeks," he wrote, "I Was sorely tossed in a bitter season, not knowing what bread or bed did mean." He must inevitably have perished in the frozen wilderness without giving to the world his immortal idea, had he not found shelter and food with Massasoit.

Great events turn on seemingly trivial circumstances. Who shall say that Massasoit, in saving the life of the great reformer, did not preserve to all time the casket containing the priceless jewel—religious tolerance.

Bancroft well says of Roger Williams: "In the capacious recesses of his mind, he had revolved the nature of intolerance, and he, and he alone, had arrived at the grand principle which is its sole effectual remedy. He announced his discovery under the simple proposition of the sanctity of conscience. The civil magistrate should restrain crime, but never control opinion; should punish guilt, but never violate the freedom of the soul." This divinely inspired idea of the pioneer American reformer is embodied in the first article of amendment to our Constitution: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof."

Tracing the effect back to its cause, we find behind this first article of amendment and responsible for it, Roger Williams, and behind him, aiding, though in ignorance, we find the great-hearted, honest, benevolent savage, Massasoit.

[CHAPTER IV.]

KING PHILIP, OR METACOMET.
THE LAST OF THE WAMPANOAGS.

The "great and good Massasoit" was gathered to his fathers in the year 1661, but to the last remained firm in his fidelity to the English. Near the close of his life he took his two sons, Wamsutta and Pometaeom, or Metacomet, to Plymouth and requested the Governor in token of friendship to give them English names. They were very bright, attractive young men of fine physical developments. The Governor related to the aged sachem the history of Philip and Alexander, the renowned Kings of Macedon, and gave to Wamsutta, the older, the name of Alexander, the Conqueror of Asia, and to his younger brother the less renowned name of Philip, and by these names they are known in history. The two young chieftains married sisters, the handsome daughters of the sachem of Pocasset. The wife of Alexander was named Wetamoo, who, as we shall see had an eventful life and a sad and untimely death. The wife of Philip had the euphonious name of Wootonekanuske.

Alexander became sachem on the death of his father and was deeply grieved that the English were so rapidly increasing, while his people were decreasing. Moreover his lands were fast slipping away to the possession of the English. Year by year the territory of the Wampanoags had narrowed until they had nothing left they could call their own but the two narrow peninsulas of Bristol and Tiverton on the east coast of Narragansett bay.

There were personal grievances also on both sides. With prosperity came avarice. Unprincipled men flocked to the new settlements which sprang up everywhere; the Indians were despised and often harshly treated; and the forbearance which marked the Pilgrims with the Indians was forgotten. The English were quick to notice a change in the Indians and a less friendly disposition in their young chief.

It was decided to summon Alexander before the Plymouth court to answer charges of plotting against the colony. The sachem refused to come. Upon this, Governor Prince assembled his counselors, and, after deliberation, ordered Major Josiah Winslow, son of Massasoit's old friend, Edward Winslow, to take an armed force, go to Mount Hope and arrest Alexander and bring him to Plymouth. This was accordingly done, and though his rage knew no bounds, he was forced at the muzzle of a gun to march in front of his captors. The indignity offered him crushed his kingly spirit. He was taken alarmingly ill with a burning fever, caused by his fury, grief and humiliation. His warriors, greatly alarmed for the safety of their beloved chieftain, entreated that they might be permitted to take Alexander home. The privilege was granted on condition that the chief's son should be sent to them as a hostage, and the sachem returned as soon as he had recovered.

The warriors, accompanied by Alexander's beautiful queen, Wetamoo, started on the sad journey, bearing their unhappy and suffering chieftain upon a litter on their shoulders. Slowly they traveled until they arrived at Taunton river; there they took to canoes, but had not paddled far before it became evident that their chieftain was dying. Landing, they placed him on a grassy mound under an overshadowing tree. While the stoical warriors gathered around in stern sadness and the faithful and heroic Wetamoo held the head of her dying lord and wiped his clammy brow, his proud spirit departed "for the land of the hereafter."

This event filled the hearts of his people with sullen and vindictive malice, for they believed Alexander to have been poisoned by the English. Wetamoo immediately became the unrelenting foe of the English. She was by birth a princess in another tribe, one of the numerous "squaw sachems" of New England, and able to lead three hundred warriors into the field. All the energies of her soul were aroused to avenge her husband's death.

Alexander was succeeded by his brother Philip, who also became the head of the Pokanoket confederacy, and in a few years, by his superior diplomacy, he held sway over nearly all the tribes of New England. Philip, of Mount Hope, was a man of superior endowments and one of the few Indians acknowledged by all historians to have been truly great. He clearly understood the power of the English and the peril he encountered in measuring arms with them. And yet he also saw that unless the encroachments of the English could be arrested his own race was doomed to destruction. He deliberately made up his mind to avenge his brother's untimely death; to drive the English from the country or perish in the attempt. Had he belonged to the proud Caucasian race, and especially the Anglo-Saxon division of it, he would have been called a patriot; but, belonging to a so-called inferior race, we find that Hubbard and other earlier historians, whenever they had occasion to mention his name, pay him the passing compliment of "caitiff," "hellhound," "fiend," "arch-rebel" and various similar designations of respect and affection. Verily it makes a great difference as to whether it was my bull gored your ox, or vice versa. Philip and his Wampanoags are unlucky enough, like the lion in the fable, to have no painter.

At one time Philip is thought to have been quite interested in the Christian religion, "but," as Abbott says, "apparently foreseeing that with the introduction of Christianity all the peculiarities in manners and customs of Indian life must pass away, he adopted the views of his father, Massasoit, and became bitterly opposed to any change of religion among his people." Mr. Goodkin, speaking of the Wampanoags, says: "There are some that have hopes of the greatest and chiefest sachem, named Philip. Some of his chief men, as I hear, stand well inclined to hear the gospel, and himself is a person of good understanding and knowledge in the best things. I have heard him speak very good words, arguing that his conscience is convicted. But yet, though his will is bound to embrace Jesus Christ, his sensual and carnal lusts are strong bands to hold him fast under Satan's dominion."

Before the war Rev. John Elliot, the great apostle to the Indians, made the most persistent efforts to induce Philip to embrace Christianity. The courtly savage had always received his arguments and persuasions politely, but without other effect. One day he took hold of a button on Elliot's regulation black threadbare coat and said, "I care no more for your religion than I do for that old button. Let me hear no more about it."

The character of Philip is further illustrated by an incident which happened in 1665. At that time he heard that a Christian-Indian named Assasamooyh, whom the colonists called John Gibbs, had spoken disrespectfully of his father, Massasoit. It was not a mere personal insult but a violation of reverence due from a subject to his king, and the offender forfeited his life, according to their code, at the hand of the nearest relative, who thus became the "avenger of blood."

Hearing that Assasamooyh was on the island of Nantucket, Philip took a canoe and went in pursuit. The offender was sitting at the table of one of the colonists when a messenger rushed in breathlessly and informed him that the dreaded avenger was near the door. Assasamooyh had but just time to rush from the house when the enraged chieftain was upon him. From house to house the Indian fled like a frightened deer, closely pursued by Philip with brandished tomahawk, who considered himself but the honored executor of justice. Assasamooyh, however, at length leaped a bank and plunging into a forest eluded his foe. With difficulty the colonists then succeeded in purchasing the life of his intended victim by a very heavy ransom.

The muttering warclouds grew darker and more threatening on the horizon, and while, for a time, there was no open rupture, yet many things, real and imaginary, indicated an impending crisis.

It is not recorded that the old men dreamed dreams, but young and old appear to have "seen visions." In that superstitious witch-burning age it is not surprising that many of the colonists at this time began to give way to superstitious fears. Among other things it was asserted that a sign of impending evil in the form of an Indian bow was clearly defined against the heavens, and during the eclipse of the moon the figure of an Indian scalp was clearly seen imprinted on its disk. The northern heavens glowed with auroral lights of unusual brilliancy; troops of phantom horsemen were heard to dash through the air; the sighing of the night-wind was like the sound of whistling bullets; and the howling of wolves was fiercer and more constant than usual. These things, the superstitious declared, were warnings that the colonists were about to be severely punished for their sins, among which they named profane swearing, the neglect of bringing up their children in more rigid observances, the licensing of ale houses, and the wearing of long hair by the men and of gay apparel by the women. The more extreme even declared that they were about to be "judged" for not exterminating the Quakers.

Historians have given Philip credit for a grand scheme, conceived with deep foresight and carried on with the most crafty and persevering dissimulation—a scheme to lull the suspicions of the whites by a constant show of friendship, till a general combination of all the Indian tribes could be formed to extirpate them at a single blow. The English meantime felt as if standing over a powder magazine which might explode at any time. They were fully persuaded that a plot was making for their destruction. They felt that something must be done to meet the coming storm or dissipate it before it should burst on their heads.

What confirmed them in this belief was the fact that Philip exerted every effort to accumulate guns and ammunition for his warriors. Unlike Powhatan, he succeeded in obtaining a good supply of the deadly weapons of the English, and even made a great effort to obtain the formula for making gunpowder. His men became expert marksmen and continually practiced athletic exercises, all in pursuit of their common purpose.

In 1671 Philip was discovered to be making warlike preparations and summoned to a conference with the Plymouth government at Taunton. He refused to come unless accompanied by his men. The conference took place in the meeting-house at Taunton. On one side of the house were ranged Philip's fierce looking warriors, attired, painted and armed as for battle. Their long black hair, their eyes glittering with treachery and hate, their fantastic plumes and decorations contrasted strangely with the prim and austere Puritans with plain garb, close-cut hair and solemn countenances as they ranged themselves on the opposite side of the church. The Massachusetts commissioners, three gentlemen, were to sit alone near the altar as umpires. No fair-minded man can fail to admire the character developed by Philip in these arrangements.

Philip alone was the Indian orator and managed his case, which was manifestly a bad one, with such adroitness, that we doubt not Prince Talleyrand himself, the world's most skillful diplomat, would have assigned him a high place among diplomatists. Philip charged the whites with depredations upon his cornfields and denied that he entertained any hostile design; and promptly explained his preparations for war as intended for defense against the Narragansetts. Evidence was at hand, however, to show that he was on terms of more intimate friendship with the Narragansetts at this time than ever before. His plans were by no means perfected and he denied any hostile purposes, signed a new treaty and agreed to surrender all his guns. He is said to have been frightened into this agreement, but his history is written only by his foes. Philip and his warriors immediately gave up their guns, seventy in number, and promised to send in the rest within a given time. It was also agreed in the council that in case of further troubles both parties should submit their complaints to the arbitration of Massachusetts.

This settlement, apparently so important, amounted to nothing. The Indians were ever ready, it is said, to sign any agreement whatever which would extricate them from a momentary difficulty, but such promises were broken as promptly as made on the white man's theory, perhaps, that "all is fair in love and war." Certain it is that Philip, having returned to Mount Hope, sent in no more guns, but was busy as ever gaining resources for war and entering into alliances with other tribes.

At last Philip was notified from Plymouth that unless the arms were given up by September 13, force would be used to compel the act. At the same time messengers were also dispatched to the government of Massachusetts, at Boston, which, it will be remembered, was chosen as umpire to arbitrate between the two contending parties. Philip, shrewd enough to have perceived the jealousy and rivalry between the two colonies, set off at once to Boston, and thus assumed the position of the "law and order" party. With the rarest diplomacy he flattered the Massachusetts colony by certain territorial concessions and made such an adroit statement of his case, representing that Plymouth had encroached on the other colonies by summoning him for trial before her own court, and virtually declaring war without consulting them, that the Bostonians not only refused to help Plymouth at this time but coolly criticised her action as wrong and unwarrantable. They also wrote a letter to Plymouth, assuming that there was perhaps equal blame on both sides, and declaring that there did not appear to be sufficient cause for the Plymouth people to commence hostilities. In their letter they wrote: "We do not understand how Philip hath subjected himself to you. But the treatment you have given him, and your proceedings toward him, do not render him such a subject as that, if there be not at present answering to summons there should presently be a proceeding to hostilities. The sword once drawn and dipped in blood may make him as independent upon you as you are upon him." In short, the Bostonians believed that the whole difficulty arose from the Puritans' "lust for inflicting justice" and might have been avoided.

It was while Philip was at Boston that Josselyn, the English traveler, saw him. "The roytelet of the Pokanokets," he informs us, "had a coat on and buskins set thick with beads in pleasant wild work, and a broad belt of the same. His accoutrements were valued at twenty pounds. . . . Their beads are their money; of these there are two sorts, blue beads and white beads; the first is their gold, the last their silver. These they work out of certain shells, so cunningly that neither Jew nor devil can counterfeit."

Philip, bent on gaining further time for his plans and preparations, signed a new treaty, in which he confessed himself the author of the troubles and stipulated to pay a hundred pounds "in such things as he had" as an indemnity for the expense to which he had subjected the colony. Furthermore, he covenanted to deliver "five wolves' heads if he could get them, or as many as he could procure until they came to five wolves' heads yearly."

Three years now passed of strained intercourse and suspicious peace. This interval was used by the sachem to concert a most elaborate plan for the extermination of the English. Ancient enmities were forgotten. All the New England tribes except the Mohegans and the remnant of the Pequots were united in a great confederacy, of which Philip was to be the chief. The Narragansetts alone agreed to furnish four thousand warriors. Other tribes were to furnish their hundreds or their thousands, according to their strength. Hostilities were to commence in the spring of 1676 by a simultaneous assault upon all the settlements, so as to prevent aid being sent from one part of the country to another.

As Philip's deep laid plans approached maturity he became more independent and bold in his demeanor. The Governor of Massachusetts, becoming convinced that a dreadful conspiracy was in progress, sent an ambassador to Philip demanding an explanation of these threatening appearances, and desiring another treaty of peace and friendship. The proud sachem haughtily replied to the ambassador: "Your Governor is but a subject of King Charles of England. I shall not treat with a subject. I shall only treat with the King, my brother. When he comes I am ready."

Just before the outbreak John Borden, a Rhode Island man and a great friend of Philip, tried to dissuade him from war. His reply is remarkable: "The English who came first to this country were but a handful of people, forlorn, poor and distressed. My father did all in his power to serve them. Others came. Their numbers increased. My father's counselors were alarmed. They urged him to destroy the English before they became strong enough to give law to the Indians and take away their country. My father was also the father to the English. He remained their friend. Experience shows that his counselors were right. The English disarmed my people. They tried them by their own laws, and assessed damages my people could not pay. Sometimes the cattle of the English would come into the corn-fields of my people, for they did not make fences like the English. I must then be seized and confined till I sold another tract of my country for damages and costs. Thus tract after tract is gone. But a small part of the dominion of my ancestors remains. I am determined not to live till I have no country."

"This," says a writer, "is a declaration of war more striking in its origin, more true in its statements, than any with which we are acquainted. It is the mournful summary of accumulated wrongs that cry aloud for battle, not for revenge alone, but for the very existence of the oppressed. It is the sad note of preparation sounded by a royal leader that summons to their last conflict the aboriginal lords of New England."

The burning words were followed by burning deeds. Though still unprepared for war, the pent-up fury of his warriors could hardly be restrained. They became very insolent and boastful, and would actually sharpen their knives and tomahawks upon the door-sills of the colonists, talking in mysterious phrase of the great deeds they were about to perform.

One of the most intelligent of Elliot's converts was John Sassamon, who had acquired considerable education, and had become quite an efficient agent in Christian missions to the Indians. He was also a great help to Elliot in translating the Bible and other books into the Indian language. He lived in semi-civilized style upon Assawompset Neck, with his family, including a very pretty daughter, whom he called Assowetough, but who was called by the Puritans the less sonorous name of Betty. The noted place in Middleborough now called Betty's Neck is immortalized by the charms of Assowetough. Sassamon, though sustaining the most intimate and friendly relations with the English, was a subject of King Philip, and became his private secretary.

Soon after this Sassamon became acquainted with Philip's conspiracy in all its appalling extent and magnitude of design. He at once repaired to Plymouth and informed the Governor of his discovery, but enjoined the strictest secrecy respecting his communication, assuring the Governor that should the Indians learn that he had betrayed them his life would be the inevitable forfeit. Sassamon soon after resigned his position as Philip's secretary, and returning to Middleborough, resumed his employment as teacher and preacher to the Indians.

By some unknown means Philip learned that he had been betrayed by Sassamon, and early in the spring of 1675, Sassamon was suddenly missing. Suspicion immediately arose that he had been murdered either by Philip or some of his friends. After a search the body was found beneath the ice of Assawompset pond, in Middleborough. The murderers, hoping to escape suspicion, left his hat and gun upon the ice, that it might be supposed he had drowned himself or fallen in by accident; but upon an examination of the body it appeared that his neck had been broken, "which," says Dr. Mather, "is one Indian way of murdering." Three Indians were arrested and put upon trial at Plymouth, in June, before a jury composed of eight Englishmen and four Indians. In that superstitious age the colonists were but too ready to believe anything and everything which supported a charge against Philip. The leader of the three Indians arrested was Tobias, one of Philip's councilors. Dr. Increase Mather says of him: "When Tobias came near the dead body, it fell a bleeding on fresh, as if it had been newly slain, albeit it was buried a considerable time before that."

Matters looked very black for Tobias, and blacker still when a convenient Indian, one Patuekson, was found who, from a neighboring hill, claimed to have witnessed the death of Sassamon, at the hands of Tobias and the others. Patuekson had not dared to tell what he had seen before this, because of fears for his own life.

The three men were all convicted and hung. Philip was highly exasperated when he heard of the execution. He did not deny their agency in the affair, but contended that "the English had nothing to do with one Indian's killing another." To make matters worse, Philip was apprehensive that he also might be kidnapped and hung, as indeed was contemplated, as we learn from a letter written by Governor Winslow, July 4, 1675, in which he says: "I do solemnly protest, we know not anything from us which might have put Philip upon these motions, nor have heard that he pretends to suffer any wrong from us, save only that we had killed some Indians, and intended to send for himself for the murder of John Sassamon." We are curious to know what more provocation the good Governor would deem necessary before Philip would have a just "casus beli."

The murder of Sassamon precipitated the conflict. At that time Philip was training his forces, but had not fully matured his plans. The Narragansetts, who had entered into the plot and were to furnish four thousand warriors, were not yet ready. But Philip could no longer restrain the vindictive spirit of his young Wampanoag warriors, who were roused to a frenzy, and immediately commenced a series of the most intolerable annoyances, shooting the cattle, frightening the women and children, and insulting wayfarers wherever they could find them. According to Abbott, "The Indians had imbibed the superstitious notion, which had probably been taught them by John Sassamon, that the party which should commence the war and shed the first blood would be defeated. They therefore wished, by violence and insult, to provoke the English to strike the first blow." Nor had they long to wait. On Sunday, June 20, 1675, a party of eight Indians, bent on mischief, entered the little settlement of Swanzey, ransacked a house while the settlers were at church and shot the peaceful cattle pasturing on the green. Becoming very much exasperated at the attempt of the Indians to force an entrance into his house, a settler fired at and wounded one of the savages, who went sullenly away with bloody threats. The first blood was now shed, and the drama of war was opened. In view of the alarming state of affairs, messengers were dispatched to Boston and Plymouth. Thursday, the 24th, was appointed as a day of fasting and prayer.

On that day the village wore the stillness of a Sabbath. The pious people were returning with thoughtful faces from the log church. The rough street, filled with stumps, wound past the cabins with their little clearings, and through the noonday shadows of the primeval forest. Suddenly there were two sharp reports, two puffs of smoke, and two manly forms lay prostrate, one of them dead. The English were dumb with horror. Two who were dispatched for a "chirurgeon" were shot dead in the road, at the same time red flames burst through the roofs of a dozen cabins.

Leaving their slain where they had fallen, sixteen men and fifty-four women and children fled to a large house, where they prepared to fight for their lives. In another part of the town six others were killed and their bodies shockingly mutilated in attempting to reach this place of safety. One story is recorded of a servant girl in a cabin, who hid two little children under a large brass kettle, fired at an Indian entering the house, and, failing to kill him, beat him off by throwing a shovelful of live coals in his face, so that he was found in the woods dead from his wounds. As the terrible news quickly spread through the colonies, little companies of men were soon raised. The people besieged in the strong house at Swanzey were relieved, and soon a force of more than a hundred men was collected at that ill-fated village. An expedition was sent to attack Philip at Mount Hope; but that wily sachem, fearing a trap and seeing how untenable the little peninsula was for successful defense, had withdrawn his entire force and taken a strong strategic position in the midst of the great Pocasset swamp, where he was finally located by Captain Church and his men.

In the meantime the Massachusetts troops had marched into the Narragansett country, and with great show of force concluded a treaty with the Narragansetts, which they faithfully observed while the colonists were in sight. The united forces then marched on Philip, still intrenched in the great swamp. The colonists, knowing the intellectual supremacy of King Philip as the commanding genius of the war, determined to kill or capture him, and offered large rewards for his head.

After the English were led into an ambush and fifteen of them killed, they concluded that, as three sides of the swamp were surrounded by water, they had only to closely guard the land side, and Philip would be starved out and forced to surrender, as the Indians had but a limited store of provisions. So they built a fort and kept guard for thirteen days.

But Philip and his warriors had been busy constructing rafts and canoes, and one dark night he floated all his fighting men, numbering some two hundred, across the river, and continued his flight far away into the unknown and almost unexplored wilderness of the interior of Massachusetts. Wetamoo, the widow of his brother Alexander, who was ever at Philip's side, together with some of her warriors, escaped with him. He left a hundred starving women and children in the swamps, who surrendered themselves the next morning to the English.

Philip had now penetrated the Wilderness and effected his escape beyond the reach of his foes. He had the boundless forest around him for his refuge, with the opportunity of emerging at his leisure upon any point of attack along the New England frontier he might choose. Brookfield, an exposed settlement of twenty families, was the first to suffer. Twenty horsemen coming to its defense, were ambushed in a deep gully, and eleven killed. Emboldened by this success, three hundred Indians, yelling like fiends and brandishing their bloody weapons, rushed into the settlement. The terrified people gathered for defense in the strongest house, from the loopholes and windows of which they saw the torch applied to their homes. In an hour every cabin, with all its household furniture, most of it brought from England, was a heap of smoldering embers.

The Indians now surrounded the house in which the people were gathered. Inside, feather beds were fastened to the walls for protection. Outside the Indians exerted their utmost ingenuity for two days to fire the building; They wrapped around their arrows hemp dipped in oil, and setting them on fire, shot them on the dry, inflammable roof. Several times the building was in a blaze, but by great effort the inmates extinguished it. One night a fire was built against the very door, but the colonists rushed out to a near-by well and procured water to quench it.

When the ammunition of the colonists was running low, and they were exhausted by two days and as many nights of incessant conflict, and ready to despair, the Indians made a last desperate effort to fire the building. Filling a cart with hemp, flax and the resinous boughs of fir and pine, fastening to the tongue a succession of long poles, they set the whole contents on fire and pushed it against the garrison house, whose walls were as dry as tinder.

But at that critical instant, when all hope was gone. Major Willard, of Boston, with forty-eight dragoons, charged through the Indians, scattering them right and left, and entered the garrison. The burning cart was rolled away from the building, and a providential shower aided in extinguishing the flames which had been kindled.

The savages, after firing a few volleys into the fortress, sullenly retired. During this remarkable siege, one white man was killed and many wounded, while the Indians' loss was about eighty killed.

It is said that Major Willard, who thus rescued the people of Brookfield from a cruel death, suffered military censure and disgrace for having gone there instead of remaining at Hadley, where there were no Indians.

The fate of Brookfield was also meted out to Hatfield, Deerfield, Northfield and Springfield, while North Hampton, Worcester and Hadley, though lacking the name, became "battlefields."

A curious incident is recorded in connection with the Indians attack on Hadley, which occurred on Sabbath morning of September 1, while the people were attending public worship. This town had three companies organized for defense, but the suddenness of the attack caused the people to become panic-stricken; they were about to fly in the wildest confusion, like sheep assailed by wolves. Suddenly a stranger of large size, commanding appearance, loud voice and flowing, gray hair and beard, appeared in their midst with a rallying cry and drawn sword. His strange military aspect, and authoritative manner, quickly inspired all with courage. They fought with desperate valor under his leadership, and after a bloody battle the savages were defeated and driven away. The people of Hadley now turned to look for their deliverer, but he had disappeared, as suddenly as he had come, and was never seen again. They firmly believed him to have been the angel of the Lord, and so it passed into the traditions of the place. Years afterward it was discovered that the stranger was William Goffe, one of Cromwell's major-generals, and one of the judges who signed the death warrant of Charles I., called by the royalists "regicides." Many of these judges were executed when Charles II. became King. Three of them—Gen. William Goffe, his father-in-law, Gen. Edward Whalley, and Col. John Dixwell, fled to America on board the same ship that brought the first news of the restoration of the monarchy. They arrived in Boston July, 1660, and made their abode at Cambridge. Soon after this a fencing-master erected a platform on the Boston Common and dared any man to fight him with swords. Goffe, armed with a huge cheese covered with a cloth for a shield, and a mop filled with muddy water, appeared before the champion, who immediately made a thrust at his antagonist. Goffe caught and held the fencing-master's sword in the cheese and besmeared him with the mud in his mop. The enraged fencing-master caught up a broadsword, when Goffe cried, "Hold! I have hitherto played with you; if you attack me. I will surely kill you." The alarmed champion dropped his sword and exclaimed, "Who can you be? You must be either Goffe, or Whalley, or the devil, for there are no other persons who could beat me."

Feeling insecure at Cambridge, for Charles II. offered large rewards for their arrest, and sent officers to take them, the "regicides" fled to New Haven, where the Rev. Mr. Davenport and the citizens generally did what they could to protect them. Learning that their pursuers were near, they hid in caves, in clefts of the rocks, in mills and other obscure places, where their friends supplied their wants. Pastor Davenport preached a sermon on the text, "Hide the outcasts; betray not him that wandereth." The sermon had the desired effect, and the officers returned without capturing the regicides.

Finally, in 1664, they went to Hadley, Massachusetts, where they remained in absolute seclusion, in the house of Rev. Mr. Russell, during a period of about fifteen years.

Dixwell was with Whalley and Goffe most of the time until they died—the former in 1678 and the latter in 1679—and were buried at New Haven, where the colonel lived the latter part of his life under an assumed name. He, too, died and was buried at New Haven. In the burying-ground in the rear of the Central Church, small stones with brief inscriptions mark the graves of the three "regicides."

This in brief is the true story of the "Angel of the Lord, who delivered Hadley." Soon after this Hadley became the headquarters of the colonists' army. Quite a large force was assembled there, and most of the inhabitants of the adjoining towns fled to this place for protection.

There were three thousand bushels of corn stored in the garrison house at Deerfield, fifteen miles above Hadley, on the western side of the river. On the 18th of September, 1675, Captain Lothrop, with a force of one hundred men, soldiers and teamsters, was sent to bring this corn to Hadley. Nothing occurred until they had loaded their wagons and were on the return trip. Not an Indian had been seen; but all the time the lurking foe had been watching their movements, and plotting their destruction. All went well until they reached the banks of a beautiful little stream. It was a bright autumnal day. Grape-vines festooned the gigantic forest trees, and purple clusters, ripe and luscious, hung in profusion among the boughs. Captain Lothrop was so unsuspicious of danger that he allowed many of his men to throw their guns into the carts and to stroll about gathering grapes.

The critical moment arrived, and the English being in the midst of the ambush, a thousand Indians sprang up from their concealment, as if by magic, and poured a deadly fire upon the straggling column. Then, with exultant yells, they rushed from every quarter to close assault. The English were taken entirely by surprise, and being scattered in a long line of march, could only resort to the Indian mode of fighting, each one from behind a tree. But they were entirely surrounded and overpowered. Some, in their dismay, leaped into the branches of the trees, hoping thus to escape observation. The savages, with shouts of derision, mocked them for a time, and then killed them.

But eight escaped to tell of the awful tragedy. Ninety young men of the very flower of Essex county were thus slaughtered. The little stream running through the south part of Deerfield, on whose banks this dreadful tragedy occurred, has since been known as Bloody Brook, from the fact that the water was discolored as a result of this slaughter. Captain Mosely heard the firing at Deerfield, only five miles distant, and immediately marched to their rescue, but got there too late. He and his seventy men, however, fell upon the Indians with undaunted courage. Keeping his men in solid phalanx he broke through the lines of the savages, again and again cutting down all in sight, but losing heavily every minute. Aided by the swamp, the forest, and overwhelming numbers, the Indians maintained the fight with much fierceness for six hours, and in the end Mosely and his men would probably have shared the same fate as those for whom they thus imperiled their lives, had not reinforcements arrived at the critical moment, consisting of one hundred and sixty friendly Mohegan Indians under the command of Major Treat. These fresh troops fell vigorously upon the foe, and the savages fled, leaving ninety-six of their number dead. Philip himself is said to have commanded in this bloody fight, and his men, though defeated in the end, were greatly encouraged and emboldened.

The two captains, Mosely and Treat, encamped near by in an open space, and attended to the burial of the dead the following day. They were deposited in two pits, the colonists in one and the Indians in the other. A slab has been placed over the mound which covers the slain, and a marble monument now marks the spot where this battle was fought.

Up to this time the colonists had acted independently of each other, but it dawned upon them at last that their only hope of avoiding utter destruction lay in union. Accordingly commissioners were appointed from Massachusetts, Plymouth and Connecticut, to form a confederation, and plan for a concerted effort, with not less than a thousand troops. This number was quickly raised, and being augmented by one hundred and fifty Mohegan Indians from Connecticut, was placed under the command of Col. Josiah Winslow, of Plymouth.

Meantime the Narragansetts annulled the treaty they had been forced to make with the colonists. Their chief, Canonchet, not only received Philip and his Wampanoags, but aided them in constructing a strong fortification in an immense swamp, near what is now South Kingston, Rhode Island. It was on high ground near the center of the swamp, including several acres. The walls were an impenetrable hedge, with palisades and breast-works. Here they constructed five hundred log houses, almost bulletproof. The only entrance was by means of a bridge, over deep water, consisting of the trunk of a large tree, along which persons were forced to walk in single file. As this bridge was also flanked by a blockhouse, the whole plan of the place was an admirable proof of Philip's genius for war. Three thousand warriors under the command of Philip and Canonchet soon assembled at this rendezvous, where they were attacked by the colonists on the morning of December 19, having been guided to the fallen tree by a treacherous Narragansett Indian.

As the English rushed to cross this narrow bridge, they were instantly cut down by Philip's sharpshooters. Others promptly took their places only to share their fate. In a few moments six captains and a large number of their men were dead or struggling in the ditch. A few crossed the tree and reached the enclosure, only to fall pierced by the balls of the savages within.

At last, Captain Church, the hero of this war, with thirty picked men, forced an entrance into the fort at a point in the rear, not so strongly defended. In a moment they were supported by hundreds more. Once within the enclosure the real struggle was but commenced. The shrieks of the savages mingled with the roar of musketry. "It was," as Augustus Lynch Mason says, "the great struggle of New England. On the one hand fought three thousand Indian warriors, inspired by every feeling of patriotism, hatred, revenge, the sense of oppression, and love for their families. They fought for their native land. On the other were the colonists, the offspring of an age of intolerance and fanaticism, of war and revolution. Exiled from their native land, these men of iron had wrought out for themselves rude homes in the wilderness. Unless they could maintain their settlements in New England against the savages there was no place under the bending sky where they might live in liberty and peace. The inhospitable earth would disown her children. So they fought, nerved by the thought of wife and child, by the memory of the past, by the hopes of the future."

The conflict raged for three hours without decisive results, but with great slaughter on both sides. The English could not be driven from the fort, nor could they dislodge the Indians. At last the ammunition of the savages ran low, and above the tumult was heard the shout of Captain Church crying, "Fire the wig-wams!" The order was obeyed, and to the din of battle was added the thunderous roar of flames mingled with the shrieks and wailings of old men, women and children, as they were roasted alive in the fiery furnaces. Quarter was neither asked nor given, as the combatants fought like demons, contending for every foot of ground. When night came on, with a heavy snow-storm, the savages retreated to the smoky depths of the swamp, where many perished with the cold.

The English were left in possession of the charred fort, but it was a dearly bought victory. Since daybreak the colonists had marched sixteen miles and fought this terrible battle without food or rest. Nor did they stop when the victory was won, but hastily collecting their dead and disabled, they placed them on quickly improvised litters, and wearily trudged away into the forest on the return march. As they slowly stumbled over the rough places, or plowed their way through the deep snow, bearing their slain, many a brave comrade sank by the way to rise no more. In this decisive battle a thousand warriors were killed and hundreds more were captured. Besides the non-combatants, nearly all the wounded perished in the flames. The pride of the Narragansetts perished in a day, but eighty English soldiers, including six captains, were killed, and one hundred and fifty others wounded. Those of the Indians who escaped, led by Philip, again repaired to the Nipmucks. With the opening of spring the war was renewed with more violence than ever. With the decline of their fortunes, the Indians grew desperate, and swept the frontier with resistless fury. Lancaster, Medfield, Groton and Marlboro were laid in ashes. Weymouth, within twenty miles of Boston, met the same fate. On every hand were seen traces of murder and rapine. But the end was near at hand; the resources of the savages were wasted and their number daily decreasing.

In April, Canonchet, the great sachem of the Narragansetts, and, next to Philip, the master spirit of the war, was captured on the banks of the Blackstone. The English offered to spare his life if he would bring about a treaty of peace. But the suggestion was scornfully rejected. It was Canonchet who, when the English demanded that he should surrender some of Philip's men, who were with him on a former occasion, replied, "Not a Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail shall be delivered up." When told that he must die he made this memorable answer: "I like it well; I shall die before my heart is soft, or I have said anything unworthy of myself." Because he had refused to violate the laws of hospitality by surrendering his friends to certain death or slavery, his father had been murdered, his warriors slain by the hundred, his women and children burned alive in the wigwams of the fort. Yet for all this he uttered not a word of reproach. Scorning to save his life by the submission of his people to such conquerors, he calmly folded his arms across his kingly breast, and with head erect and eye that never quailed, received the fatal bullets in his heart. In all the lore of chivalry and war their cannot be found a more heroic soul.

Like his father, Miantonomo, Canonchet (or Nannutemo, as he is sometimes called) was a friend to the heroic Roger Williams, who tried to dissuade him from becoming an ally to Philip. Mr. Williams now seventy-seven years of age, told him that "Massachusetts could raise ten thousand men, and even were the Indians to destroy them all, Old England could send over an equal number every year until the Indians were conquered." To which the noble young chief proudly and generously replied: "Let them come, we shall be ready for them; but as for you, Brother Williams, you are a good man; you have been kind to us many years; not a hair of your head shall be touched." And when the town of Providence was nearly destroyed by the Indians, it was Canonchet who gave orders that the person and property of Roger Williams should be spared, and he was obeyed. And yet there are those who think the Indian is devoid of gratitude.

The death of Canonchet, his most formidable ally, had a very depressing effect on Philip, and marked the beginning of the end, for their friendship was like that of David and Jonathan, strongest in adversity. Other influences were also at work which were surely undermining the power of Philip. Having had their stores of corn and other provision destroyed by the English, and being prevented from planting more by the desolation of war, his warriors were forced to a diet almost entirely of meat. This caused many to fall a prey to disease. Moreover, the allied tribes began to murmur in open discontent and rebellion, saying that Philip had promised them easy victories and much plunder, but instead they had gained nothing by this war but hardship, suffering and the hatred of the English. Nothing succeeds like success, but it is also true that nothing fails like failure.

Captain Church was made commander-in-chief of all the forces, with full power to conduct the war in his own way. He abandoned the English method of warfare and fought the Indians with their own methods. Offers of peace were made to all who were discerning enough to see that their cause was hopeless, and various bands of Indians began to lay down their arms, only to take them up again as allies to the colonists.

Queen Awashonks, and her Saconet tribe, numbering about three hundred warriors, deserted him, and fought under the command of Church to the end of the war.

It is said that Philip never smiled again when he heard of this desertion, for he knew his doom was sealed.

But Wetamoo (Alexander's beautiful widow, who was also the squaw sachem or queen of the Pocasset tribe) and her warriors, remained faithful to his waning fortunes. At the beginning of the war, Wetamoo, flushed with hope, had marched to the conflict at the head of three hundred warriors. She and her men were always in the thickest of the fight, and her forces had been reduced to a dejected and despairing band of but twenty-six followers.

A deserting Indian came to Taunton and offered to conduct the English to a spot on the river where Wetamoo and her surviving warriors were in hiding. Twenty English armed themselves and followed him to a place called Gardner's Neck, near Swanzey, where they surprised and captured every one but Wetamoo herself. The heroic queen, too proud to be captured, knowing it meant slavery, instantly threw off all her clothing and seizing a broken piece of wood she plunged into the stream. But, weakened by famine and exhaustion, her nerveless arm failed her and she sank to the bottom of the stream. Soon after her body, like a bronze statue of marvelous symmetry, was found washed ashore. The English immediately cut off her head and set it upon a pole in one of the streets of Taunton, a trophy ghastly, bloody and revolting. Many of her subjects were in Taunton as captives, and when they saw the features of their beloved queen, they filled the air with shrieks and lamentations.

The situation of Philip had now become desperate. The indefatigable Captain Church followed hard after him and tracked him through every covert and hiding place. On the 1st of August he came up with him and killed and took one hundred and thirty of his men. Philip again had a narrow escape and fled so precipitately that his wampum belt, covered with beads, and silver, the ensign of his princedom, fell into the hands of the English, who also captured his wife and only son, young Metacomet, both of whom were doomed to slavery and shipped to the West Indies. His cup of misfortune was now filled to the brim. "My heart breaks," said he in the agony of his grief, "now I am ready to die."

Philip now began, like Saul of old, when earth was leaving him, to look to the powers beyond it, and applied to his magicians and sorcerers, who, on consulting their oracles, assured him that no Englishman should ever kill him, as indeed many had tried to do, and so far had failed. This was a vague consolation, yet it seems to have given him, for a while, a confidence in his destiny, and he took his last stand in the middle of a dense and almost inaccessible swamp just south of Mount Hope, his old home, where he had spent the only happy years of his eventful life. It was a fit retreat for a despairing man, being one of those waste and dismal places hid by cypress and other trees of dense foliage, that spread their gloomy shades over the treacherous shallows and pools beneath.

In the few dry parts oaks and pines grew, and, between them a brushwood so thick that man or beast could hardly penetrate; on the long, rich grass of these parts wild cattle fed, unassailed by the hand of man, save when they ventured beyond the confines of the swamp. There were wolves, deer and other wild animals, and wilder men, it was said, were seen here, supposed to have been the children of some of the Indians who had either been lost or left here, and had thus grown up like denizens of this wild, dismal swamp. Here, on a little spot of upland, the battled chieftain gathered his little band around him, and, like a lion at bay, made his last stand.

In this extremity, an Indian proposed to seek peace with the English; the haughty monarch instantly laid him dead at his feet, as a punishment for his temerity and as a warning to others. But this act led to his own undoing. The brother of this murdered Indian, named Alderman, indignant at such severity, deserted to the English, and offered to guide them to the swamp where Philip was secreted. Church and his men gladly accepted the offer, and immediately followed the traitor to the place and surrounded the Indians.

The night before his death it is said that Philip, "like him of the army of Midian," had been dreaming that he was fallen into the hands of the English; he awoke in alarm and told it to his men and advised them to fly for their lives, for he believed it would come to pass. Now, just as he was telling his dream, he was startled by the first shot fired by one of the English, who had surrounded his camp. Seizing his gun and powder horn he fled at full speed in a direction guarded by an Englishman and the traitor, Alderman. The Englishman took deliberate aim at him when he was only a few yards away, but the powder was damp and the gun missed fire, as if in fulfilment of the oracle. It was now the Indian's turn, and a sharp report rang through the forest and two bullets, for the gun was double charged, passed almost directly through the heart of the heroic warrior. For an instant the majestic frame of the chieftain quivered from the shock, and then he fell heavily and stone dead in the mud and water of the swamp.

The traitorous Indian ran eagerly to inform Captain Church that he had shot King Philip, and Church, by a prearranged signal, called his soldiers together and informed them of the death of their formidable foe. The corpse was dragged out of the swamp, as if it had been the carcass of a wild beast, to where the ground was dry. Captain Church then said: "Forasmuch as he has caused many an Englishman's body to lie unburied and to rot above the ground, not one of his bones shall be buried." Accordingly, an old Indian executioner was ordered to cut off his head and quarter his body, which was immediately done. Philip had a mutilated hand, caused by the bursting of a pistol; this hand was given to Alderman, who shot him, as his share of the spoil. Captain Church informs us that Alderman preserved it in rum and carried it around the country as a show, "and accordingly he got many a penny by exhibiting it." The head was sent to Plymouth, where it was set up on a gibbet and exposed for twenty years, while the four quarters of the body were nailed to as many trees, a terrible exhibition of the barbarism of that age.

"Such," said Edward Everett, "was the fate of Philip. He had fought a relentless war, but he fought for his native land, for the mound that covered the bones of his parents; he fought for his squaw and papoose; no—I will not defraud them of the sacred names which our hearts understand—he fought for his wife and child."

Philip, of Mount Hope, was certainly one of the most illustrious savages upon the North American continent. The interposition of Providence alone seems to have prevented him from exterminating the whole English race of New England. Though his character has been described only by those who were exasperated against him to the very highest degree, still it is evident that he possessed many of the noblest qualities which can embellish any character.

Mrs. Rowlandson, who was captured by the Indians at the time Lancaster was destroyed, met King Philip on several occasions and received only kind usage at his hands. She says in her narrative: "Then I went to see King Philip" (who was not present at the attack of Lancaster), "and he bade me come in and sit down, and asked me whether I would smoke, a usual compliment, now-a-days, among saints and sinners, but this no ways suited me. During my abode in this place, Philip spoke to me to make a shirt for his boy, for which he gave me a shilling. Afterward he asked me to make a cap for his boy, for which he invited me to dinner. I went, and he gave me a pancake, about as big as two fingers; it was made of parched wheat, beaten, and fried in bear's grease, but I thought I never tasted pleasanter meat in my life." She met Philip again at the rendezvous near Mount Wachusett. Kindly, and with the courtesy of a polished gentleman, he took the hand of the unhappy captive and said "In two more weeks you shall be your own mistress again," In the last talk she had with Philip, he said to her, with a smile on his face: "Would you like to hear some good news? I have a pleasant word for you. You are to go home to-morrow," and she did.

That magnanimity and gratitude were prominent characteristics of this great chieftain is shown by his treatment of the Leonard family, who resided at Taunton and erected the first forge which was established in the English colonies. Though living at Mount Hope, Philip had a favorite summer resort at Fowling Pond, near Taunton, and thus became acquainted with the Leonards, who treated him and his warriors with uniform kindness, repairing their guns, and supplying them with such tools as the Indians highly prized. "Philip," says Abbott, "had become exceedingly attached to this family, and in gratitude, at the commencement of the war, had given the strictest orders that the Indians should never molest or injure a Leonard. Apprehending that in a general assault upon the town his friends, the Leonards, might be exposed to danger, he spread the shield of his generous protection over the whole place." Thus the Leonard family did for Taunton what the family of Lot were unable to do for Sodom. The Indians were often seen near, and in large numbers, but it was spared the fate of thirteen other towns, some of them larger than Taunton.

"His mode of making war," says Francis Baylies, "was secret and terrible. He seemed like a demon of destruction hurling his bolts in darkness. With cautious and noiseless steps, and shrouded by the deep shade of midnight, he glided from the gloomy depths of the woods. He stole on the villages and settlements of New England, like the pestilence, unseen and unheard. His dreadful agency was felt when the yells of his followers roused his victims from their slumbers, and when the flames of their blazing habitations glared upon their eyes. His pathway could be traced by the horrible desolation of its progress, by its crimson print upon the snows and the sands, by smoke and fire, by houses in ruins, by the shrieks of women, the wailing of infants, and the groans of the wounded and dying. Well indeed might he have been called the 'terror of New England.' Yet in no instance did he transcend the usages of Indian warfare."

Though the generality of the Indians were often inhuman, yet it does not appear that Philip was personally vindictive. His enmity was national, not individual. Nor is there any evidence that Philip ever ordered a captive to be tortured, while it is undeniable that the English, in several instances, surrendered their captives to the horrid barbarities of their savage allies.

As Abbott well says, "We must remember that the Indians have no chroniclers of their wrongs, and yet the colonial historians furnish us with abundant incidental evidence that outrages were perpetrated by individuals of the colonists, which were sufficient to drive any people mad. No one can now contemplate the doom of Metacomet, the last of an illustrious line, but with emotions of sadness."

"Even that he lived is for his conqueror's tongue, By foes alone his death-song must be sung. No chronicles but theirs shall tell His mournful doom to future times, May these upon his virtues dwell. And his fate forget his crimes!"

Philip's war was not only the most serious conflict which New England ever sustained against the savages, but the most fatal to the aborigines themselves. The great tribe of the Narragansetts, of old, the leading tribe of New England, was almost entirely exterminated; hardly a hundred warriors remained. The last chief of either tribe capable of leading the Indians to battle had fallen. Philip's son was sent to Bermuda and sold as a slave. The war cost the colonies half a million of dollars, and the lives of about six hundred men, the flower of the population. Thirteen towns and six hundred houses were burned, and there was hardly a family in the country that had not occasion to mourn the death of a relative.

[CHAPTER V.]

PONTIAC, THE RED NAPOLEON.
HEAD CHIEF OF THE OTTAWAS; AND ORGANIZER OF THE FIRST GREAT INDIAN CONFEDERATION.

It has been said that the history of the United States began with the triumph of the English on the heights of Abraham, resulting in the immediate fall of Quebec and the inevitable surrender of all Canada.

This memorable event took place September 13, 1759, and from New Hampshire to Georgia the American colonists welcomed the news with exuberant rejoicings.

But their joy was premature and of short duration, for though the French had been subdued, and were suing for peace, their Indian allies, under the indomitable Pontiac, had, in the language of Paul Jones, "just begun to fight."

This remarkable sachem was principal chief of the Ottawas, and the virtual head of a loose kind of confederacy, consisting of the Ottawas, Ojibways and Pottawatomies. Over those around him, his authority was almost despotic, and his power extended far beyond the limits of the three united tribes. His influence was great among all the nations of the Illinois country; while from the sources of the Ohio to those of the Mississippi, and, indeed, to the farthest boundaries of the wide-spread Algonquin race, his name was known and respected.

He is said to have been the son of an Ottawa chief and an Ojibway mother, a circumstance which proved an advantage to him by increasing his influence over both tribes. But the mere fact that Pontiac was born the son of a chief would, as Parkman says, "in no degree account for the extent of his power; for, among Indians, many a chief's son sinks back into insignificance, while the offspring of a common warrior may succeed to his place." Among all the wild tribes of the continent, personal merit is indispensable to gaining or preserving dignity. Courage, resolution, wisdom, address and eloquence are sure passports to distinction. With all these Pontiac was preeminently endowed, and it was chiefly to them, urged to their highest activity by a vehement ambition, that he owed his greatness, for all authorities, and especially those who came personally in contact with him, concede the fact that he was indeed great.

A traveler who visited his country about 1760 mentions him in the following terms: "Pontiac, their present King or Emperor, has certainly the largest empire and greatest authority of any Indian chief that has appeared on the continent since our acquaintance with it. He puts on an air of majesty and princely grandeur, and is greatly honored and revered by his subjects."

Pontiac is said to have commanded the Ottawas at Braddock's defeat, and was treated with much honor by the French officers. The venerable Pierre Chouteau, of St. Louis, remembered to have seen Pontiac a few days before the assassination of that chief, attired in the complete uniform of a French officer, which had been given him by the Marquis of Montcalm, a short time before the fall of Quebec.

An Ojibway Indian told Parkman that some portion of his power was to be ascribed to his being a chief of the Metai, a magical association among the Indians of the lakes, in which character he exerted an influence on the superstitions of his followers.

The great chief possessed many resources. His intellect was strong and capacious, while his commanding energy and subtle craft could match the best of his wily race. But, though capable of acts of lofty magnanimity, he was a thorough savage, sharing all their passions and prejudices, their fierceness and treachery. Yet his faults were those of his race; and they can not eclipse his nobler qualities, the great powers and heroic virtues of his mind.

At the time of which we write, Pontiac made his home at an Ottawa village about five miles above Detroit, on the opposite or Canadian side of the river. He lived in no royal state. His cabin was a small, oven-shaped structure of bark and rushes. Here he dwelt with his squaws and children; and here, doubtless, he might often have been seen, carelessly reclining his half-naked form on a rush mat, or bearskin, like any ordinary warrior. But his vigorous mind was ever active—thinking, scheming, plotting, if you will, how to most effectually unite all the scattered tribes, many of them his hereditary foes, in one great far-reaching effort to regain what the French had lost, by driving back the English invaders from his land.

The first time Pontiac stands forth distinctly on the page of history, or rather stalks across that page, was in 1760, about a year after the victory of the English at Quebec.

On September 12, 1760, the famous major, Robert Rogers, received orders from Sir Jeffrey Amherst to ascend the lakes with a detachment of two hundred rangers in fifteen whaleboats and take possession, in the name of his Britannic majesty, of Detroit, Michillimackinac, and other western posts included in the late capitulation. On November 7 they reached the mouth of a river called by Rogers the Chogage. Weary with their long voyage they determined to rest a few days, and were preparing their encampment in the neighboring forest when a party of Indian chiefs and warriors entered the camp.

They proclaimed themselves an embassy from Pontiac, "King and Lord of that country," and informed Rogers and his rangers that their great sachem, in person, proposed to visit the English; that he was then not far distant, coming peaceably, and that he desired the major to halt his detachment "till such time as he could see him with his own eyes."

The major drew up his troops as requested, and before long Pontiac made his appearance. He wore, we are told, "an air of majesty and princely grandeur." He saluted them, but the salutation, so far from being another "Welcome, Englishmen!" was very frigid and formal. He at once sternly demanded of Rogers his business in his territory, and how he had dared to venture upon it without his permission. Rogers very prudently answered that he had no design against the Indians, but, on the contrary, wished to remove from their country a nation who had been an obstacle to mutual friendship and commerce between them and the English. He also made known his commission to this effect, and concluded with a present of several belts of wampum. Pontiac received them with the single observation, "I shall stand in the path you are walking till morning," and gave at the same time, a small string of wampum. "This," writes the major, "was as much as to say I must not march farther without his leave."

Such, undoubtedly, was the safest construction, and the sequel shows that Pontiac considered it the most civil. Before departing for the night he inquired of Rogers whether he wanted anything which his country afforded; if so, his warriors should bring it for him.

The reply was discreet as the offer was generous, that whatever provisions might be brought in should be well paid for. Probably they were; but the English were, at all events, supplied the next morning with several bags of parched corn, game and other necessaries. Pontiac himself, at the second meeting, offered the pipe of peace, which he and Rogers smoked by turns. He declared that he thereby made peace with Rogers and his rangers and that they should pass through his dominions, not only unmolested by his subjects, but protected by them from all other parties who might incline to be hostile.

A cold storm of rain set in, and the rangers were detained some days in their encampment. During this time Rogers had several interviews with Pontiac, and was constrained to admire the native vigor of his intellect, no less than the singular control he exercised over his own warriors and all the Indians in the lake regions. In the course of their conversation, Rogers informs us that the great chieftain "often intimated to him that he should be content to reign in his country, in subordination to the King of Great Britain, and was willing to pay him such annual acknowledgment as he was able in furs, and to call him Uncle." England was much in his thoughts, and he several times expressed a desire to see it. He told Rogers that if he would conduct him there he would give him a part of his country. He was willing to grant the English favors, and allow them to settle in his dominions, but not unless he could be viewed as a sovereign; and he gave them to understand that unless they conducted themselves agreeable to his wishes, "he would shut up the way and keep them out."

"As an earnest of his friendship," continued Rogers, "he sent one hundred warriors to protect and assist us in driving one hundred fat cattle, which we had brought for the use of the detachment from Pittsburg, by the way of Presque Isle. He likewise sent to the several Indian towns, on the south side and west end of Lake Erie, to inform them that I had his consent to come into the country. He attended me constantly after this interview till I arrived at Detroit, and while I remained in the country, and was the means of preserving the detachment from the fury of the Indians, who had assembled at the mouth of the strait, with an intent to cut us off. I had several conferences with him, in which he discovered great strength of judgment, and a thirst after knowledge. He was especially anxious to be made acquainted with the English mode of war, to know how their arms and accoutrements were provided, and how their clothing was manufactured."

Up to this time Pontiac had been in word and deed the fast friend and ally of the French; but it is easy to discern the motives that impelled him to renounce his old adherence. The American forest never produced a man more shrewd, politic and ambitious. Ignorant as he was of what was passing in the world, he could clearly see that the French power was on the wane, and he knew his own interest too well to prop a falling cause. By making friends of the English he hoped to gain powerful allies, who would aid his ambitious projects, and give him an increased influence over the tribes; and he flattered himself that the newcomers would treat him with the same studied respect which the French had always observed. In this and all his other expectations of advantage from the English, he was doomed to disappointment.

There seems no reasonable doubt of the sincerity of Pontiac's friendship toward the English at this time, and we can not forbear thinking how different might have been the record of the historian, had the English authorities pursued a friendly and conciliatory policy toward the Indians in general, and this mighty chieftain in particular. What massacres and devastation might the country have been spared.

Instead of "a work of love and reconciliation" toward the Indians the exact opposite policy was pursued by the English. Flushed with their victory over the more formidable French, they bestowed only a passing thought on the despised savages, and greatly underrated their warlike prowess.

A number of things tended to enrage the Indians against the English invaders of their land, for such they regarded them from the first. It will be remembered that Pontiac, in his interview with Major Rogers, made his overtures of friendship and alliance with the English conditional. His whole conversation sufficiently indicated that he was far from considering himself a conquered prince, and that he expected to be treated with the respect and honor due to a king or emperor by all who came into his country or treated with him. In short, if the English treated him in this manner they were welcome to come into his country, but if they treated him with neglect and contempt, "he should shut up the way and keep them out."

The English did treat him and his people with neglect and contempt, and as a consequence the mighty chief was justly indignant.

From the small and widely separated forts along the lakes and in the interior, the red men had, with sorrow and anger, seen the fleur-de-lis disappear and the cross of St. George take its place. Toward the intruders—victors over their friends, patrons and allies—the Indians maintained a stubborn resentment and hostility.

The Indians were ever lovers of the French, and for good reasons, for when, as Parkman says, "the French had possession of the remote forts, they were accustomed, with a wise liberality, to supply the surrounding Indians with guns, ammunition and clothing, until the latter had forgotten the weapons and garments of their forefathers and depended on the white men for support. The sudden withholding of these supplies was, therefore, a grievous calamity. Want, suffering and death were the consequences, and this cause alone would have been enough to produce general discontent. But, unhappily, other grievances were superadded. When the Indians visited the forts, after the English took possession, instead of being treated with politic attention and politeness, as formerly, they were received gruffly, subjected to indignities, and not infrequently helped out of the fort with the butt of a sentry's musket or a vigorous kick from an officer. These marks of contempt were unspeakably galling to their haughty spirits."

Moreover, the wilderness was overrun with brutal English traders, who plundered, swindled and cursed the warriors, besides changing them into vagabonds by the rum traffic.

Meanwhile the subjugated French, still smarting under their defeat, dispatched emissaries to almost every village and council house, from the lakes to the gulf, saying that the English had formed a deliberate scheme to exterminate the entire Indian race, and with this design had already begun to hem them in with a chain of forts on one side and settlements on the other. King Louis of France, they said, had of late years been sleeping, and that, during his slumbers, the English had seized upon Canada; but that he was now awake again, and that his armies were advancing up the St. Lawrence and the Mississippi to drive out the intruders from the country of his red children. The French trading companies, and, it is said, the officers of the crown also, distributed with a liberal hand the more substantial encouragement of arms, ammunition, clothing and provisions.

The fierce passions of the Indians, excited by their wrongs and encouraged by the representations of the French, were farther wrought upon by disturbing influences of another kind. A great prophet arose among the Delawares, preaching the recovery of the Indian's hunting grounds from the white man, and claiming to have received a revelation direct from the Great Spirit. Vast throngs, including many from remote regions, listened spellbound by his wild eloquence. The white man was driving the Indians from their country, he said, and unless the Indians obeyed the Great Spirit, and destroyed the white man, then the latter would destroy them.

This was the state of affairs among the Indians in 1761 and 1762. Everywhere was discontent, sullen hatred and dark foreboding passion.

Pontiac saw his opportunity; he maintained close relations with the great Delaware prophet, and, like Philip before and Tecumseh after him, he determined to unite all the tribes he could reach or influence in a gigantic conspiracy to exterminate their common enemy, with the help of France, whom, he intended, should regain her foothold on the continent.

"The plan of operation," says Thatcher, "adopted by Pontiac evinces an extraordinary genius, as well as courage and energy of the highest order. This was a sudden and contemporaneous attack upon all the British posts on the lakes—at St. Joseph, Ouiatenon, Green Bay, Michillimackinac, Detroit, the Maumee and the Sandusky—and also upon the forts at Niagara, Presque Isle, Le Boeuf, Verango and Fort Pitt. Most of the fortifications at these places were slight, being rather commercial depots than military establishments. Still, against the Indians they were strongholds, and the positions had been so judiciously selected by the French that to this day they command the great avenues of communication to the world of woods and waters in the remote North and West. It was manifest to Pontiac, familiar as he was with the geography of this vast tract of country, and with the practical, if not the technical, maxims of war, that the possession or the destruction of these posts—saying nothing of their garrisons—would be emphatically 'shutting up the way.' If the surprise could be simultaneous, so that every English banner which waved upon a line of thousands of miles should be prostrated at the same moment, the garrisons would be unable to exchange assistance, while, on the other hand, the failure of one Indian detachment would have no effect to discourage another. Certainly, some might succeed. Probably the war might begin and be terminated with the same single blow; and then Pontiac would again be Lord and King of the broad land of his ancestors."

But it was necessary, first of all, to form a belligerent combination of the tribes, and the more extensive the better. To this end, toward the close of 1762, dark mysterious messengers from this Napoleon of the Indians, each bearing a war belt of wampum, broad and long as the importance of the occasion demanded, threaded their ways through the forest to the farthest shores of Lake Superior, and the distant delta of the Mississippi. On the arrival of these ambassadors to a tribe, the chief warriors would assemble in the council house. Then the orator, flinging down the red-stained tomahawk before his audience, would deliver, with energetic emphasis and action the message from his lord. The keynote was war! On a certain day in May, after so many moons, the Indians, from lakes to gulf, were to take the war-path simultaneously, destroy the English fort nearest, and then throw themselves on the unprotected frontier.

"The bugle call of such a mighty leader as Pontiac," as Mason says, "roused the remotest tribes. Everywhere they joined the conspiracy, and sent lofty messages to Pontiac of the deeds they would perform. The ordinary pursuits of life were given up. The warriors danced the war-dance for weeks at a time. Squaws were set to sharpening knives, moulding bullets and mixing war paint. Children caught the fever, and practiced incessantly with bows and arrows. For the one time in their history, a hundred wild and restless tribes were animated by a single inspiration and purpose. That which was incapable of union, united. Conjurors practiced their arts. Magicians consulted their oracles. Prophets avowed revelations from the most High. Warriors withdrew to caves and fastnesses, where, with fasting and self-torture, they wrought themselves into more fearful excitement and mania. Young men sought to raise their courage by eating raw flesh and drinking hot blood. Tall chieftains, crowned with nodding plumes, harangued their followers nightly, striking every chord of revenge, glory, avarice, pride, patriotism and love, which trembled in the savage breast.

"As the orator approached his climax he would leap into the air, brandishing his hatchet as if rushing upon an enemy, yelling the war-whoop, throwing himself in a thousand postures, his eyes aflame, his muscles strained and knotted, his face a thunderstorm of passion, as if in the actual struggle. At last, with a triumphant shout, he brandishes aloft the scalp of the imaginary victim. His eloquence is irresistible. His audience is convulsed with passionate interest, and sways like trees tossed in the tempest. At last, the whole assembly, fired with uncontrollable frenzy, rush together in the ring, leaping, stamping, yelling, brandishing knives and hatchets in the firelight, hacking and stabbing the air, until the lonely midnight forest is transformed into a howling pandemonium of devils, from whose fearful uproar the startled animals, miles away, flee frightened into remote lairs."

The time for the bursting of the storm drew near. Yet at only one place on the frontier was there the least suspicion of Indian disturbance. The garrisons of the exposed forts reposed in fancied security. The arch conspirator, Pontiac, had breathed the breath of life into a vast conspiracy, whose ramifications spread their network over a region of country of which the northwestern and southeastern extremities were nearly two thousand miles apart. Yet the traders, hunters, scouts and trappers who were right among the Indians, and were versed in the signs of approaching trouble, suspected nothing wrong. Colossal conspiracy! Stupendous deceit!

Pontiac arranged to meet the chiefs of the allied tribes, from far and near, in a grand war council, which was held on the banks of the Aux Ecorces, or Etorces, a little river not far from Detroit, on April 27, 1763. Parkman has given us the best description of what occurred at this council. Said he, "On the long-expected morning heralds passed from one group of lodges to another, calling the warriors in loud voice to attend the great council before Pontiac. In accordance with the summons they came issuing; from their wigwams—the tall, half-naked figures of the wild Ojibways, with quivers slung at their backs, and light war clubs resting in the hollow of their arms; Ottawas, wrapped close in their gaudy blankets; Wyandots, fluttering in their painted shirts, their heads adorned with feathers and their leggings garnished with bells. All were soon seated in a wide circle upon the grass, row within row, a grave and silent assembly. Each savage countenance seemed carved in wood, and none could have detected the deep and fiery passion hidden beneath that immovable exterior.

"Then Pontiac rose; according to tradition, not above middle height. His muscular figure was cast in a mold of remarkable symmetry and vigor. His complexion was darker than is usual with his race, and his features, though by no means regular, had a bold and stern expression, while his habitual bearing was imperious and peremptory, like that of a man accustomed to sweep away all opposition by the force of his imperious will. On occasions like this he was wont to appear as befitted his power and character, and he stood before the council plumed and painted in the full costume of war.

"Looking around upon his wild auditors he began to speak, with fierce gesture and loud, impassioned voice; and at every pause, deep guttural ejaculations of assent and approval responded to his words. Said he: 'It is important, my brothers, that we should exterminate from our land this nation, whose only object is our death. You must be all sensible, as well as myself, that we can no longer supply our wants in the way we were accustomed to do with our fathers, the French. They sell us their goods at double the price that the French made us pay, and yet their merchandise is good for nothing; for no sooner have we bought a blanket or other thing to cover us, than it is necessary to procure others against the time of departure for our wintering ground. Neither will they let us have them on credit, as our brothers, the French, used to do. When I visit the English chief and inform him of the death of any of our comrades, instead of lamenting, as our brothers, the French, used to do, they make game of us. If I ask him for anything for our sick, he refuses, and tells us he does not want us, from which it is apparent he seeks our death. We must, therefore, in return, destroy them without delay; there is nothing to prevent us; there are but few of them, and we shall easily overcome them—why should we not attack them? Are we not men? Have I not shown you the belts I received from our Great Father, the King of France? He tells us to strike—why should we not listen to his words? What do you fear? The time has arrived. Do you fear that our brothers, the French, who are now among us, will hinder us? They are not acquainted with our designs, and if they did know them, could they prevent them? You know as well as myself, that when the English came upon our lands, to drive from them our father, Bellestre, they took from the French all the guns that they have, so that they have now no guns to defend themselves with. Therefore, now is the time; let us strike. Should there be any French to take their part, let us strike them as we do the English. I have sent belts and speeches to our friends, the Chippeways of Saginaw, and our brothers, the Ottawas of Michillimacinac, and to those of the Riviere á la Tranche (Thames river), inviting them to join us, and they will not delay. In the meantime, let us strike. There is no longer any time to lose, and when the English shall be defeated, we will stop the way, so that no more shall return upon our lands."

He also assured them that the Indians and their French brothers would again fight side by side against the common foe, as they did in other years on the Monongahela, when the banners of the English had been trampled in the bloody mire of defeat.

The orator, having lashed his audience into fury, quickly soothed them with the story of the Delaware prophet, already mentioned, who had a dream in which it was revealed to him that by traveling in a certain direction he would at length reach the abode of the 'Great Spirit,' or Master of Life.

"After many days of journeying, full of strange incidents," continued Pontiac, "he saw before him a vast mountain of dazzling whiteness, so precipitous that he was about to turn back in despair, when a beautiful woman arrayed in white appeared and thus accosted him: 'How can you hope, encumbered as you are, to succeed in your design? Go down to the foot of the mountain, throw away your gun, your ammunition, your provisions and your clothing; wash yourself in the stream which flows there, and you will then be prepared to stand before the Master of Life.' The Indian obeyed, and again began to ascend among the rocks, while the woman, seeing him still discouraged, laughed at his faintness of heart and told him that, if he wished for success, he must climb by the aid of one hand and one foot only. After great toil and suffering, he at length found himself at the summit. The woman had disappeared, and he was left alone. A rich and beautiful plain lay before him, and at a little distance he saw three great villages, far superior to any he had seen in any tribe. As he approached the largest and stood hesitating whether he should enter, a man, gorgeously attired, stepped forth, and, taking him by the hand, welcomed him to the celestial abode. He then conducted him into the presence of the Great Spirit, where the Indian stood confounded at the unspeakable splendor which surrounded him. The Great Spirit bade him be seated, and thus addressed him: 'I am the Maker of heaven and earth, the trees, lakes, rivers and all things else. I am the Maker of mankind; and because I love you, you must do my will. The land on which you live I have made for you, and not for others. Why do you suffer the white man to dwell among you? My children, you have forgotten the customs and traditions of your forefathers. Why do you not clothe yourselves in skins, as they did, and use the bows and arrows, and the stone-pointed lances, which they used? You have bought guns, knives, kettles, and blankets from the white man, until you can no longer do without them; and what is worse, you have drunk the poison fire-water, which turns you into fools. Fling all these things away; live as your wise forefathers lived before you. And as for these English—these dogs dressed in red, who have come to rob you of your hunting grounds and drive away the game—you must lift the hatchet against them. Wipe them from the face of the earth, and then you will win my favor back again, and once more be happy and prosperous. The children of your great father, the King of France, are not like the English. Never forget that they are your brethren. They are very dear to me, for they love the red men, and understand the true mode of worshipping me.'"

Such is the tale told by Pontiac to the council, quoted by Parkman from statements recorded both by Indians and Canadians who were present.

Before this vast assembly dissolved, the great chieftain unfolded his wide-laid plans for a simultaneous attack on all the forts in possession of the English. The 7th of May, 1763, was named as the day of destruction, and his schemes, which were constructed with the white man's skill and the red man's cunning, met the hearty approval of all the assembled chiefs and warriors, and the great council dissolved.

The plan was now ripe for execution, and with the suddenness of a whirlwind, the storm of war burst forth all along the frontier. Nine of the British forts, or stations, were captured. Some of the garrisons were completely surprised and massacred on the spot; a few individuals, in other cases, escaped. In case of most, if not all of the nine surprisals, quite as much was effected by stratagem as by force, and that apparently by a pre-concerted system, which indicates the far-seeing superintendence of Pontiac himself.

In this storm of war, the most thrilling and tragic scenes were enacted at Mackinaw, or Michillimackinac, and Detroit. The former was the scene of a bloody savage triumph; the latter, of a long and perilous siege, in which the savage besiegers were under the personal command of the great Pontiac. As it is the only recorded instance of the protracted siege of a fortified civilized garrison by an army of savages, we will tell the story in detail, but will first briefly describe the successful stratagem which resulted in the capture of Michillimackinac and the slaughter of the garrison.

The name Michillimackinac, which, in the Algonquin tongue, signifies the Great Turtle, was first, from a fancied resemblance, applied to the neighboring island and thence to the fort.

By reason of its location on the south side of the strait, between lakes Huron and Michigan, Michillimackinac was one of the most important positions on the frontier. It was the place of deposit and point of departure between the upper and lower countries; the traders always assembled there on their voyages to and from Montreal. Connected with it was an area of two acres, inclosed with tall cedar-wood posts, sharpened at the top, and extending on one side so near the water's edge that a western wind always drove the waves against the foot of the stockade.

The place at this time contained thirty families within the palisades of the fort, and about as many more without, with a garrison of about thirty-five men and their officers, according to Parkman.

Warning of the tempest that impended had been clearly given; enough, had it been heeded, to have averted the fatal disaster. Several of the Canadians least hostile to the English had thrown out hints of approaching danger, and one of them had even told Captain Etherington, the commander, that the Indians had formed a design to destroy, not only his garrison, but all the English on the lakes. Etherington not only turned a deaf ear to what he heard, but threatened to send prisoner to Detroit the next person who should disturb the fort with such tidings. Only the day before the tragic 4th of June an Indian named Wawatam, an Ojibway chief, who had taken a fancy to Alexander Henry, a trader, who was in the fort, came over and first advised, then urged, and finally begged Henry on his knees, to leave the fort that night. But all in vain!

The morning of June 4, the birthday of King George, was warm and sultry. The plain in front of the fort was covered with Indians of the Ojibway, Chippewa and Sac tribes.

Early in the morning, many Ojibways came to the fort, inviting the officers and soldiers to come out and see a grand game of ball, or baggattaway, which was to be played between their nation and the Sacs, for a high wager. In consequence of this invitation, the place was soon deserted of half its tenants, and the gates of the palisade were wide open. Groups of soldiers stood in the shade looking at the sport, most of them without their arms.

Sober Indian chiefs stood as if intently watching the fortunes of the game. In fact, however, their thoughts were far otherwise employed. Large numbers of squaws also mingled in the crowd, but gradually gathering in a group near the open gates. And, strange to say, in spite of the warm day they were wrapped to the throat in blankets.

Baggattaway has always been a favorite game with many Indian tribes. At either extremity of the open ground, from half a mile to a mile apart, stood two posts, which constituted the stations or goals of the parties. Except that the ball was much smaller and that a bat or racket much like those used in lawn tennis served instead of the kick, the game was identical with our well-known football, and just as brutal.

The ball was started from the middle of the ground, and the game was for each side to keep it from touching their own post and drive it against that of their adversaries. Hundreds of lithe and agile figures were leaping and bounding over each other, turning handsprings and somersaults, striking with the bats, tripping each other up, every way, any way, to get at the ball and foil the adversary. At one moment the whole were crowded together, a dense throng of combatants, all struggling for the ball; at the next, they are scattered again, and running over the ground like hounds in full chase. Each, in his excitement, yelled and shouted at the height of his voice.

Suddenly the ball rose high, and descending in a wide curve, fell near the gate of the fort. This was no chance stroke, but a part of a preconcerted stratagem to insure the surprise and destruction of the garrison. The players instantly bounded toward the ball, a rushing, maddened and tumultuous throng, but just as they neared the gates, the shouts of sport changed suddenly to the ferocious war-whoop. The squaws threw open their blankets, exposing the guns, hatchets and knives, and the players instantly flung away their bats and seized the weapons, before the amazed English had time to think or act. They at once fell upon the defenseless garrison and traders, butchered fifteen on the spot, captured the rest, including the commander, while everything that had belonged to the English was carried off or destroyed, though none of the French families or their property was disturbed. It is said that these captives were afterward ransomed at Montreal, at high prices.

As we have seen, it was a part of Pontiac's plan that each tribe should attack the fort or English settlement nearest to them. For this reason, and because it was the largest and best fortified place, he took personal command at the siege of Detroit.

This settlement was founded by La Motte Cadillac in 1701, and contained at this time, according to Major Rogers, about twenty-five hundred people. The center of the settlement was the fortified town or fort, which stood on the western margin of the river, and contained about a hundred houses, compactly built, and surrounded by a palisade twenty-five feet high, with a bastion at each corner, and block-houses over the gates.

The garrison of the fort consisted of one hundred and twenty English soldiers, under the command of Major Gladwyn. There were also forty fur traders, and the ordinary Canadian inhabitants of the place, who could not be trusted in case of an Indian outbreak.

Two small armed schooners, the Beaver and the Gladwyn, lay anchored in the river, while the ordnance of the fort consisted of two six-pounders, one three-pounder and three mortars; all of an indifferent quality. The settlement outside the fort, stretching about eight miles along both sides of the Detroit river, consisted of the dwellings of Canadians, and three Indian villages, the Ottawas and Wyandots, on the east, and the Pottawatomies on the west side of the stream.

"Such was Detroit—a place whose defences could have opposed no resistance to a civilized enemy; and yet situated as it was at a strategic point on the bank of a broad navigable river far removed from the hope of speedy succor, it could only rely, in the terrible struggle that awaited it, upon its own slight strength and feeble resources," as Parkman well says.

On the afternoon of May 5 a Canadian woman, the wife of St. Aubin, one of the prominent settlers, crossed the river to the Ottawa village to buy some maple sugar and venison. She was surprised at finding several warriors engaged in filing off their gun-barrels, so as to reduce them, stock and all to the length of about a yard. Such a weapon could easily be hid under a blanket. That night the woman mentioned the circumstance to a neighbor, the village blacksmith. "Oh," said he, "that explains it." "Explains what?" "The reason why so many Indians have lately wanted to borrow my files and saws."

It is not known whether this circumstance reached the ears of the commander; if so, it received no attention at his hands. But, in the hour of impending doom, the love of an Indian maiden interposed to save the garrison from butchery.

In the Pottawatomie village, it is said, there lived an Ojibway girl, who could boast a larger share of beauty than is common to the wigwam. She had attracted the eye of Gladwyn, who had taken great interest in her, and as she was very bright, had given her some instruction. While she, on her part, had become much attached to the handsome young officer. On the afternoon of May 6, Catharine—for so the officers called her—came to the fort and repaired to Gladwyn's quarters, bringing with her a pair of elk skin moccasins, ornamented with beads and porcupine work, which he had requested her to make. But this time the girl's eyes no longer sparkled with pleasure and excitement. Her face was anxious, and her look furtive. She said little and soon left the room; but the sentinel at the door saw her still lingering at the street corner, though the hour for closing the gates was nearly come.

At length she attracted the attention of Gladwyn himself. The major at once saw that the girl knew something which she feared yet longed to tell. Calling her to him, he sought to win her secret, but it was not for a long while, and under solemn promises that she should not be betrayed, but rather protected, should it become necessary, that the dusky sweetheart spoke. "To-morrow," she said, "Pontiac will come to the fort with sixty of his chiefs, and demand a council. Each will be armed with a gun cut short, and hidden under his blanket. When all are assembled in the council-house, and after he has delivered his speech, he will offer a peace belt of wampum, holding it in a reversed position. This will be the signal of attack. The chiefs will spring up and fire upon the officers, and the Indians in the street will fall upon the garrison. Every Englishman will be killed, but not the scalp of a single Frenchman will be touched."

Gladwyn believed the maid, and the words of warning spoken, she went back to her people. The guards that night were doubled. At times the watchers on the walls heard unwonted sounds, borne to them on the night wind from the distant Indian villages. They were the steady beat of the Indian drum and the shrill choruses of the war-dance.

The next day, about ten o'clock, the great war chief, with his treacherous followers, reached the fort, and the gateway was thrown open to admit them. All were wrapped to the throat in colored blankets, their faces smeared with paint, and their heads adorned with nodding plumes. For the most part, they were tall, strong men, and all had a gait and bearing of peculiar stateliness. The leader started as he saw the soldiers drawn up in line, and heard the ominous tap of the drum. Arriving at the council-house they saw Gladwyn, with several of his officers, in readiness to receive them, and the observant chiefs did not fail to notice that every Englishman wore a sword at his side and a pair of pistols in his belt, and the conspirators eyed each other with uneasy glances.

"Why," demanded Pontiac, "do I see so many of my father's young men standing in the street with their guns?" Gladwyn replied through his interpreter, La Butte, that he had ordered the soldiers under arms for the sake of exercise and discipline. Pontiac saw at once that the plot was discovered. He did not lose control of himself, however, but made the customary speech, though the signal for attack was not given. After a short and uneasy sitting he and his chiefs withdrew with marked discomfiture and apprehension.

Gladwyn has been censured for not detaining the chiefs as hostages for the good conduct of their followers. "Perhaps," as Parkman says, "the commandant feared lest should he arrest the chiefs when gathered at a public council and guiltless as yet of open violence, the act might be interpreted as cowardly and dishonorable. He was ignorant, moreover, of the true nature or extent of the plot."

Balked in his treachery, the great chief withdrew to his village, enraged and mortified, yet still resolved to persevere. That Gladwyn had suffered him to escape, was to his mind ample proof either of cowardice or ignorance. The latter supposition seeming the more probable, he determined to visit the fort once more and convince the English, if possible, that their suspicions against him were unfounded.

Accordingly, on the following morning he repaired to the fort, with three of his chiefs, bearing in his hand the sacred calumet, or pipe of peace, the bowl carved in stone, and the stem adorned with feathers. Offering it to Gladwyn, he addressed him and his officers as follows: "My fathers, evil birds have sung lies in your ear. We that stand before you are friends of the English. We love them as our brothers, and, to prove our love, we have come this day to smoke the pipe of peace." At his departure, he gave the pipe to Major Campbell, second in command, as a further pledge of his sincerity.

That afternoon, the better to cover his designs, Pontiac called the young men of all the tribes to a game of ball, which took place in a neighboring field, with great noise and shouting. At nightfall the garrison was startled by a burst of loud, shrill yells. The drums beat to arms and the troops were ordered to their posts; but the alarm was caused only by the victors in the ball game announcing their success by these discordant outcries. Meanwhile Pontiac spent the afternoon consulting with his chiefs how to compass the ruin of the English.

The next day, about eleven o'clock, the common behind the fort was again thronged with Indians; Pontiac, advancing from among the multitude, approached the gate, only to find it closed and barred against him. He shouted to the sentinels, and demanded why he was refused admittance. Gladwyn himself replied that the great chief might enter, if he chose, but the crowd he had brought with him must remain outside. Pontiac rejoined that he wished all his warriors to enjoy the fragrance of the friendly calumet. But Gladwyn was inexorable, and replied that he would have none of his rabble in the fort. Instantly the savage threw off the mask of deceit he had worn so long, and, casting one look of unspeakable rage and hate at the fort, he turned abruptly from the gate and strode toward his followers, who lay in great numbers flat on the ground beyond reach of gunshot. At his approach, they all leaped up and ran off "yelping," in the language of an eye witness, "like so many devils." They rushed to the house of an old English Woman and her family, beat down the doors and tomahawked the inmates. Another party jumped into their canoes, and paddled with all speed to the Isle of Cochon, where dwelt an Englishman named Fisher, formerly a sergeant of the regulars. Him they also killed and scalped.

That night, while the garrison watched with sleepless apprehension, the entire Ottawa village was removed to the west side of the river. "We will be near them," said Pontiac. The position taken by the Indians was just above the mouth of Parent's creek.

During the night a Canadian, named Desnoyers, came down the river in a canoe, and landing at the water gate, informed the garrison that two English officers, Sir Robert Davers and Captain Robertson, had been murdered on Lake St. Clair, and that Pontiac had been reinforced by the whole war strength of the Ojibways. If the Indians had prior to this, as it is claimed, a force of from six hundred to two thousand, these accessions would make them quite formidable.

Every Englishman in the fort, whether trader or soldier, was now ordered under arms. No man lay down to sleep, and the commander walked the ramparts all night. Not till the blush of dawn tinged the eastern sky did the fierce savages, yelling with infernal power, come bounding naked to the assault.

The soldiers looked from their loopholes, thinking to see their assailants gathering for a rush against the feeble barrier. But in this they were agreeably disappointed. For though their clamors filled the air, and their guns blazed thick and hot, while the bullets pelted the fort with leaden hail, yet very few were visible. Some were sheltered behind barns and fences, some skulked among bushes, others lay flat in hollows of the ground while those who could find no shelter were leaping about with the agility of monkeys, to render it impossible for the marksmen at the fort to hit them. Each had filled his mouth with bullets, for the convenience of loading, and each was charging and firing without suspending these swift movements for a moment.

At the end of six hours the assailants grew weary and withdrew. It was found that only five men had been wounded in the fort, while the cautious enemy had sustained but trifling loss.

Gladwyn, believing the affair ended, dispatched La Butte, a neutral interpreter, accompanied by two old Canadians, Chapeton and Godefroy, to open negotiations. Many other Canadian inhabitants took this opportunity of leaving the place.

Pontiac received the three ambassadors politely, and heard their offers of peace with seeming acquiescence. He, however, stepped aside to talk the matter over with the other chiefs, after which Pontiac declared that, out of their earnest desire for a lasting treaty, they wished to hold council with their English fathers themselves, and they were especially desirous that Major Campbell, the veteran officer, second in command at the fort, should visit their camp.

When the word reached Campbell he prepared at once to go, in spite of Gladwyn's fears of treachery. He felt, he said, no fear of the Indians, with whom he had always been on the most friendly terms. Gladwyn, with some hesitation, gave a reluctant consent. Campbell left the fort accompanied by Lieutenant M^cDougal, and attended by La Butte and several other Canadians. A Canadian met them and warned the two British officers they were entering the lion's den, but the brave men refused to turn back.

As they entered the Indian camp a howling multitude of women and children surrounded them, armed with clubs, sticks and stones. But Pontiac, with a word and a gesture, quelled the mob, and conducted them to the council-house, where they were surrounded by sinister faces. Campbell made his speech. It was heard in perfect silence, and no reply was made. For a full hour the unfortunate officers saw before them the same concourse of dark faces bending an unwavering gaze upon them. At last Campbell rose to go. Pontiac made an imperious gesture for him to resume his seat. "My father," said he, "will sleep to-night in the lodges of his red children." The gray-haired soldier and his companion were captives.

Many of the Indians were eager to kill the captives on the spot; but Pontiac protected them from injury and insult, and conducted them to the house of M. Meloche, near Parent's creek, where good quarters were assigned them, and as much liberty allowed as was consistent with safe custody. The peril of their situation was diminished by the circumstance that two Indians had been detained at the fort as prisoners, for some slight offense, a few days prior to this, and it is quite possible Pontiac designed to effect an exchange.

Late the same night La Butte returned with anxious face to the fort. Some of the officers suspected him, no doubt unjustly, with a share in the treachery. Feeling the suspicion, he spent the remainder of the night in the narrow street, gloomy and silent.

Thatcher informs us concerning these two prisoners that M^cDougal effected his escape, "but Major Campbell was tomahawked by an infuriated savage named Wasson, in revenge for the death of a relative. One account says 'they boiled his heart and ate it, and made a pouch of the skin of his arms!' The brutal assassin fled to Saginaw, apprehensive of the vengeance of Pontiac; and it is but justice to the memory of that chieftain to say that he was indignant at the atrocious act and used every possible exertion to apprehend the murderer. Doubtless had he been captured the chief would have inflicted the death penalty."

It is said that the wily chieftain found out in some manner that the Ojibway maiden, Catharine, disclosed the plot to Gladwyn, and ordered four Indians to take her and bring her before him. The order was promptly obeyed, according to the diary of a Canadian who was contemporary, and having arrived at the Pottawatomie village, they seized Catharine "and obliged her to march before them, uttering cries of joy in the manner they do when they hold a victim in their clutches on whom they are going to exercise their cruelty; they made her enter the fort, and took her before the commandant (Gladwyn), as if to confront her with him, and asked him if it was not from her he had learned their design; but they were no better satisfied than if they had kept themselves quiet. They obtained from that officer bread and beer for themselves and for her. They then led her to their chief (Pontiac) in the village."

It will be remembered that before the girl imparted her secret, which was destined to save the lives of all in the fort, Gladwyn solemnly promised that she should not be betrayed, but rather protected should it become necessary. And now the exigency has arisen; Catharine and her captors are in the fort. But when did a white man ever keep his sacred word to an Indian? Gladwyn did not betray her, it is true, for he made no answer to the questions asked him. But he afforded her only such protection in this, her hour of peril, "as the wolf shows to the lamb, or the kite to the dove." He gave beer to the four Indians, who were already angry, to enrage them still more, and also supplied Catharine with beer, which may have been the starting point of her ruin, as we shall see.

But he did not lift a finger to save or protect the one to whom he probably owed his life, but permitted her to be dragged from the fort into the presence of the enraged Pontiac, who, according to another Canadian tradition, seized a bat or racket used by the Indians in their ballgame, and flogged her until life was almost extinct. An old Indian told Henry Conner, formerly United States interpreter at Detroit, that Catharine survived her terrible punishment and lived for many years; but having contracted intemperate habits, she fell, when intoxicated, into a kettle of boiling maple sap, and was so severely scalded that she died in consequence.

Pontiac proceeded to redistribute his forces. One band hid in ambush along the river below the fort. Others surrounded the fort on the land side. The garrison had only three weeks' provisions, and the Indians determined that this scanty store should not be replenished. Every house in Detroit was searched for grease, tallow, or whatever would serve for food, and all the provisions were placed in a public storehouse.

The Indians, with their usual improvidence, had neglected to provide against the exigency of a siege, thinking to have taken Detroit at a single stroke. The Canadian settlers were ruthlessly despoiled of their stores, and the food thus obtained was wasted with characteristic recklessness. Aggravated beyond endurance they complained to Pontiac. He heard them, and made the following characteristic reply:

"I do not doubt, my brothers, that this war is very troublesome to you, for our warriors are continually passing and repassing through your settlement. I am sorry for it. Do not think I approve of the damage that is done by them; and as a proof of this, remember the war with the Foxes and the part which I took in it. It is now seventeen years since the Ojibways of Michillimackinac, combined with the Sacs and Foxes, came down to destroy you. Who then defended you? Was it not I and my young men? Mickinac, great chief of all these nations, said in council that he would carry to his village the head of your commandant—that he would eat his heart and drink his blood. Did I not take your part? Did I not go to his camp, and say to him, that if he wished to kill the French he must first kill me and my warriors? Did I not assist you in routing them and driving them away? And now you think I would turn my arms against you! No, my brothers; I am the same French Pontiac who assisted you seventeen years ago. I am a Frenchman, and I wish to die a Frenchman; and now I repeat to you that you and I are one—that it is for both our interests that I should be avenged. Let me alone. I do not ask you for aid, for it is not in your power to give it. I only ask provisions for myself and men. Yet, if you are inclined to assist me, I shall not refuse you. It would please me, and you yourselves would be sooner rid of your troubles; for I promise you, that as soon as the English are driven out, we will go back to our villages, and there await the arrival of our French father. You have heard what I have to say; remain at peace, and I will watch that no harm shall be done to you, either by my men or by the other Indians."

Pontiac promptly took measures for bringing the disorders complained of to a close, while at the same time he provided sustenance for his warriors, a veritable commissary department, "and, in doing this, he displayed," as Parkman says, "a policy and forecast scarcely paralleled in the history of his race." He first forbade the commission of farther outrages, on the penalty of condign punishment. He next visited in turn the families of the Canadians, and, inspecting the property belonging to them, he assigned to each the share of provisions which it must furnish for the support of the Indians. The contributions thus levied were all collected at the house of Meloche, near Parent's creek, whence they were regularly issued to the Indians of the different camps.

Knowing that the character and habits of an Indian would render him incapable of being a judicious commissary, Pontiac availed himself of Canadian help, employing one Quilleriez and several others to discharge, under his eye, the duties of this office. But he did another thing which revealed his genius for command, and proved him to be an Indian Napoleon. Anxious to avoid offending the Canadians, yet unable to make compensation for the provisions he had levied, Pontiac issued promissory notes, drawn upon birch-bark, and signed with the figure of an otter, the totem to which he belonged. Under this was drawn the representation of the particular article for which the bill was valid—as a gun, a bag of corn, a deer, a hog, or a beef. These bills passed current among the Canadians and Indians of the period, and were faithfully redeemed after the war. As Goodrich says, "The 'Pontiac treasury notes,' we believe, were never below par. Repudiation was unknown under savage rule in Michigan and Canada. Let the barbarian chief enjoy the full applause due to his financial honor. His modern successors might find something in his example worthy of imitation."

Not one of the Ottawa tribe dared to infringe the command he had given, that the property of the Canadians should be respected. They would not so much as cross the cultivated fields but followed the beaten paths; in such awe did they stand of his displeasure. A few young Wyandots, however, still committed nightly depredations on the hog-pen of Baby, an old friend of Pontiac. The Canadian complained of the theft to Pontiac, and desired his protection. The great chief hastened to the assistance of his friend, and, arriving about nightfall at the house, walked to and fro among the barns and enclosures. At a late hour he saw the dark forms of hog thieves stealing through the gloom. "Go back to your village, you Wyandot dogs," he shouted; "if you tread again on this man's land, you shall die." They slunk away abashed; and from that time forward Baby's property was safe. Pontiac could claim no legitimate authority over the Wyandots, but his powerful spirit forced respect and obedience from all who approached him.

One night at an early period of the siege, Pontiac entered the house of Baby, and seating himself by the fire, looked for some time steadily at the embers. At length, raising his head, he said he had heard that the English had offered the Canadian a bushel of silver for the scalp of his friend. Baby declared that the story was false, and assured him that he would never betray him. Pontiac studied his features keenly for a moment and replied: "My brother has spoken the truth, and I will show him that I believe him." So saying, he wrapped his blanket around him, and "lay like a warrior taking his rest," in peaceful slumber until morning.

Some time after this our old friend Rogers, of Rogers' Rangers, arrived at Detroit with a detachment of troops, and the next day sent a bottle of brandy by a friendly Indian, as a present to Pontiac. The other chiefs urged him not to drink it for fear of poison. Pontiac heard them through, and boldly replied "It is not possible that this man, who knows my love for him, and who is also sensible of the great favors I have done him, can think of taking away my life"; then putting the cup to his lips he drank a draught without betraying the slightest apprehension. He could practice treachery himself, yet scorned to suspect it in white men.

Weeks rolled by with no change in the situation at Detroit. The British commander-in-chief at New York, unmindful of the Indian outbreak, had, as usual in the spring, sent a detachment up the lakes with food, ammunition and reenforcements for the different forts.

On May 30 some faint specks appeared on the distant watery horizon. They grew larger and blacker. The sentry in the bastion called aloud to the officers, who eagerly ran to look with spy-glasses. They recognized the banner of St. George, floating at the masthead of the leading boat of the long expected fleet. The officer at once gave command for a salute of welcome. When the sound of the booming cannon died away, every ear was strained to catch the response. It soon came, but instead of artillery, it was a faint but unmistakable war-whoop. The faces of the English grew pale. The approaching flotilla was watched with breathless anxiety. When it was well in view, a number of dark and savage forms rose up in the boats. The flotilla was in the hands of the Indians. In the foremost of the eighteen barges there were four prisoners and only three Indians. In the others, the Indians outnumbered the white men and compelled them to row. Just as the leading boat was opposite the Beaver, the one small schooner which lay at anchor before the fort (the Gladwyn having been sent to hasten and escort this very flotilla) one of the soldiers was seen to seize a savage by the hair and belt and throw him overboard. The Indian held fast to his enemy's clothes, and drawing himself upward, stabbed him again and again with his knife and then dragged him overboard. Both sank grappled in each other's arms. The two remaining Indians leaped out of the boat. The prisoners turned, and pulled for the distant schooner, shouting aloud for aid. The Indians on shore opened a heavy fire upon them, wounding one of their number, and the light birch canoes gave chase, gaining on them at every stroke of the oar. Escape seemed hopeless, when the report of a cannon burst from the side of the schooner. The ball narrowly missed the foremost canoe, beating the water in a line of foam which almost capsized the frail craft. At this the pursuers drew back in dismay; and the Indians on shore, being in turn saluted by a second shot, ceased firing and scattered among the bushes. The prisoners thus rescued were greeted as men snatched from the jaws of death.

This, in brief, was their story. Lieutenant Cuyler had left Fort Niagara on May 13 with twenty barges, ninety-six men and a plentiful supply of provisions and ammunition. Coasting along the northern shore of Lake Erie, they had passed the armed schooner Gladwyn without seeing it, and, of course, knew nothing of the Indian hostilities. On the twenty-eighth of the month, the flotilla landed at Point Pelee, not far from the mouth of the Detroit river. The boats were drawn on the beach, and the party prepared to encamp. A man and a boy went to gather firewood at a short distance from the spot, when an Indian leaped out of the woods, seized the boy by the hair, and tomahawked him. The man ran into the camp shouting that the woods were full of Indians. The report was true, for Pontiac had stationed the Wyandots at this very spot to intercept trading boats or parties of troops. Cuyler quickly formed his soldiers into a semicircle before the boats, just as the Indians opened fire. For an instant there was a hot blaze of musketry on both sides; then the Indians broke out of the woods in a body, and rushed fiercely upon the center of the line, which gave way in every part; the men flinging down their guns, running panic-stricken to the boats and struggling with ill-directed efforts to shove them into the water. Five were set afloat, and pushed off from the shore, crowded with terrified soldier's, huddled together like sheep in the shambles. Never was rout more complete or soldiers more unnerved and demoralized.

Cuyler, seeing himself deserted by his men, as he afterward stated, waded up to his neck in the lake and climbed into one of the retreating boats. The Indians, on their part, pushed two more boats afloat and went in pursuit of the fugitives, three boatloads of whom allowed themselves to be captured without resistance. Think of it, two boatloads of Indians capture three boatloads of English, who seemingly made no effort to escape the fate of horrible torture which awaited all but a few, who were enslaved. The other two boats, in one of which was Cuyler himself, effected their escape, and returning to Niagara, he reported his loss to Major Wilkins, the commanding officer. Between thirty and forty men, some of whom were wounded, were crowded in these two boats. These, with the three rescued at Detroit, were all of the ninety-six which survived the ill-fated expedition.

The little schooner Gladwyn, having passed the flotilla probably in the night or during a fog, reached Niagara without mishap. She was still riding at anchor in the smooth river above the falls, when Cuyler and the remnant of his men returned and reported the terrible disaster that had befallen him. This officer, and the survivors of his party, with a few other troops spared from the garrison of Niagara, were ordered to embark on board of her, and make the best of their way back to Detroit. The force, amounting to sixty men, with such ammunition and supplies as could be spared from the fort, was soon under sail. In due time they entered the Detroit river, and were almost in sight of the fort, but the critical part of the undertaking still remained.

The river was in some places narrow, and more than eight hundred Indians were on the alert to intercept their passage. On the afternoon of the 23d the schooner began to move slowly up the river, with a gentle breeze, which gradually died away, and left the vessel becalmed in the narrow channel opposite Fighting Island, and within gunshot of an Indian ambush.

Of the sixty men on board all were crowded below deck except ten or twelve, in hopes that the Indians, encouraged by this apparent weakness, might make an open attack. At sunset the guards on board the vessel were doubled. Hours wore on, and nothing had broken the deep repose of the night. At last, the splash of muffled oars was heard. Dark objects came moving swiftly down the stream toward the vessel. The men were ordered up from below and took their places in perfect silence. A blow on the mast with a hammer was to be the signal for firing. The Indians, gliding stealthily over the water in their birch canoes, thought the prize was theirs. At last the hammer struck the mast. The slumbering vessel burst into a blaze of cannon and musketry, which illumined the night like a flash of lightning. Grape and musket shot flew, tearing among the canoes, sinking some outright, killing fourteen Indians, wounding about twenty more and driving the rest in consternation to the shore. As the enemy opened fire from their breastwork, the schooner weighed anchor, and, drifting with the river's tide, floated down out of danger. Several days afterward, with a favoring wind, she again attempted to ascend. This time she was successful, for though the Indians fired at her constantly from the shore, no man was hurt. As she passed the Wyandot village she sent a shower of grape among its yelping inhabitants, by which several were killed; and then, furling her sails, lay peacefully at anchor by the side of her companion vessel, abreast of the fort.

The schooner brought to the garrison a much-needed supply of men, ammunition and provisions. She also brought the important news that a treaty of peace was concluded between France and England. But Pontiac refused to believe it, and his war went on.

The two schooners in the river were regarded by the Indians with mingled rage and superstition; not alone on account of the broadsides with which their camps were bombarded, but the knowledge that the vessels served to connect the isolated garrison with the rest of the world. They determined, therefore, to destroy them. The inventive genius of Pontiac caused a fire raft to be constructed by lashing together a number of canoes, piled high with a vast quantity of combustibles. A torch was applied in several places, and the thing of destruction was pushed off into the current.

But fortune or Providence protected the schooners, the blazing raft passed within a hundred feet of them, and floating harmlessly down the stream, consumed nothing but itself. This attempt was several times repeated, but Gladwyn, on his part, provided boats and floating logs, which were moored by chains at some distance above the vessels, and foiled every attempt.

In the meantime, unknown to the garrison, Captain Dalyell was on his way to Detroit with twenty-two barges, bearing two hundred and eighty men, with several small cannon, and a fresh supply of provisions and ammunition. Under cover of night and fog they reached the fort in safety, but not until they sustained an attack from the Indians which resulted in the loss of fifteen men. With this expedition was Major Rogers, commander of the famous Rogers's Rangers, and twenty of his men.

Captain Dalyell had a conference with Gladwyn, and requested permission to march out on the following night and attack the Indian camp. The commander, better acquainted with the position of affairs, opposed it; but Dalyell urged the matter so strongly, Gladwyn gave a reluctant consent. About two o'clock on the morning of July 31, the gates were silently opened, and two hundred and fifty men marched up the road along the river's shore. In the river, keeping abreast of the troops, two bateaux, each carrying a swivel gun, were rowed with muffled oars. As there was no moon shining, everything seemed favorable to strike a deadly blow at the camp of Pontiac. But though they knew it not, that vigilant and crafty chieftain was apprised of this movement by his spies, and with several hundred Indians lay in ambush at the bridge across Parent's creek, a mile and a half from the fort. As the English drew near the dangerous pass they could discern the house of Meloche, mentioned before, upon a rising ground to the left, while in front the bridge was dimly visible, and the ridges beyond it seemed like a wall of blackness, partly due to the fog rising from the river. The advance guard were half way over the bridge and the main body just entering upon it. Suddenly there was a wild war-whoop in the darkness, and the ridges, fences, trees and anything which could afford shelter to a savage, burst into flame. Half the advance guard fell at the first discharge; the terrified survivors fled to the rear, and in a moment the whole column was thrown into confusion. Dalyell rushed to the front and did what he could to rally his men. His clarion voice rang out above this infernal din. But all in vain. He received several wounds, and was in the act of rescuing a disabled soldier when he was killed. It is said that Pontiac ordered the head of the gallant captain to be cut off and set upon a post. The total command was demoralized by his fall. In this crisis Major Rogers and his twenty rangers, followed by a number of the regulars, took possession of a strong house, which commanded the road, owned by a Canadian named Campau. Barricading the windows, they held the savages at bay and covered the retreat. Captain Grant hurried forward and took another strong position near the river. From here he ordered the two armed bateaux to return to a point opposite Campau's house, and open a fire of swivels in order to scatter the Indians and rescue Rogers and his men. This was promptly done, and the gallant Rogers and his handful of rangers, who, by their courage, saved the command from total destruction, were in turn rescued, just as the savage horde was about to overpower them by sheer force of numbers. The rangers made their way to the fort under cover of the cannonade.

The fight at Bloody Run, as Parent's creek has since been called, cost the garrison at Detroit fifty-nine men killed and wounded, according to Parkman, while Thatcher, strange to say, estimates the loss of the English at seventy men killed and forty wounded. This was the last important event attending the prosecution of the siege.

Not long after this, the schooner Gladwyn, having been sent down to Niagara with letters and dispatches, made the trip in safety. She was now returning, having on board Horst, her master; Jacobs, her mate, and a crew of ten men, besides six Iroquois Indians, supposed to be friendly to the English. She entered the Detroit river on the night of September 3, and in the morning the six Indians asked to be put ashore, and the request was foolishly granted.

That they went at once to Pontiac with a report of the weakness of the crew there can be no doubt. Certain it is, the wind failing, the schooner anchored about nine miles below the fort. Here she was attacked by three hundred and fifty Indians, at night. The savages swarmed over the sides of the vessel by scores, but they were met with such desperate courage and furious resistance that in a few minutes the English had killed and wounded more than twice their own number. There were only twelve men on board and they killed and wounded twenty-seven Indians; of the wounded, eight died in a few days. But resistance was useless. Ten or fifteen Indians surrounded each gallant defender. Just as all seemed over, Jacobs, the mate, shouted, "Fire the magazine, boys, and blow her up!" This desperate command saved her and her crew. Some Wyandots understood the meaning of the words, and gave the alarm to their companions. With a wild cry of terror the Indians leaped from the vessel into the water, and all were seen swimming and diving in all directions, to escape the explosion. The savages did not renew the attack.

The next morning the Gladwyn sailed up the river, reaching the fort safely. Six of her crew escaped unhurt; of the other six, two, including Horst, the master, were killed and four seriously wounded, while the Indians had seven men killed outright, and about twenty wounded, of whom eight were known to have died within a few days. The whole action lasted but a few minutes, but the fierceness of the struggle is apparent from the loss on both sides. The survivors of the little crew each received a medal.

The news of the disaster at Bloody Run, following on the heels of the ill-fated Cuyler's expedition, was conveyed to Niagara by the schooner Gladwyn on the last voyage, just recorded.

These disasters at the siege of Detroit, together with the fact that nine out of the twelve forts on the frontier had been captured by Pontiac's warriors, forced Sir Jeffrey Amherst to the reluctant conclusion that the tribes had risen in a general insurrection. As commander-in-chief of these English forces, he saw the time had come for decisive action with a large force if he would regain what was lost, and force the Indians into subjection.

Accordingly, he dispatched two armies, from different points, into the heart of the Indian country. The command of the first was given to Colonel Boquet, with orders to advance from Philadelphia to Fort Pitt, and thence to penetrate into the midst of the Delawares and Shawnees. The other army, under Colonel Bradstreet, was to ascend the lakes and force the tribes of Detroit and the regions beyond to unconditional submission.

The first expedition, that under Colonel Boquet, was very successful. He met the Indians at Bushy Run, and in a two-days' battle—one of the best contested ever fought between white and red men—routed them completely. He now compelled the Indians to sue for peace and surrender their captives.

News of Boquet's victory, and the approach of Colonel Bradstreet with a force of three thousand men, soon reached the Indians besieging Detroit, in the summer of 1764. Pontiac was too well aware of the superiority of the English arms to indulge a hope of resisting successfully so great a force in battle. Many of his allies were now ready to desert him and make peace with the English. Early in the summer of 1764, a grand council was held at Niagara by Sir William Johnson and Colonel Bradstreet, who stopped there on his way to Detroit and the Northwest. Nearly two thousand Indians attended, including representatives from twenty-two different tribes, eleven of them Western—a fact strikingly indicating the immense train of operations managed by the influence of Pontiac. Before Bradstreet and his army reached Detroit, Pontiac and his Ottawas abandoned the siege, at least temporarily, and repaired to the Illinois. His allies at Detroit made a treaty of peace with Colonel Bradstreet, and thus ended the siege which had continued a year, but, as Rogers says, "he (Pontiac) would not be personally concerned in it, saying, that when he made a peace, it should be such a one as would be useful and honorable to himself and to the King of Great Britain. But he has not as yet proposed his terms."

What the great chief attempted to do about this time was to rally the western tribes of Indiana and Illinois into a new confederation to resist the English invaders to the last. Crossing over to the Wabash, he passed from village to village, among the Kickapoos and the three tribes of the Miamis, rousing them by his eloquence and breathing into them his own fierce spirit of resistance.

He next, by rapid marches, crossed to the banks of the Mississippi, and summoned the four tribes of the Illinois to a general council. But these degenerate savages, beaten by the surrounding tribes for several generations past, had lost their warlike spirit, and though still noisy and boastful, they had become "like women, using only tongues for weapons." They showed no zeal for fight, nor did they take any interest in the schemes of the great war chief of the Ottawas.

But Pontiac knew how to deal with such cravens. Frowning on the cowering assembly, he exclaimed: "If you hesitate, I will consume your tribes as a fire consumes the dry grass on the prairie." They did not hesitate, but professed concurrence in his views at once. It is quite probable, however, those threatening words cost Pontiac his life, as will be seen. Even cowards have good memories.

Leaving the Illinois, he hastened to Fort Chartres, at the head of four hundred warriors, and demanded men and ammunition, which St. Ange, the commander, politely refused to grant. He also sent an embassy all the way to New Orleans to demand help from the French government, and to convey a war belt to the distant tribes of Louisiana, urging them, in the name of the mighty Pontiac, to prevent the English from ascending the Mississippi, which his military genius foresaw they would attempt. In this he was right, but their attempts were completely foiled.

The principal mission of the ambassadors was, however, a complete failure. The government was about to be transferred from France to Spain. The Governor granted an interview and explained the true situation. From France no help was to be expected.

When the report of this embassy reached Pontiac, he saw that all was lost. The foundation of all his ambitious schemes had been French interference. He had believed a lie and rested his hopes on a delusion. As Mason says, "His solitary will, which had controlled and combined into cooperation a hundred restless tribes, had breathed life into a conspiracy continental in its proportions, and had exploded a mine ramifying to forts, isolated by hundreds of miles of unbroken wilderness, could no longer uphold the crumbling fabric. His stormy spirit had warred with destiny, and had been conquered."

For the proud Pontiac there remained but two alternatives destruction or submission. With a hell of hate in his heart he chose the latter. At Fort Quiatenon, on the Wabash, near the site of Lafayette, Indiana, he met George Croghan, the commissioner appointed by Sir William Johnson, and formally tendered the traditional calumet of peace. Pontiac and his retinue also accompanied Croghan to Detroit, and in the same old council-hall where he and his sixty chiefs had attempted to destroy the garrison, the terms of peace were arranged, and ratified by representatives from Ojibway and Pottawatomie tribes, August 27, 1764.

Pontiac's speech on this occasion, in reply to that of Croghan, is rich in figures and symbols, and is, therefore, quoted in full:

"Father, we have all smoked out of this pipe of peace. It is your children's pipe; and as the war is over, and the Great Spirit and Giver of Light, who has made the earth and everything therein, has brought us all together this day for our mutual good, I declare to all nations that I have settled my peace with you before I came here, and now deliver my pipe to be sent to Sir William Johnson, that he may know I have made peace, and taken the King of England for my father, in the presence of all the nations now assembled; and whenever any of those nations go to visit him, they may smoke out of it with him in peace. Fathers, we are obliged to you for lighting up our old council-fire for us, and desiring us to return to it; but we are now settled on the Miami river, not far from hence. Whenever you want us you will find us there.

"Our people love liquor, and if we dwelt near you in our old village of Detroit, our warriors would be always drunk, and quarrels would arise between us and you."

The wise chief could see that drunkenness was the bane of his whole unhappy race, and therefore chose to be remote from the white settlement. He kept his young men away from whisky. When will the white chiefs be as wise and keep whisky away from their young men?

The following spring, 1766, Pontiac was as good as his word, and visited Sir William Johnson at his castle on the Mohawk, and in behalf of the tribes lately banded in his confederation concluded a treaty of peace and amity.

From this time he disappears from the page of history, only to reappear in the closing scene in the eventful drama of his life. He is believed to have lived like a common warrior, with a remnant of his tribe, in different parts of what is now the States of Indiana and Illinois.

In April, 1769, he went to St. Louis, and made a two days' visit with his old friend, St. Ange, who was then in command at that post, having offered his services to the Spaniards after the cession of Louisiana. St. Ange, Pierre Chouteau and other principal inhabitants of the little settlement, entertained him and his attendant chiefs with cordial hospitality for several days. But hearing that there was a large assembly of Illinois Indians at Cahokia, on the Illinois side of the river, Pontiac, against the advice of his friends, determined to go over and see what was going forward. It was at this time he was arrayed in the full uniform of a French officer, which had been presented to him by the Marquis of Montcalm as a token of esteem, and this fact tended to excite uneasiness, as well as to enrage the English traders at Cahokia, who believed the chief did it to add insult to injury.

The gathering in progress proved to be a trading and drinking bout, in which the remorseless English traders, as usual, plied the Indians with whisky in order to swindle them, while intoxicated, out of their furs. The place was full of Illinois Indians, but Pontiac held them in contempt, and accepted the hospitality of the friendly Creoles of Cahokia, and, at such primitive entertainment the whisky bottle would not fail to play its part. Pontiac soon became intoxicated himself, and starting to the neighboring woods was shortly afterward heard singing magic songs, in the mystic influence of which he reposed the greatest confidence.

An English trader, named Williamson, was then in the village, who, in common with the rest of his countrymen, regarded Pontiac with the greatest distrust, probably augmented by the visit of the chief to St. Louis, and while the opportunity was favorable, determined to effect his destruction. Approaching a strolling Indian of the Kaskaskia band of the Illinois tribe, he bribed him with a barrel of whisky and a promise of a further reward to murder the great chief.

It will be remembered that Pontiac incurred the hatred of this tribe by saying to them when in council, "If you hesitate, I will consume your tribes as the fire consumes the dry grass on the prairie." No doubt those words had been rankling in the hearts of the Illinois Indians ever since, for an Indian never forgets a friend or forgives an injury, and now the hour of revenge has come. The bargain was quickly made. The assassin glided up behind Pontiac in the forest and buried a tomahawk in the mighty brain in which all ambitions were dead forever.

Thus basely terminated the career of the warrior whose great natural endowments made him the greatest of his race, but his memory is still cherished by the remnant of the tribes who felt the power of his influence.

The body was soon found, and the village became a pandemonium of howling savages. His few friends seized their arms to wreak vengeance on the perpetrator of the murder, but the Illinois, interposing in behalf of their countryman, drove them from the town. Foiled in their attempt to obtain retribution they fled to the tribes over whom Pontiac had held sway, to spread the tidings and call them to avenge his murder. Meanwhile St. Ange procured the body of his guest, and mindful of his former friendship, buried it with warlike honors near the fort under his command at St. Louis.

A war of extermination was declared against the abettors of this crime. Swarms of Ottawas, Sacs, Foxes, Pottawatomies and other northern tribes who had been fired by the eloquence, or led to victory by the martyred chief, descended on the prairies of Illinois, and whole villages and tribes were extirpated to appease his shade.

It was at this time that the famous "Starved Rock" took its expressive but unpoetical name. It is a rocky bluff about six miles below the beautiful city of Ottawa, Illinois, named after the tribe of which Pontiac was head chief. The great rock overhangs the sluggish Illinois river on the left bank, and is about one hundred and twenty-five feet high and inaccessible except by a narrow and difficult path in the rear. Its top is nearly an acre in extent. Here La Salle and Tonty built a palisade, which they named Fort St. Louis, and collected at its base about twenty thousand Indians, whom they formed into a defensive league against the encroachments of the dreaded Iroquois.

Tradition states, that in the war of extermination which followed the cold-blooded and unprovoked murder of Pontiac in time of peace, a remnant of the Illinois Indians made their last stand at this famous stronghold. Here they were besieged by a vastly superior force of Pottawatomies. But the besieged knew that a few warriors could defend this rock against a host, and defied their enemies for a time and kept them at bay. Hunger and thirst, more formidable enemies, however, soon accomplished what the foe was unable to effect. Their small quantity of provisions quickly failed, and their supply of water was stopped by the enemy severing the cords of rawhide attached to the vessels by which they elevated it from the river below. Thus environed by relentless foes, they took a last lingering look at their beautiful hunting grounds, spread out like a panorama on the gently rolling river and slowly gave way to despair.

Charles Lanman says of this tragic event, "Day followed day, and the last lingering hope was abandoned. Their destiny was sealed, and no change for good could possibly take place, for the human bloodhounds that watched their prey were utterly without mercy. The feeble white-haired chief crept into a thicket and breathed his last. The recently strong warrior, uttering a protracted but feeble yell of exultation, hurled his tomahawk at some fiend below and then yielded himself up to the pains of his condition. The blithe form of the soft-eyed youth parted with his strength, and was compelled to totter and fall upon the earth and die. Ten weary, weary days passed on, and the strongest man and the last of his tribe was numbered with the dead."

Years afterward their bones were seen whitening on the summit of this lofty fortress, known since as "Starved Rock."

All this horrible torture and slaughter was because a brutal English Indian trader (and most of them were brutal) bribed an Indian already drunk on the whisky he had supplied, to murder probably one of the greatest warriors and rulers of all history, considering his environment.

"But," as Parkman, the great chieftain's biographer, strikingly says, "Could his shade have revisited the scene of murder, his savage spirit would have exulted in the vengeance which overwhelmed the abettors of the crime. Tradition has but faintly preserved the memory of the event and its only annalists, men who held the intestine feuds of the savage tribes in no more account than the quarrels of panthers or wildcats, have left but a meager record. Yet enough remains to tell us that over the grave of Pontiac more blood was poured out in atonement than flowed from the hecatombs of slaughtered heroes on the corpse of Patroelus.

"Neither mound nor tablet marked the burial-place of Pontiac. For a mausoleum, a city has risen above the forest hero, and the race whom he hated with such burning rancor tramples with unceasing footsteps over his forgotten grave. {FN} But he became a model and inspiration for subsequent chiefs."

Michigan, where his eventful life was largely spent, and Illinois, where it ended, have each a beautiful city preserving his name. It is also embalmed in tradition and legend. And nature, kinder than man, had built for him a colossal monument which will endure for ages, and be known throughout all time as "Starved Rock."

{FN} F. M. Crunden, Librarian, Public Library of St. Louis, wrote the author: "It is believed that Pontiac was buried on the site of the present Southern Hotel here; and a tablet marking his burial-place is there now."

[CHAPTER VI.]

LOGAN, OR TAL-GA-YEE-TA, THE CAYUGA (MINGO) CHIEF.
ORATOR AND FRIEND OF THE WHITE MAN. ALSO, A BRIEF SKETCH OF CORNSTALK.

This unfortunate chief is better known to the world by the eloquent and pathetic speech, which he has left as a record of his misfortunes and sorrows, than by his exploits in war. His father, Shikellimus, was a Cayuga chief, whose house was on the borders of Cayuga Lake, in New York. He was a personal friend of the benevolent James Logan, the intimate friend of William Penn and the founder of the Logonian Library, at Philadelphia. The name of the second son was probably derived from this person.

Logan inherited his gifts and noble nature from his father, who was ever a lover of peace, and also known as the white man's friend. His wigwam was famed far and near as the abode of hospitality, friendship, and kindness. It was a wigwam, but there was something of the halo about it which invested a feudal castle in the days of English chivalry and romance.

Shikellimus was a good provider, and those who gathered around his comfortable fire, which was lighted for every stranger by the forest chieftain, felt the independence of the lone traveler in some old baronial hall; and he who presided at the feast to which all were welcome, was not less noble or less dignified than an English lord. Had there been a pen to record his hospitality and table talk, there would probably have been seen in it more wisdom than entered into the discourse of many a prince or potentate. But, alas, for forest eloquence, it was wafted only by the breeze, and its echo died away forever.

So much for the environment of the home of his childhood. Another thing which no doubt influenced his character was the fact that in boyhood he came under the influence of the sweet-spirited Moravian missionaries, with their gentle manners and soothing words. There was about him a similar quiet and softened dignity, a refinement of sentiment and delicacy of feeling, which characterizes none but the lofty, and exhales from none but the pure.

Logan moved in early life to the banks of the Juniata, which is a beautiful little river, flowing through a wild, romantic country, watered also by the Susquehanna. In a pleasant valley he built his cabin, and married a Shawnee wife. Thus he became identified with the Shawnees and Delawares, though belonging to the Six Nations. Logan inherited his father's talents of oratory and bid fair to be equally prosperous. He took no part in the French and Indian war of 1760, nor that of Pontiac which followed, except to assume the role of peacemaker.

His house, like his father's, was the Indian's and the white man's home, the dwelling-place of love. Alas! that the milk of human kindness in his bosom should ever have been turned to gall by cruel and inhuman wrongs. In his childhood a little cousin had been taken captive by white men, under aggravating circumstances, but for this he did not become the foe of the white race.

"Forgive and forget," seems to have been his motto at this time; and he lived to be an aged man, before vengeance took possession of his soul.

In all the country where he dwelt he was known, and to every cottage Logan was welcome; terror did not creep into the heart of woman nor fear disturb the little child, when his footsteps were heard at their doors. And this, as was afterwards proved, was not because he had not all the traits which make a brave warrior, but from a settled principle that all men were brothers and should love one another.

Minnie Myrtle, in her interesting book, "The Iroquois," says of Logan: "He set forth at one time on a hunting expedition, and was alone in the forest. Two white hunters were engaged in the same sport, and having killed a bear in a wild gorge, were about to rest beside a babbling spring, when they saw an Indian form reflected in the water. They sprang to their feet and grasped their rifles, but the Indian bent forward and struck the rifles from their hands, and spilt the powder from their flasks. Then stretching forth his open palm in token of friendship, he seated himself beside them and won his way to their hearts. For a week they roamed together, hunting and fishing by day and sleeping by the same fire at night. It was Logan, and henceforth their brother. At the end of their hunt, he pursued his way over the Alleghenies, to his lodge, and they returned to their homes, never again to point a gun at an Indian's heart.

"Some white men on a journey stopped at his cabin to rest. For amusement a shooting match was proposed, at which the wager was to be a dollar a shot. During the sport Logan lost five shots, and when they had finished he entered his lodge and brought out five deer skins in payment of his losses, as a dollar a skin was the established price in those days and the red man's money. But his guests refused to take them, saying they had only been shooting for sport and wished no forfeit. But the honorable Indian would take no denial, replying, 'If you had lost the shots I should have taken your dollars, but as I have lost, take my skins.'

"Another time he wished to buy grain, and took his skins to a tailor, who adulterated the wheat, thinking the Indian would not know. But the miller informed him, and advised him to apply to a magistrate for redress. He went to a Mr. Brown, who kindly saw that his loss was made up, for Logan came often to his house, and he knew his noble heart and grieved to see him wronged. As he was waiting the decision of the magistrate, he played with a little girl, who was just trying to walk, and the mother remarked that she needed some shoes, which she was not able to purchase for her.

"The child was very fond of Logan and loved to sit upon his knee, and when he went away was ready to go too. He asked the mother if he might take her to his cabin for the day, and she, knowing well the attention which would be bestowed upon her in the Indian's lodge, consented. Toward night there was a little anxiety about the child, but the shades of evening had scarcely begun to deepen, when Logan was seen wending his way to the cottage with his precious charge; and when he placed her in her mother's arms, she saw upon her feet a tiny pair of moccasins, neatly wrought and ornamented with beads, that his own skilful hands had made. Was not this a delicate way of showing gratitude and expressing friendship? Was it a rude and savage nature that prompted this attention to a little child, to gladden a mother's heart? Not all the refined teachings of civilization could have invented a more beautiful tribute of sympathy and grateful affection."

The hunters and backwoodsmen of the period describe Logan as a chief or headman, among the outlying parties of Senecas and Cayugas, and the fragments of broken tribes that lived along the upper Ohio and its tributaries.

They tell us he was a man of splendid appearance, over six feet tall, straight as a spear-shaft, with countenance as open as it was brave and manly, until the wrongs he endured stamped on it an expression of gloomy ferocity. He had always been the friend of the white man, and had been noted particularly for his kindness and gentleness to children. Up to this time he had lived at peace with the borderers, for though some of his kin had been massacred by the whites, years before, he had forgiven the deed—probably because he had knowledge of the fact that others of his relatives and people had been concerned in equally bloody massacres of the whites.

A skilled marksman and mighty hunter, of commanding presence, who treated all men with grave courtesy and dignity, and exacted the same treatment in return, he was a prime favorite with all the white hunters and borderers whose friendship and goodwill was worth having. They admired him for his skill and courage, and they loved him for his straightforward integrity and his noble loyalty to his friends of both races.

In the "American Pioneer" an old hunter is quoted as saying that he considered "Logan the best specimen of humanity he ever met with, either white or red."

Logan was never tempted to touch a drop of "fire-water" until after his great wrongs kindled revenge in his soul. He adopted few of the customs and rejected all the vices of civilization. Such was Logan before the evil days came upon him and his heart was fired with the passion for revenge. And such, indeed, would have been recorded of many other Indians had they received the same kind treatment they extended to the whites. But, "alas for the rarity of human charity under the sun."

Early in the spring the border settlers began to suffer from the deeds of straggling bands of Indians. {FN} Horses were stolen, one or two murders were committed, the inhabitants of the more outlying cabins fled to the forts, and the frontiersmen began to threaten fierce vengeance.

{FN} Thatcher says these robberies were all charged to Indians, "though perhaps, not justly, for it is well known that a large number of civilized adventurers were traversing the frontiers at this time, who sometimes disguised themselves as Indians and committed many depredations and even murder."

On April 16 an Indian trader by the name of Butler had his store attacked and plundered by a roving band of Cherokees. Of the three men in charge at the time one was killed, another wounded, but the third made his escape and raised the alarm. Immediately after this, Connolly, who was acting as Governor Dunmore's lieutenant on the border, issued an open letter, commanding the frontiersmen to hold themselves in readiness to repel any attack of the Indians, as the Shawnees were known to be hostile.

Among the backwoodsmen was one Michael Cresap, a Maryland borderer, who had moved to the banks of the Ohio to establish a home for his family. Roosevelt, in "The Winning of the West," says of Cresap: "He was of the regular pioneer type; a good woodsman, sturdy and brave, a fearless fighter, devoted to his friends and his country; but alas, when his blood was heated, and his savage instincts fairly roused, inclined to regard any red man, whether hostile or friendly as a being who should be slain on sight. Nor did he condemn the brutal deeds done by others on innocent Indians."

Cresap, who had been appointed a captain of the frontier militia, was near Wheeling at the time Connolly's letter was received, with a band of hunters and scouts. These were fearless men who had adopted many of the ways of the Indians, including their method both of declaring war and fighting. Of course, they put a very liberal interpretation upon the order given them by Connolly to repel an attack and proceeded to declare war in the regular Indian style. Calling a council, they planted the war-post, and after marching around it many times, brandishing their hatchets, knives, swords or whatever weapon they carried, all at a signal from their leader struck the post, leaving their weapons sticking in it, and waited eagerly for a chance to attack their common enemy, the Indians.

Unfortunately, as is often the case, the first blood shed was that of friendly Indians. It seems that Butler, the Indian trader, hoping to recover some of the peltries of which he had been robbed by the Cherokees, had sent two friendly Shawnees in a canoe to the place of massacre. Cresap and his men ambushed these friendly Indians on the 27th near Captina, and killed and scalped them. Some of the more humane of the frontiersmen strongly protested against this outrage; but a large majority of them were excited and enraged by the rumor of Indian hostilities, and threatened to kill whoever interfered with them, cursing the traders as being worse than the Indians, as was often the case. Cresap boasted of the murder, and never said a word against scalping. The next day he again led out his men and attacked another party of Shawnees, who had been trading near Pittsburg, killed one and wounded two others, one of the whites being also wounded.

Shortly after this Cresap and his band started to Logan's camp, then located at Yellow Creek, some fifty miles distant. After marching several miles they began to reflect on what they were about to do; calling a halt, they discussed the fact that the camp they were going to attack consisted of friendly Indians, and mainly women and children; their better nature asserted itself, and they immediately returned home.

"But," as Roosevelt says, "Logan's people did not profit by Cresap's change of heart. On the last day of April a small party of men, women and children, including almost all of Logan's kin, left his camp and crossed the river to visit Daniel Greathouse, as had been their custom; for he made a trade of selling rum to the savages, though Cresap had notified him to stop. The whole party were plied with liquor, and became helplessly drunk, in which condition Greathouse and his associate criminals fell on and massacred them, nine souls in all. It was an inhuman and revolting deed, which should consign the names of the perpetrators to eternal infamy."

The whole family of Logan perished in this and other similar massacres; in one of the last were his brother and sister.

It will excite the wonder of no man that Logan from this moment breathed nothing but vengeance against the treacherous and inhuman whites. A general Indian war immediately followed. Logan was the foremost in leading his countrymen to the slaughter of their perfidious enemies. On July 12, with a party of only eight warriors, he attacked a settlement on the Muskingum, captured two prisoners and carried them off. When they arrived at an Indian town, they delivered them to the inhabitants, who at once prepared to put them to death by torture. Logan, however, in the heat of his vindictive feelings, displayed the humanity of his nature. He cut the cords of one of the prisoners, a man named Robinson, who was about to be burned at the stake, and saved his life at the risk of his own. A few days afterward he suddenly appeared to this prisoner with some gunpowder, ink and a wild-goose quill, wherewith to make a pen, and dictated to him a note. This note was afterward tied to a war-club and left in the house of a settler, whose entire family had been butchered by the savages. It was brief, but written with ferocious directness to the man whom he wrongly believed to be the author of his heart-rending troubles. It read as follows:

"Captain Cresap"

"What did you kill my people on Yellow Creek for? The white people killed my kin at Conestoga, a great while ago, and I thought nothing of that. But you killed my kin again on Yellow Creek, and took my cousin prisoner. Then I thought I must kill too; and I have been three times to war since; but all the Indians are not angry, only myself.

"July 21, 1774. Captain John Logan."

The frontier was now in a blaze, and the Indians made preparations for war. The Mingos, Shawnees, Delawares, Wyandots and outlying Iroquois, especially the Senecas, together with a party of warriors of the Miamis from western Ohio, all banded themselves together, under the command of Cornstalk, the great Shawnee chieftain, and Logan.

Meantime Governor Dunmore was making ready a formidable army with which to overwhelm the hostile Indians. The plan was to raise three thousand men; one half, or the northern wing, was to be under the command of Lord Dunmore in person, while the other, composed entirely of border men, living among the mountains west of the Blue Ridge, was under Gen. Andrew Lewis.

Both wings were ordered to take a position at Point Pleasant, where the Great Kanawha empties into the Ohio. The division led by Lewis reached this place and, having camped on a jut of land between the two rivers, waited the coming of Lord Dunmore and his command.

But the crafty Cornstalk did not propose to wait for the coming of the other wing; through his runners he had full knowledge of the movements of the frontier militia. He was greatly outnumbered; but he had at his command over a thousand warriors, the very pick of the young men to be found among the tribes between the Great Lakes and the Ohio. His foes were divided, and he determined to strike a decisive blow before they were again united. Accordingly, he led his long file of warriors to the mouth of the Kanawha, and attacked the division under Lewis on the morning of October 10, 1774, about daylight.

This battle, known in history by two names—Point Pleasant and the Great Kanawha—was purely an American affair because it was fought solely by the backwoodsmen on one side, and American Indians on the other. It was Greek meeting Greek, or, better still, white American meeting Red, and was one of the most stubbornly fought and bravely contested in the annals of history.

The fight was a succession of single combats, each man sheltering himself behind a stump, or rock, or tree-trunk, or whatever was at hand. The backwoodsmen were the best shots, but the Indians excelled in the art of hiding and shielding themselves from harm. The two lines, though more than a mile in length, were so close together that many of the combatants grappled in hand-to-hand combat, using knife or tomahawk. The crack of the rifles was continuous, while above the noise could be heard the groans of the wounded and the shouts of the combatants, as each encouraged his own side or jeered at the enemy. The cheers of the whites mingled with the war-whoops of the Indians. The chiefs continued to exhort their warriors to still greater deeds of valor.

Cornstalk, the commander of the savages, distinguished himself in all his maneuvers throughout the engagement by the skill as well as the bravery of a consummate general. During the whole of the day his stentorian voice was heard throughout the ranks of his enemies, vociferating, "Be strong! be strong!" After an incessant fire of about twelve hours' duration darkness put an end to the conflict. The Indians now made a most skilful retreat, carrying all their wounded in safety across the Ohio, and the Americans were too exhausted to pursue them.

This battle was not only stubbornly contested but bloody. The whites, though claiming the victory, had suffered more than their foes, and indeed had won only because it was against the entire policy of Indian warfare to suffer a severe loss, even if a victory could be gained thereby. Some seventy-five of the whites had been killed or mortally wounded, and one hundred and forty severely or slightly wounded, so that they lost a fifth of their entire number. Of the Indians, the loss was not much more than half as many; only about forty were killed or mortally wounded. No chief of importance was slain among the Indians, while the whites lost in succession their second, third and fourth in command, and had seventeen officers killed or wounded.

The spirit of the Indians had been broken by their defeat. Cornstalk and Logan alone were ready and eager to continue the war. But when the former saw that he could not stir the hearts of his warriors, even with his burning eloquence, to continue the war, he stuck his tomahawk into the war-post, and said that if he could not lead them in battle he would lead them in making peace. Accordingly, with all his fellow-chiefs, except Logan, he went to Lord Dunmore's camp, and there entered into a treaty. In this the Indians agreed to surrender all the white prisoners and stolen horses in their possession, to renounce all claim to the lands south of the Ohio, and to give hostages as an earnest of their good faith.

Cornstalk was their chief spokesman, and though obliged to assent to the conditions imposed, yet preserved through all the proceedings a bearing of proud defiance that showed that he at least was not conquered, and was a stranger to fear. In all his talks, he addressed the white leaders with a tone of vehement denunciation and reproach, that seemed to evince more the attitude of a conqueror than of one of the conquered. The Virginians, who prized skill in oratory only less than skill in warfare, were greatly impressed by the chieftain's eloquence, marvelous voice and majestic bearing. Some of them afterwards stated that his oratory fully equaled that of their great speakers, Richard Henry Lee and Patrick Henry.

Meantime Logan remained apart in the Mingo village, brooding over his wrongs and the vengeance he had taken. The other Indians, when asked about Logan and the reason of his absence, replied that he was like an angry dog, whose bristles were still up, but that they were gradually falling, and when he was urged to attend the meeting he replied that he was a warrior, not a councillor, and would not come.

Since the mountain would not come to Mohammed, that prophet was forced to go to the mountain; as it was deemed absolutely imperative to have an understanding with this great leader, and learn his intentions. Accordingly a messenger was sent to interview Logan. John Gibson, a frontier veteran, who had long lived among the Indians and knew thoroughly both their language and their manners and customs, was chosen for this task. To him Logan was willing to talk. Taking him aside, he suddenly addressed him in a speech that will always retain its place as one of the finest outbursts of Indian eloquence recorded in the history of our country. John Gibson was a plain, honest backwoodsman, utterly incapable of "doctoring" a speech for the better, so he took it down in writing, translating it literally, and, returning to camp, put it into Dunmore's hands. The Governor then read it in council before the entire frontier army, including George Rogers Clark and Cresap, to whom Logan imputed the butchery of his family.

The speech, when read, proved no acknowledgment of defeat, nor expression of desire for peace, but rather a pathetic recital of the heartbreaking wrongs which had been perpetrated against him, even though innocent of harming the whites, and a fierce justification of the vengeance he had taken. The justly famous speech is as follows:

"I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry and he gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked and he clothed him not? During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his camp, an advocate for peace. {FN} Such was my love for the whites that my countrymen pointed as I passed and said, 'Logan is the friend of the white man.' I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man, Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace; but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one."

{FN} Logan here refers to the French and Indian and Pontiac wars, when he refused, positively, to join the Indians, though often urged to dig up the hatchet.

The backwoodsmen listened with almost breathless attention to the reading of this speech, and many of them no doubt regretted the wanton and brutal murder. They were so much impressed by it, that it was the one subject of conversation around the evening campfire, and they continually attempted to rehearse it to each other. {FN} This was especially true of the last clause; one would ask the question, "Who is there to mourn for Logan?" and another would answer with much feeling, "Not one." But they were very well aware that Daniel Greathouse, and not Michael Cresap, was the guilty fiend who wantonly murdered this innocent family, and when the speech was read George Rogers Clark turned to Cresap and said, "You must be a very great man, that the Indians shoulder you with every mean thing that has happened." Whereat Cresap, much angered, swore that he had a good mind to tomahawk Greathouse for this heinous murder. We can only express a regret that Cresap did not carry out his threat, and a hope that some Indian meted out justice to Greathouse as he richly deserved.

{FN} Jefferson's Manuscript

Concerning this powerful address, Thomas Jefferson says: "I may challenge the whole orations of Demosthenes and Cicero, and of any more eminent orator—if Europe has furnished more eminent—to produce a single passage superior to the speech of Logan"; and Clinton, in his "Historical Discourse," subscribes to this noble eulogium:

"Old Logan was the white man's friend But injuries forced his love to end; Of children, wife and kindred shorn, None left for him to joy or mourn, He rose in calm, vindictive ire, And bade them, by their fathers slain, No more in voiceless peace remain, But lift the brand, and battle cry. For vengeance, if not victory." {FN}

{FN} Minnie Myrtle.

Roosevelt says, of the close of his career, "Proud, gloomy Logan never recovered from the blow that had been dealt him; he drank deeper and deeper, and became more and more an implacable, moody and blood-thirsty savage, yet with noble qualities that came to the surface now and then. Again and again he wrought havoc among the frontier settlers; yet we several times hear of his saving the lives of prisoners. Once he saved Simon Kenton from torture and death, when Girty, moved by a rare spark of compassion for his former comrade, had already tried to do so and failed. At last he perished in a drunken brawl by the hand of another Indian."

We notice the authorities differ in their account of Logan's death. Drake says of him: "The melancholy history of Logan must be dismissed with no relief to its gloomy colors. He was himself a victim to the same ferocious cruelty which had already rendered him a desolate man. Not long after the treaty (of Wayne at Greenville) a party of whites murdered him as he was returning from Detroit to his own country."

There were none to mourn for Logan; but as Jefferson well says, "his talents and misfortunes have attached to him the respect and commiseration of a world."

Cornstalk died a noble death, but by an act of cowardly treachery, which is one of the darkest stains on the pages of our frontier history. In the early part of the year 1777 he came into the garrison at Point Pleasant to explain that, while he was anxious to keep the terms of the treaty his warriors were determined to go to war; and frankly added, that if they did he would be compelled to join them. He and three others, including his son, Ellinipsieo, and the chief Red Hawk, were retained as hostages and confined in the fort. About this time a member of a company of rangers was killed by the Indians near the fort; whereupon his comrades, headed by their captain, one John Hall, rushed furiously into the fort to murder the Indian prisoners. Cornstalk heard them rushing in and knew what to expect. Never for an instant did his courage fail him. Turning to Ellinipsieo, the youngest of the group, he thus exhorted him: "My son, the Great Spirit has seen fit that we should die together, and has sent you to that end. It is his will, and let us submit." Then, drawing his blanket around him, with the grace and dignity of a Roman Senator, he faced his assassins, and fell dead, pierced by seven or eight bullets. The other helpless and unarmed Indians were butchered at the same time.

Mr. Withers, in his "Chronicles," writes thus of Cornstalk and this indefensible murder: "Thus perished the mighty Cornstalk, a sachem of the Shawnees, and King of the Northern Confederacy, in 1774, a chief remarkable for many great and good qualities. He was disposed to be at all times the friend of the white men, as he ever was the advocate of honorable peace. But when his country's wrongs 'called aloud for battle,' he became the thunderbolt of war, and made her oppressors feel the weight of his uplifted arm. His noble bearing, his generous and disinterested attachment to the colonies when the thunder of British cannon was reverberating through the land, his anxiety to preserve the frontier of Virginia from desolation and death, the object of his visit to Point Pleasant—all conspired to win for him the esteem and respect of others; while the untimely and perfidious manner of his death caused a deep and lasting regret to pervade the bosoms even of those who were enemies to his nation, and excited the just indignation of all toward his inhuman and barbarous murderers."

[CHAPTER VII.]

CAPTAIN JOSEPH BRANT, OR THAYENDANEGEA,
PRINCIPAL SACHEM OF THE MOHAWKS, AND HEAD CHIEF OF THE IROQUOIS CONFEDERATION.

This remarkable man was born on the banks of the Ohio in 1742. His father, who bore the unpronounceable and unspellable name of Tehowaghwengaraghkwin, was a subordinate chief of the Wolf totem or clan of the Mohawk tribe.

There were two other rival clans among the Mohawks, known as the Tortoise or Turtle, and the Bear, while among the entire Iroquois confederation there were eight, the other five being the Crane, Snipe, Hawk, Beaver and Deer clans.

The following interesting legend is told of the ancestors of our hero. The scene is laid at what is known as the Little Falls of the Mohawk:

"Long ago, when the river was broader and the falls more lofty, a feud arose between two young chiefs of the respective clans of the Mohawk nation, the Wolf and the Tortoise. A maiden of the Bear totem was the cause of the feud, as maidens often are. She was loved by both the young chiefs, and for a time she so coquetted that each thought himself beloved by her in return. Her father was a stern old warrior and loved his child tenderly. Both chiefs had fought the Mingoes and Mohegans by his side, and the bravery of each entitled him to the hand of the maiden. Her affections were at length stirred by the more earnest importunities of the Wolf, and she promised to become his bride. This decision reached the ears of the Tortoise, and the embers of jealousy, which disturbed both while unaccepted suitors, burst into a flame of ungenerous revenge in the bosom of the disappointed lover. He determined to possess the coveted treasure before the Wolf should take her to his wigwam. With well-dissembled acquiescence in her choice, and expressions of warm friendship for herself and her affianced, he allayed all suspicions, and the maiden rambled with him in the moonlight upon the banks of the river when her affianced was away, unconscious of danger. The day approached for the maiden to go to the wigwam of her lord. The Tortoise was with her alone in a secluded nook upon the brink of the river. His light canoe was near and he proposed a voyage to a beautiful little island in the stream, where the fire-flies sparkled and the whippoorwill chanted its evening serenade. They launched, but, instead of paddling for the island, the Tortoise turned his prow toward the cataract. Like an arrow they sped down the swift current, while the young chief, with vigorous arm, paddled for the western shore. Skilful as with the bow and hatchet, he steered his canoe to the mouth of the cavern, then upon the water's brink, seized the affrighted maiden, and leaped ashore, at the same moment securing his canoe by a strong green withe. The cave was dry, a soft bed of the skins of beasts was spread, and abundance of provision was there stored. At the top of the cave, far above the maiden's reach, an opening revealed a passage through the fissures to the rocks above. It was known only to the Tortoise; and there he kept the maiden many months, until her affianced gave her up as lost to him forever. At length, while hunting on the southern hills in flowery May, the Wolf saw the canoe at the mouth of the cave. It solved the question in his mind. The evening was clear, and the full moon shone brightly. He waited until midnight, when, with an arm as strong and skill as accurate as his rival's, he steered his canoe to the mouth of the cavern, which was lighted up by the moon. By its light he saw the perfidious Tortoise sleeping peacefully by the side of his unwilling bride. The Wolf smote the Tortoise, but the wound was slight. The awakened warrior, unable to grasp his hatchet in the dark, bounded through the opening at the top of the cavern and closed it with a heavy stone. The lovers embraced in momentary joy. It was brief, for a fearful doom seemed to await them. The Tortoise would return with force, and they had to make choice of death by the hatchet of the rival chief, or the waters of the cataract. The latter was their choice, and, in affectionate embrace, they sat in their canoe and made the fearful leap. The frail vessel struck propitiously upon the boiling waters, and, unharmed, passed over the gulf below. Down the broad stream they glided, and far away, upon the margin of the lower lake, they lived and loved for two generations, and saw their children's children go out to the battle and the chase. In the line of their descent tradition avers, came Brant, the Mohawk sachem, the strong Wolf of his nation."

It is said that Brant's Indian name, Thay-en-da-ne-gea, signifies a bundle of sticks, or, in other words, strength. Joseph Brant, in company with two older brothers, fought his first battle at Lake George, under the famous chief, King Hendrick.

It may be interesting to recall the fact that it was from this noted chief that Sir William Johnson obtained a choice tract of land on the Mohawk, in the following manner. The sachem, being at the baronet's house, saw a richly embroidered coat and coveted it. The next morning he said to Sir William, "Brother, me dream last night." "Indeed," answered Sir William, "what did my red brother dream?" "Me dream that coat be mine." "It is yours," said the shrewd baronet. Not long afterward Sir William visited the sachem, and he, too, had a dream. "Brother," he said, "I dreamed last night." "What did my pale-faced brother dream?" asked Hendrick. "I dreamed that this tract of land was mine," describing a square bounded on the south by the Mohawk, on the east by Canada creek, and north and west by objects equally well known. Hendrick was astonished. He saw the enormity of the request, for it embraced nearly a hundred thousand acres, but he was not to be outdone in generosity. He sat thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "Brother, the land is yours, but you must not dream again." The title was confirmed by the British government, and the tract was called the Royal Grant. Thus did Sir William Johnson become, next to the Penns, and Lord Fairfax, the largest landholder in the colonies.

Brant's father died in the Ohio country and his mother returned to Canajoharie, on the Mohawk, with the two younger children—Mary, or Mollie, as she was usually called, and Joseph.

By traffic with the Indians for furs, Sir William Johnson acquired a large fortune. He erected two splendid and spacious buildings, which he called the "Castle" and "Hall," respectively, occupying one in winter, the other in summer.

Four or five years after he built the castle, the wife of Colonel Johnson, as he was then called, a plain, fair-haired German girl of humble lineage, died, leaving her husband one boy, John, and two baby daughters. One day the widower attended a muster of the county militia.

As an officer came riding by on a prancing steed, a bright-eyed, red-cheeked Indian girl of sixteen, a real beauty, with her white teeth, long, flowing black hair, and a form of rare symmetry and grace, laughingly bantered him for a ride. The officer told her she might jump on if she could. Quick as a flash the agile girl leaped up on the horse behind the gallant rider, and clinging to him, her hair and ribbons blowing wildly in the breeze, rode round and round on the flying steed before the applauding crowd.

One man took more than ordinary interest in the incident. It was the susceptible and lonely widower. That night Mollie Brant, Joseph's sister, who was the dusky beauty, went home with the baronet to Johnson Castle, becoming thenceforth the mistress alike of it and its proprietor. The motherless daughters were assigned apartments of their own, where they lived in complete seclusion under the care of a devoted friend of their mother, an officer's widow. Their time was occupied with needlework or study. Their library consisted of the Bible and prayer-book, Rollin's "Ancient History," and a few English novels of the period. A game of chess, a walk in the park, or a drive along the river road, constituted their only amusements. At the age of sixteen they had never seen a lady other than their governess. Occasionally some gentleman visitor came to Johnson Hall. This served to break the monotony for the lonely girls, to whom such a guest was always presented. They married early, and their father built for them two elegant stone residences a few miles from the castle.

Far different from this conventual life of the two daughters was that led below stairs by their father. From the first, Sir William acquired great influence over the warriors of the far-famed Six Nations or Iroquois Confederation. The negotiations of the British Government with these Indians were all carried on through him. The castle was his storehouse, where large supplies of guns, ammunition and trinkets were kept for trade. Around the castle were clusters of cabins for the accommodation of Indians who came to traffic.

Sir William also kept a bounteous table open to every comer. The Indians would visit him day and night, sleeping in the halls, on the steps or in the cabins, as suited their fancy, and faring on their host's sumptuous provision for days at a time. The natural genius of the baronet for controlling the restless red men was greatly aided by his questionable alliance with Mollie Brant. She was immensely popular, possessed a shrewd intelligence, and acquired great influence over her people. Sir William, moreover, by this alliance, for he married her near the close of his life in order to make her children legitimate, won the hearts of the warriors. His castle, to which they were always glad to come, was considered the splendid establishment of one of their own people. The Indians formally adopted the baronet into the Mohawk nation; they then gave him an Indian name and made him a war-chief.

Brant is said to have taken that name from the fact that after the death of his father, the mother married an Indian who went by the name of Brant among the English. Thay-en-da-ne-gea would naturally be called by the surname of his stepfather. At first he was known as Brant's Joseph, afterward Joseph Brant.

Women are often designing, and use their influence over men for their own purposes. It is natural to find that "Miss Mollie Brant" made use of her influence over Sir William to further the interests of her brother Joseph. As he was an unusually intelligent lad he soon became the recipient of Sir William's bounty, and was sent by him to school at Lebanon, Connecticut. This school was taught by Rev. Eleazer Wheelock. In Dr. Wheelock's letters to Sir William Johnson, Joseph Brant is frequently well spoken of, as "Joseph and the rest of the boys are well, studious and diligent"; "Joseph is indeed an excellent youth."

He was employed by the baronet to assist in his duties as Indian commissioner. He acted as interpreter, and was often sent on long journeys, to the wild Indians of the West. In this work he early exhibited rare diplomatic ability. Moreover, Brant took great interest in things spiritual, and aided materially in translating portions of the Bible, the prayer-book and ritual, into the Mohawk tongue.

At the time of Sir William Johnson's death. Brant was a powerful Mohawk sachem. John Johnson, the only son of Sir William, inherited the title and much of the wealth; while Guy Johnson, Sir William's son-in-law, became Indian Commissioner, with Joseph Brant as his private secretary.

Meanwhile the Revolution was approaching. New York constantly protested her loyalty, but still claimed her liberty. Political discussion became loud and heated. The people found themselves ranged into two hostile parties. The great majority were patriots. They believed in the colonies having justice, come what would. These were the Whigs. But there was also a minority party who retained their old attachment to England, who justified the home government, and abused the Whigs. They were the Conservatives, or Tories. The one demanded a change—a reform. The other replied, "Let well enough alone; peace! peace! when there was no peace."

These party dissensions reached the Mohawk valley, where a majority of the people were enthusiastic Whigs. The Johnsons, however, were Tories. Property and aristocracy are conservative. The Johnsons were very wealthy and cared nothing for the tax on tea. What was it to them if troops were quartered in Boston? It cost them nothing. So they wanted things to continue as they were.

Brant had now become, by the exigencies of war, by his connection with the Johnsons, and by his own superior mind and gift for leadership, the most powerful and influential of the Iroquois war-chiefs.

Before the Americans were yet sure whether Brant would take up the tomahawk against them, his old school-master was asked to write to him on the subject.

President Wheelock accordingly wrote Brant a very long letter, using every argument in favor of the colonists that he thought would have weight with an Indian. Brant answered with Indian wit that he very well remembered the happy hours he had spent under the Doctor's roof, and he especially remembered the family prayers, and, above all, how his school-master used to pray "that they might be able to live as good subjects, to fear God and honor the King."

Meantime the American successes in Canada were, for a time, very influential with the Indians on the American border, many of whom took sides with the colonies. It is possible that Brant, too, felt the power of success and wavered a little at this critical time, though he always denied it. In speaking of this period long afterward, Brant said: "When I joined the English in the beginning of the war, it was purely on account of my forefathers' engagements with the King. I always looked on these engagements, or covenants between the King and the Indian nations, as a sacred thing; therefore I was not to be frightened by the threats of rebels at the time."

Encouraged by the Johnsons and other Tories, who wished him to see the mother-country, that he might judge of her resources and population, Brant sailed for England in the fall of 1775. On his arrival in London he was conducted to a rather obscure inn, called "The Swan With Two Necks." All haste was made, however, to provide statelier lodgings for the great "Indian King," as the Englishmen called him. But Brant politely but firmly declined, declaring that the people at "The Swan" had treated him so kindly he preferred to stay there.

"In this Joseph showed his innocence," as Mason says. "He mistook the broad smile and hearty handshake, which forms such an important part of the landlord's stock in trade, for the genuine article. If he was taken in by the patronizing airs of the shrewd tavern-keeper, Brant showed no other signs of verdancy. He dressed in European clothing of the best quality. His courtly manners and clear-cut English caused the throng of titled men and jeweled women who sought his company and pressed upon him the honors of the capital to lose sight of the fact that this lordly gentleman of foreign accent and distinguished air was, in fact, a red-fisted savage, accustomed to lead his yelling band of braves to midnight massacres.

"When he appeared at court on visits of business or ceremony, he laid aside his European habit, and wore a gorgeous costume of the fashion of his own people. Bands of silver encircled his sinewy arms. Tall plumes adorned his head-dress, and highly colored fabrics, hung with copper pendants, formed his clothing. The sight of a glittering tomahawk with his full name, 'J. Thay-en-da-ne-gea,' engraved on it must have shocked the ladies at court."

Brant was much lionized while in England. He was courted by that celebrated worshiper of great men, Boswell; and sat for his picture twice during the visit, once at Boswell's request, and once for the Earl of Warwick, who caused Romney, the eminent painter, to make a portrait of him for his collection.

He bought a gold ring during his stay, upon which he had his full name engraved, that his body might be identified in case of his death in the coming battles.

Before he left England he promised to lead three thousand Indians into the field on the royal side. Returning to America, by way of New York, early in the spring, he was secretly landed at some quiet spot near the city. From here he undertook the dangerous journey through the country to Canada, and succeeded. On reaching Canada, he at once collected a large force of Indians, which he placed at the disposal of Sir Guy Carleton, commander of the royal forces in Canada. Carleton ordered him with six hundred Iroquois to join a company of regulars in dislodging the Americans from a point of land about forty miles above Montreal, known as the Cedars. The American commander, Bedell, when he saw the English and Indians approaching, deserted, under pretense of going for reinforcements. The command was left to Major Butterfield, who seems to have been almost as cowardly as Bedell. After a brief fight with musketry, he was intimidated by a threat that the Indians would have no mercy if the Americans held out any longer, and surrendered, against the wishes of his men. He had hardly surrendered when a detachment was sent to his relief by Arnold, which was attacked by Brant and his Indians, and, after a stubborn fight, captured. The savages murdered several of the prisoners before they could be stopped. Brant immediately exerted himself in every way to prevent a massacre. One of the prisoners, Captain M^cKinistry, who was wounded, was selected by the Indians to be put to death by torture. Brant would not permit this, but a chief's influence is not very great in such eases, and it was with a great deal of trouble that he prevented it. To soothe the feelings of his warriors, he and some of the British officers made up a purse, with which they bought the Indians an ox to roast instead of Captain M^cKinistry, who was treated with so much kindness by the young chief that he and Brant became fast friends. In after years Brant never passed down the Hudson without visiting the captain at his home. Arnold secured the exchange of the prisoners by promising to release British prisoners in return, which promise was never fulfilled.

In 1777 Brant gathered a large force of Indians at Oquaga, on the Susquehanna. The settlers on the frontier trembled, and there was reason for fear, for Brant was planning an attack upon Cherry Valley. He approached the settlement with his Indians one bright May morning, and took an observation from the distant woods. It happened at this moment that the boys of the settlement were parading in front of the rude fort with their wooden swords and guns. Brant mistook the amateurs for real soldiers. He, with his party, moved to a hiding place along the roadside, hoping to intercept some one who would give them information. That morning Lieutenant Wormwood, a rich young man from the Mohawk, who had come over to Cherry Valley to tell the inhabitants that reinforcements would be sent, started home. He was accompanied by one Peter Sitz, who bore double dispatches, one true, the other exaggerating the strength of the defense at the fort. When they reached the place where the Indians were in hiding Brant hailed them, but instead of answering they put spurs to their horses and tried to pass. But the savages fired at them, killing the lieutenant outright, and the horse on which Sitz rode. The Indians now rushed out and scalped Wormwood and captured Sitz, who delivered the bogus dispatches to Brant. By this means he was fortunately deceived as to the strength of Cherry Valley, and retired. It is said that the chief regretted the death of the young man, as they had formerly been friends.

Brant's forces at Oquaga continued to increase; all believed he was preparing for a hostile movement. The people of the frontier were in terror; General Herkimer, who was an old neighbor and friend of Brant, determined to visit him, hoping to influence him to remain neutral, and, failing in this, to capture the chief if possible. He sent a messenger, inviting Brant to an interview with him at Unadilla, and marched to this place with over three hundred militia. Brant moved to meet him with some five hundred braves; he encamped within two miles of Herkimer and sent a messenger to the general.

"Captain Brant wants to know what you came here for," said the messenger.

"I merely came to see and talk with my brother, Captain Brant," answered Herkimer.

"Do all these men want to talk with Captain Brant, too?" inquired the Indian. "I will carry your talk to Captain Brant, but you must not come any farther."

Through messengers a meeting was appointed to take place about midway between the two encampments. After Herkimer and his party had been on the ground some time Brant and his friends arrived, greeted the general and began to converse, but watched his face with a keen eye. In fact, each observed the other with ill-disguised suspicion.

"May I inquire the reason of my being so honored?" said the polite chief.

"I came only on a friendly visit," answered Herkimer.

"And all these have come on a friendly visit, too?" and Brant eyed Herkimer's companions. "All want to see the poor Indians? It is very kind," he added, with just a little curl of the lip.

General Herkimer wished to go forward to his camp, but Brant informed him he was quite near enough at present, and that he must not proceed further in that direction. Herkimer questioned Brant about his feelings and intentions with regard to the war between England and the colonies, to which the sachem replied earnestly: "The Indians are in concert with the King, as their fathers were. We have yet got the wampum belt which the King gave us, and we can not break our word. You and your followers have joined the Boston people against your sovereign. Yet, although the Bostonians are resolute, the King will humble them. General Schuyler was very smart on the Indians in his treaty with them, but at the same time he could not afford to give them the smallest article of clothing. The Indians have made war before upon the white people when they were all united; now they are divided, and the Indians are not frightened." Brant peremptorily refused to surrender the Tories in his party, when this was demanded, but agreed to meet Herkimer on the following morning.

That night Herkimer laid a dark plot to massacre the chief and his few attendants at the next meeting, the following day. But Brant was wary. At the appointed time he marched up to General Herkimer with great dignity.

"I have five hundred warriors with me, armed and ready for battle," said he. "You are in my power; but as we have been friends and neighbors I will not take advantage of you." As he said this he gave a signal to his waiting band, and with a war-whoop that made the forest resound they swept around the spot ready for any work their chief had for them to do. Restraining his men, Brant faced Herkimer and his raw recruits, and with a haughty gesture said: "You may go." The colonists took the hint and went at the highest possible speed.

Joseph Waggoner, one of Herkimer's party, in a written statement, declared that the general appointed himself and three others to be present at this meeting, and at a signal from him to shoot Brant and his three attendants upon the spot. This was not a very honorable or friendly intention, but white men in Indian warfare often become as treacherous as the Indians themselves, and it is a relief to know that the plan failed for the reason given.

The savage war had now commenced. The tomahawk and scalping-knife were combined with British bayonets for the devastation of the frontier. Burgoyne, who had superseded Sir Guy Carleton as commander of the royal forces in Canada, in invading New York, detached St. Leger against Fort Stanwix, or Schuyler, on the Mohawk. Brant and his Indians formed a part of this force. Colonel Gansevoort, the commander of the fort, declared his determination to defend it to the last extremity. But the fortifications were weak, and the garrison in peril. A body of militia was raised in the valley of the Mohawk for the relief of the place. Our old friend General Herkimer, took the command and, early in August, began his march for the fort. St. Leger, hearing of his approach, dispatched a strong force of British and Indians to meet them. Brant, knowing from experience that the militia would advance without much order or precaution, planned an ambush, which the misconduct of the Americans and their commander enabled him to carry into effect with such success as to cause them a severe loss. He placed his warriors in an ambush where there was a causeway and bridge crossing a low marsh. They were arranged in a circle with an opening at the bridge. As soon as the main body had crossed this marsh, a band of warriors rushed in to close the gap of the circle, completely inclosing the militia, with the exception of the supply train and rear guard, which had not entered the causeway.

Herkimer's first intimation of the vicinity of an enemy was a terrific Indian yell, followed immediately by so heavy and well-aimed a volley as brought nearly every man in his advanced body to the ground. A frightful struggle ensued. From every side the savages poured in the most galling fire. Every time the militia attempted to breakthrough the fatal lines which encircled them, they were beaten back with fearful slaughter. Yet they bravely maintained a most stubborn resistance by posting themselves in Indian fashion behind logs and trees.

Observing that a savage, waiting till a colonist had discharged his gun from behind a tree, would rush forward and tomahawk him before he could reload, they placed two men behind each tree, one reserving his fire for the defense of his companion. Finding themselves pressed on all sides, the militiamen disposed themselves in a circle. It was a small wheel within a larger one.

Just as the Indians charged on their foes with desperate valor, using the murderous bayonet, as well as the tomahawk, a sudden storm which had come up unnoticed by the struggling combatants broke upon them with tropical fury. Unearthly bolts of lightning, followed by peal after peal of sky-splitting thunder, lent horror to the scene. The trees of the forest writhed and swayed in the fury of the tempest. In a moment a mighty flood of waters burst forth from the surcharged clouds, dampening the powder and rendering some of the guns of the combatants useless. The conflict of men became puny in comparison with the conflict of the elements. The noise of battle was but a stillness contrasted with the awful roar of the storm. The awed combatants desisted. The dark clans of Thay-en-da-ne-gea withdrew in sullen rage to the sheltering distance.

The storm lasted about an hour, and the Americans availed themselves of this opportunity to take a more advantageous position.

When the fighting was again renewed, the red men were reenforced by a detachment of Johnson's Greens. As the royalists advanced upon the American militia, neighbor recognized neighbor, and with the bitter hatred of civil warfare the battle was waged more fiercely. The Americans fired upon the Greens as they came up, and then, with uncontrollable ferocity, sprang from the sheltering trees and attacked them with their bayonets and the butts of their muskets. The contest grew even closer, and militiamen and Tories, some of whom were neighbors and relatives, throttled and stabbed one another, often dying grappled together.

Near the commencement of the action a musket ball passed through and killed General Herkimer's horse, and shattered his own leg just below the knee. With perfect composure and cool courage, he ordered the saddle to be taken from his dead horse and placed against a large beech tree near. Seated there, with his men falling all around him, and the bullets of the enemy like driving sleet, the intrepid old general calmly gave his orders. When advised to take a less exposed position, his reply was, "No, I will face the enemy," and he continued to command his men; at the same time coolly taking out his tinder-box and lighting his pipe, he smoked it with the greatest composure. He did not long survive the battle, but died at his home near by.

A body of two hundred and fifty men of the garrison were in the meantime advancing to the relief of Herkimer's party. They fell upon the Indians and Tories, put them to rout, captured their provisions and baggage, with five standards, and returned in safety. Brant now drew off his braves, and one of the bloodiest battles of the war ended.

Herkimer's disaster produced no disheartening effects upon the garrison. They repulsed every attack, and refused to listen to any mention of a surrender, although they no longer had any hope of being relieved.

As it was of the utmost importance to reduce this place, in order to leave no military post in the hands of the Americans which might threaten the right flank of Burgoyne's army in its approach, St. Leger tried the arts of intimidation. On August 8 he sent a flag to the fort with a summons to surrender, in which he exaggerated his own strength, and represented that Burgoyne had entered Albany in triumph, after laying waste the whole country in his victorious march. He further stated that Brant and his Indians were determined, if they met with further resistance, to massacre every soul on the Mohawk river; and, in case they were obliged to wait any longer for the surrender of Fort Schuyler, every man in the garrison would be tomahawked.

Gansevoort, maintaining his inflexible resolution, was not moved in the slightest degree by these threats, but determined to make one more attempt to obtain relief. Two of his officers volunteered their services, and with much difficulty and many adventures, made their way through the cordon of the enemy to German Flats, from which place a message was sent to General Schuyler, at Stillwater. Measures were instantly taken to relieve the fort. General Arnold offered to conduct the expedition, and a brigade was detached for this purpose.

But an opportunity presented itself for directing a stratagem against the enemy. Among the Tory spies recently captured was a half-witted fellow named Hon-Yost Schuyler; he was tried by court-martial and condemned to death. His mother and brother interceded with Arnold on his behalf; the general at first was inexorable, but at last proposed terms on which he would grant Hon-Yost's pardon. He must hurry to Fort Schuyler and alarm St. Leger's army, so that he would raise the siege. The foolish fellow immediately accepted these conditions, and his brother became a hostage in his stead. Hon-Yost now made arrangements with a friendly Oneida Indian to aid him, and, after firing several shots through his clothes, the two men started by different routes to St. Leger's army.

Brant's Indian warriors had been morose and dissatisfied since the battle of Oriskany; they had been promised an easy success and much plunder, and they had found neither the one nor the other. They were now holding a great pow-wow to consult the spirits about the success of the present siege. In the midst of the ranting and drumming, and dancing, and other mysterious jugglery, Hon-Yost arrived in camp. Hon-Yost was well known to be on their side, and they crowded around him to hear the news. With the trickery of a half-witted man he did not deliver his message in plain words. He knew the effect of mystery with an Indian. He shook his head ominously, and pointed to his riddled clothes to denote his narrow escape from the coming foe.

"How many men—how many men are there?" asked the eager Indians.

Hon-Yost looked up and pointed to the leaves of the trees over his head. The report ran like wild-fire through the camp; it quickly reached the ear of the commander. St. Leger sent for Hon-Yost. The wily fellow adopted a different policy in talking to the English commander. He told a straight and pitiful story; how he had been captured, tried and condemned; how, on the way to his execution, finding himself carelessly guarded, he had fled, thinking he would die any way, and he would as soon be shot as hung. His escape had been narrow, as the colonel might see by looking at his clothes. And the Americans were coming in great force to raise the siege. While Hon-Yost was being interviewed at headquarters, the Oneida messenger arrived with wampum to say that the Americans were indeed coming in great force. Of course, after all this, the spirits consulted in the pow-wow gave ominous warnings. St. Leger saw that the Indians were about to decamp; he tried to reassure them; he called a council, but neither the influence of Thay-en-da-ne-gea nor that of Johnson was of any avail.

"The pow-wow says we must go—the pow-wow says we must go," persisted the Indians. And the besieging army went—as fast as they could, strewing their baggage along the route.

The simpleton, whose well-told lie was responsible for this sudden departure, went with them a few miles, and then contrived to slip away. He reported to General Arnold, who promptly released his brother, and gave him a full pardon.

Brant was again at Oquaga in 1778, the terror of the border. Women turned pale and children trembled at his very name. In the bitter animosity of the day no story of cruelty was too black to be laid upon Brant, the great chief of these savage warriors. Brant felt keenly the hatred with which he was regarded in afterlife among frontiersmen. The proud chief wished to be regarded as a gentleman in every respect. "He always denied," as Edward Eggleston says, "that he had ever committed any act of cruelty during this cruel war, and none has been proved against him, while many stories of his mercy are well authenticated. He led, indeed, a savage force, and fought in the savage way, as the English officials who managed the Indian alliance desired. When Indians were accused of cruelty Brant would return the charge upon the whites, who sometimes, in fact, excelled the savages in their revengeful barbarity. To Brant the civilized custom of imprisoning men was the worst of cruelty; a man's liberty, he held, was worth more than his life. Of the Indian custom of torture he did not approve, but when a man must die for a crime, he thought it better to give him some chance to make atonement in a courageous and warrior-like death than to execute him after the manner of the whites by the humiliating gallows. Brant used in after-life to defend the Indian mode of warfare. He said the Indians had neither the artillery, the numbers, the forts, nor the prisons of the white men. In place of artillery they must use stratagem; as their forces were small, they must use every means to kill as many of the enemy with as small a loss to themselves as possible; and, as they had no prisons, their captives must, in some cases, be killed. He held it more merciful to kill a suffering person, and thus put an end to his misery."

During the summer of 1778, when every borderer trembled for his life, a boy named William M^cKoun was one day making hay in a field alone; when, happening to turn around he saw an Indian very near, and involuntarily raised his rake for defense.

"Don't be afraid, young man, I shan't hurt you," said the Indian. "Can you tell me where Foster's house is?" The youth gave the directions, and then asked, "Do you know Mr. Foster?" "I am slightly acquainted with him. I saw him once at Halfway creek," answered the Indian. "What is your name?" "William M^cKoun." "Oh, you are a son of Captain M^cKoun, who lives in the northeast part of town, I suppose. I know your father very well; he lives neighbor to Mr. Foster. I know M^cKoun very, very well, and a very fine fellow he is, too. I know several more of your neighbors and they are all fine men."

"What is your name?" the boy ventured to ask. The Indian hesitated a moment and then said: "My name is Brant." "What! Captain Brant?" cried the boy, eagerly. "No; I'm a cousin of his," answered the chief, smiling, as he turned away.

The first blow that Brant struck in 1778 was at a small settlement about ten miles from Cherry Valley. The inhabitants were aroused by the terrible war-whoop in the dead of night; some escaped, the rest were taken prisoners. Under Brant's guidance there was no massacreing of helpless women and children. The houses and barns were fired, and their flames lighted up the country; the men were tied and carried into captivity. Brant had left one large house unburned. Into this he gathered the women and children, and here he left them unharmed.

The alarming news that Brant's forces were increasing, and that he was fortifying himself at Unadilla, reached Cherry Valley. Captain M^cKoun, of that place, very foolishly wrote Brant a challenge to meet him either in single combat, or with an equal number of men, with the insulting addition that if Brant would come to Cherry Valley they would change him "from a Brant to a goose." This letter was put in the Indian post office; in other words, it was tied to a stick and put in an Indian foot-path, and was sure to reach the chief.

Brant received it in due time, and referred to it in this postscript to a letter written to a loyalist a few days after: "I heard that the Cherry Valley people are very bold and intend to make nothing of us; they call us wild geese, but I know the contrary. I mean now to fight the cruel rebels as well as I can."

Early in the fall of 1778 Brant, with his Indian army, made an attack upon German Flats, the finest and richest part of Mohawk Valley. Fortunately four scouts from the settlement were out; three of them were killed by the Indians, but the fourth one escaped to warn the settlers. Men, women and children took to Forts Dayton and Herkimer, near by, for safety. Brant did not know that his approach was expected. The Indians swept into the settlement from different directions, that they might take it entirely by surprise. They found the houses deserted. A moment more and the settlement was in a blaze. Each family could see from the forts its own home and the stored-up fruits of their year's labor fast burning up. But they might be thankful they were not in the houses.

The Indians dared not brave the artillery of the forts, but could be seen rushing into the pastures after the cattle, and driving away sheep and horses. They left the settlers nothing, but fortunately they had found only two men to kill.

A war of retaliation was now begun. A regiment of American troops marched upon Brant's headquarters. They approached Unadilla with the greatest caution, thinking to surprise the Indians in their homes, but Indians are not often so surprised. They found that Unadilla had been deserted several days. Capturing a loyalist, they made him guide them to Oquaga. This town had been just deserted in the greatest confusion, and much of the Indians' portable property was left behind. Here were a number of well-built houses which denoted Brant's efforts at civilization. The colonial soldiers feasted upon poultry, fruit and vegetables of the red men; and then everything was destroyed by fire.

Near to this place was an Indian fort. This, too, was laid in ruins. On the return two mills were burned and the village of Unadilla was left in a blaze.

From his ruined villages Brant determined to return to Niagara for winter quarters. While on the way he was met by Walter N. Butler, who, with a force of loyalists, was marching to attack the settlements, and he brought orders for Brant to join him. The great sachem was much displeased to be put in a subordinate position under this young man, or rather young fiend, whom he disliked. He was at length persuaded to join him, however, with a force of some five hundred warriors.

It was late in the fall. The scattered settlers had returned to their homes thinking it was too late in the season for further danger from the Indians, as Brant and his warriors had, as they supposed, gone into winter quarters at Niagara. They therefore did not apprehend an attack on the settlement.

The fort at Cherry Valley was the church, surrounded with a stockade and garrisoned by eastern soldiers, who knew little of Indian fighting. They heard rumors of an approach from the Indians, but did not credit them fully. They did, however, send out scouts, who went a few miles, built a fire and lay down to sleep, without appointing a guard. They awoke to find themselves prisoners.

Butler and Brant approached the settlement on a stormy night. They fired upon a straggling settler, who escaped to give the alarm. But, strange to say, the commander did not yet believe the Indians were coming in force, until they burst like a storm upon the settlement, surrounding the houses and murdering the inhabitants as they came forth.

The house of Mr. Wells, a prominent citizen, was first surrounded, and every person in it was killed by the ferocious Senecas, who were first to rush into the village. Captain Alden, the unwise commander, paid for his folly with his life. He and the other officers were quartered among the settlers outside the fort, and as soon as the alarm was heard he tried to reach the fort, but a savage hurled his tomahawk at his head with deadly effect. Thirty-two settlers, mostly women and children, were killed, although some of them escaped to the woods and from there to the Mohawk Valley. Brant greatly regretted the murder of the Wells family, with whom he was well acquainted; although he had tried to anticipate the Indians and reach the Wells house before the Senecas, but failed. He now asked after Captain M^cKoun, and was informed that he had probably escaped to the Mohawk with his family.

"He sent me a challenge once," said Brant. "I have now come to accept it. He is a fine soldier thus to retreat."

"Captain M^cKoun would not turn his back upon an enemy when there was any probability of success," answered his informer.

"I know it," said Brant. "He is a brave man, and I would have given more to take him than any other man in Cherry Valley, but I would not have hurt a hair of his head."

Through all that terrible struggle, here and elsewhere, in which so much blood was shed, and so many heart-sickening scenes were enacted by both parties, Brant was generally found on the side of mercy; but it was his misfortune to be under the command of Tories, whom he declared, "were more savage than the savages themselves."

We have called Walter N. Butler a fiend, and an incident is recorded of the massacre at Cherry Valley which tends to prove it. Butler ordered a little child to be killed because he was a rebel. Brant interfered and saved him, remarking: "This child is not an enemy to the King, nor a friend to the colonies; long before he is old enough to bear arms the trouble will be settled."

During this massacre Brant entered a house where he found a woman going about her regular duties.

"How does it happen you are at this kind of work while your neighbors are all murdered around you?" exclaimed the chief.

"We are King's people," answered the woman.

"That plea won't save you to-day," said Brant.

"There is one Joseph Brant; if he is with the Indians, he will save us," said the woman.

"I am Joseph Brant," answered the chief; "but I am not in command, and I don't know that I can save you, but I will do what I can."

At this moment some Senecas approached the house "Get into bed and pretend you are sick," said Brant. The woman hurried into bed and Brant met the Senecas.

"There's no one here but a sick woman and her children." said he. He prevailed upon the Indians to leave, after little conversation. When they were out of sight he went to the door and gave a long, shrill yell. Immediately some Mohawks came running across the fields.

"Where is your paint?" Brant called out to them. "Here, put my mark upon this woman and her children." The order was obeyed, and Brant turned to the woman saying, "You are now probably safe, as the Indians will understand and respect that sign."

The loyalists and Indians gained no success by an attempted assault on the fort, while the garrison dared make no sally, on account of the superior numbers of the Indians. The enemy encamped for the night in the valley, and spent most of the night distributing and dividing plunder. There were thirty or forty prisoners, men, women and children, who spent a sleepless night, fearing that torture was reserved for them; but the next morning the whole force marched down Cherry Valley creek. On the morning of the following day, the prisoners were all gathered together, and were informed that the women were all to be sent back with the exception of Mrs. Moore, Mrs. Campbell and their children. It seems that the husbands of these two women had been active in border warfare, and it was resolved, as a punishment, to keep their families in captivity. These Women and children were finally exchanged for British prisoners among the Americans.

Among other captives the Indians carried away, at this time, a man named Vrooman, who was an old friend of the chief. Desiring to give his friend a chance to escape. Brant sent him back about two miles to get some birch-bark. He, of course, expected to see no more of him, but what was his surprise when, a few hours after, Vrooman came hurrying up with the bark, which the chief did not want. Brant said afterward that he had sent him back on purpose to give him a chance to escape, but he was such a big fool he did not do it and he was compelled to take him to Canada.

In 1780, when Sir John Johnson and Brant led a desolating army through the Schoharie and Mohawk valleys, Brant's humanity was again displayed. On their way to Fort Hunter an infant was carried off. The frantic mother followed them as far as the fort, but could get no tidings of her child. On the morning after the departure of the invaders, and while General Van Rensselaer's officers were at breakfast, a young Indian came bounding into the room, bearing the infant in his arms and a letter from Captain Brant, addressed to "The Commander of the Rebel Army." The letter was as follows: "Sir,—I send you, by one of my runners, the child, which he will deliver, that you may know that whatever others may do, I do not make war upon women and children. I am sorry to say that I have those engaged with me who are more savage than the savages themselves." He named Colonel John Butler, who commanded the Tories at Wyoming, and his son, Walter N., the commander of the British and Indians at Cherry Valley. The former occurred July 3, 1778 the latter, November 10, of the same year.

These were among the most bloody massacres of Indian warfare. But let it never be forgotten, that the commander and instigator of the butchery of aged non-combatants, women and children, at each place, was a white man. We have seen how Brant restrained the fiendish barbarity of the younger Butler at Cherry Valley. And, as to Wyoming, it has been proven that the "Monster Brant," as Campbell calls him in his "Gertrude of Wyoming," was not present at that massacre.

The Indians who fought with the Loyalists at Wyoming were not Mohawks, but Senecas, under their war-chief, Gi-en-gwa-tah, which signifies "he who goes in the smoke."

It was at Wyoming where the garrison sallied forth under Colonel Zebulon Butler, the commander, to attack the Tories and Indians, under the command of John Butler. The Americans were ambushed and only a remnant regained the fort. A demand was sent in for the surrender of the fort, accompanied by one hundred and ninety-six bloody scalps, taken from the slain. When the best terms were asked, the infamous John Butler replied, "the hatchet." It will be noticed that the hostile commanders bore the same name, as they were cousins and had been old friends.

It was believed for many years that Brant and his Mohawk warriors were engaged in the invasion of Wyoming. Historians of established reputation, such as Gordon, Ramsey, Thacher, Marshall, and Allen, assert that he and John Butler were joint commanders on that occasion, and upon his memory rested the foul imputation of being a participant in the horrid transactions of Wyoming. Misled by history, or rather "historical imagination," Campbell, in his "Gertrude of Wyoming," makes the Oneida say:

"This is no time to fill the joyous cup; The mammoth comes—the foe—the monster Brant, With all his howling, desolating band."

And again:

"Scorning to wield the hatchet for his tribe, 'Gainst Brant himself I went to battle forth; Accursed Brant! he left of all my tribe Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth. No! not the dog that watched my household hearth Escaped that night of blood upon the plains. All perish'd. I alone am left on earth! To whom nor relative nor blood remains— No, not a kindred drop that runs in human veins."

Brant always denied any participation in the invasion, but the evidence of history seemed against him, and the verdict of the world was that he was one of the chief actors in that horrible tragedy. From this aspersion Mr. Stone vindicated his character in his "Life of Brant." A reviewer, understood to be Caleb Cushing, of Massachusetts, disputed the point, and maintained that Stone had not made out a clear case for the sachem. Unwilling to remain deceived, if he was so, Mr. Stone made a journey to the Seneca country, where he found several surviving warriors who were engaged in that campaign. The celebrated Seneca chief, Kavundvowand, better known as Captain Pollard, who was a young chief in the battle, gave Mr. Stone a clear account of the events, and was positive in his declarations that Brant and the Mohawks were not engaged in that campaign. The Indians were principally Senecas, and were led by Gi-en-gwa-tah, as before mentioned. John Brant, a son of the Mohawk sachem, while in England in 1823, on a mission in behalf of his nation, opened a correspondence with Mr. Campbell on the subject of the injustice which the latter had done the chief in his "Gertrude of Wyoming." The result was a partial acknowledgment of his error by the poet in the next edition of the poem that was printed. He did not change a word of the poem, but referred to the use of Brant's name there in a note, in which he says: "His son referred to documents which completely satisfied me that the common accounts of Brant's cruelties at Wyoming, which I had found in books of travels, and in Adolphus's and other similar histories of England, were gross errors. . . . The name of Brant, therefore, remains in my poem a pure and declared character of fiction." This was well enough, as far as it went; but an omission, after such a conviction of error, to blot out the name entirely from the poem, was unworthy of the character of an honest man; and the stain upon the poet's name will remain as long as the blot upon a humane warrior shall endure in the epic.

Following is a part of the letter written by Campbell to John Brant: "Sir,—Ten days ago I was not aware that such a person existed as a son of the Indian leader, Brant, who is mentioned in my poem, 'Gertrude of Wyoming.' . . . Lastly, you assert that he was not within many miles of the spot when the battle which decided the fate of Wyoming took place; and from your offer of reference to living witnesses, I can not but admit the assertion."

Another of Brant's exploits was the destruction of Minisink, near the border of New Jersey and Pennsylvania. With a band of sixty Mohawks and twenty-seven Tories disguised as Indians, Brant stole upon the Minisink people, whose first warning was the burning of houses. Most of the inhabitants fled, but some were killed and others taken captive. The houses were plundered and burned, property destroyed and cattle driven away.

In a massacre during this raid one man, Major Wood, was about to be killed, when, either by accident or design, he made a Masonic signal, though he did not belong to the order. Brant was an enthusiastic Freemason, and at once rescued him. When the Indian leader found out the deception, he boiled over with rage, but yet spared his life. The captive, on his part, it is said, felt bound to join the order immediately on his release from captivity.

In the summer of 1779, the colonies resolved on a united effort to crush the power of the Six Nations by an invasion of their country. The command was given to General Sullivan, who went to work as one in earnest. He decided that the expedition should advance in three divisions. The left was to move from Pittsburg, under Col. Daniel Broadhead; the right from the Mohawk, under Gen. James Clinton, while Sullivan was to lead the center from Wyoming.

General Clinton, with seventeen hundred men, reached Otsego Lake, the source of the Susquehanna. In doing this Clinton had traversed a portage of about twenty miles, conveying his baggage and two hundred and twenty boats. Owing to the dry season there was not sufficient water to float any craft larger than an Indian canoe. While waiting for orders Clinton employed his men damming up the outlet of the lake, which raised the surface of the water several feet. When the order came, everything was in readiness; the dam was torn away, and the out rushing torrent carried with it the large boats filled with troops and supplies, where nothing but Indian canoes had ever been seen before. The sight astonished the Indians, who concluded that the Great Spirit must have made the flood to show that he was angry with them.

The two armies met at Tioga in the latter part of August, forming together a force of five thousand men. On August 26 this powerful body marched into the Indian country. At the Indian village of Newtown, where Elmira now stands, Sullivan found a force of twelve hundred Tories and Indians under the command of Sir John and Guy Johnson, Col. John and Walter N. Butler, and Joseph Brant.

The battle began at once and raged all day. The Americans gradually forced the enemy back. So many Indians were killed that "the sides of the rocks next the river appeared as though blood had been poured on them by pailfuls."

All was lost. The Indian warriors fled, taking women and children with them, and leaving their fertile country, with its populous and well-laid-out villages, its vast fields of waving grain, its numerous orchards, laden with the ruddy fruit, open to the destroyers' advance. Town after town was laid in ashes. Of Kanadaseagea, the capital of the Senecas, not one house was left standing. Genesee, the principal western town, containing all the winter stores of the confederacy, was completely obliterated. Nor were they the ordinary wigwams and cabins, but frame houses, some of which were finely finished, painted and provided with chimneys. These invaders found themselves in a veritable garden, with a soil that needed but to be tickled with a crude implement, to make it laugh with a golden harvest.

A soldier took the pains to measure an ear of corn which he plucked from the stalk and found it to be twenty-two inches long. Another soldier made a rough count of the number of apple trees in a single orchard which was on the point of destruction. He estimated that there were fifteen hundred bearing trees. Nor was this unusually large. Of the number of orchards, the men said they were "innumerable." This, probably, included those of peach and pear trees. They were the product of the toil and care of generations of Iroquois. "A wigwam can be built in two or three days," the Indians sadly said; "but a tree takes many years to grow again."

One can not help but contrast the indications of great abundance found here with the abject poverty of the "great and good Massasoit," mentioned in another chapter. But Massasoit lived in an inhospitable country and his career was near the beginning of the intercourse between the white and red races. Evidently the enterprising Iroquois had learned much of agriculture and horticulture from the thrifty farmers near them.

General Sullivan had now destroyed their homes and driven their families abroad to strange and inhospitable regions. More than forty of the villages were laid in ruins. As Mason says, "The landscape was no longer variegated with fields of golden grain, with burdened orchards, staggering beneath their tinted fruitage, with verdant pastures, dotted over with sleek and peaceful herds, nor with waving forests of ancient trees, whose emerald foliage formed such a rich contrast with the sunny sky and winding river. As far as the eye could stretch, the prospect presented a single ominous color. That color was black. It was a landscape of charcoal! The American general was happy."

The sorrows of the Iroquois became the source of dissension. There arose a peace party. The leader of it was a young Seneca chief named Red Jacket. He had the gift of eloquence. He spoke with thrilling earnestness of the folly of war, which was driving them forever from the lovely valley which they had inherited from their fathers; a war, too, in which they fought, not for themselves, but for the English. "What have the English done for us," he exclaimed, with flashing eye, drawing his proud form to its fullest height, and pointing with the zeal of despair toward the winding Mohawk, "that we should become homeless and helpless wanderers for their sakes?" His burning words sank deep into the hearts of his passionate hearers. It was secretly resolved by his party to send a runner to the American army, and ask them to offer peace on any terms.

Brant heard of this plot to make peace. He kept his own counsel. The runner left the camp. Two confidential warriors were summoned by him. In a few stern words he explained to them that the American flag of truce must never reach the Indian camp. Its bearers must be killed on the way, yet with such secrecy that their fate should not be known. The expectant peace party, waiting for the message in vain, were to believe that the Americans had scornfully refused to hear their prayer for peace. The plot was carried out. The flag of truce never arrived.

Meantime Colonel Broadhead, leading the expedition from Pittsburg, ascended the Allegheny with six hundred men. His purpose was to create a diversion that would help the general campaign. Besides doing that he destroyed many villages and cornfields, and returned after a month's absence without the loss of a man.

The winter of 1779-80 was one of unprecedented rigor. The shivering Iroquois, at Niagara, suffered severely; but the fire of hate burned in the heart of Brant as hot as ever. He had long meditated a terrible revenge upon the Oneidas, who had refused to follow his leadership, and persisted in neutrality. Upon them he laid the blame of all his disasters. That winter he led his warriors across frozen rivers and through snowy forests, to the home of the unsuspecting Oneidas. Of what followed we have no detailed history. It is only known that Brant fell upon them without mercy, that their villages and wigwams, their store-houses and council buildings were suddenly destroyed, that vast numbers of them were slain, and that the survivors fled to the white men for protection. The poor refugees, stricken for a fault which was not their own, were allotted rude and comfortless quarters near Schenectady, where they were supported by the Government till the close of the war.

The Tories and Indians, to the number of about one thousand, under Sir John Johnson, Brant and Cornplanter, planned another invasion of the Mohawk settlements. Brant's appetite for vengeance was unabated. He was ambitious to surpass the work of Sullivan.

On the morning of October 16, 1780, the occupants of the little fort at Middleburg, far down the Mohawk Valley, looked out at sunrise on a startling sight. In every direction barns, hay-stacks, granaries and many houses were on fire. Everywhere the people fled, abandoning everything in their madness of fear. Their alarm was justifiable. Brant's army, without a moment's warning, was upon them.

At first the Tories and Indians mounted their little cannon and prepared to besiege the fort. But meeting with a stubborn resistance, and finding that the siege would delay them, Brant, a past-master of guerrilla warfare, gave up the notion of taking the fort, and swept on down the valley. In their course the whole valley on both sides of the Mohawk was laid in ruins. Houses and barns were burned, the horses and cattle killed or driven off, and those of the inhabitants who were not safely within the walls of their fortifications were either killed or taken captive.

The very churches were fired.

But the torch of destruction was stayed wherever lived a Tory. They passed by the homes of all who were loyal to England. Then one of the strange sides of human nature asserted itself. The settlers, furious at their own wrongs, and aflame with passion at the sight of their Tory neighbors' immunity from harm, issued from the forts and with their own hands applied the torch to all houses left standing, thus completing the work which transformed a verdant valley into a mighty cinder.

The goal of the expedition was Schenectady, but the invaders never reached that settlement. Flying horsemen had long since carried the news of the invasion to Albany. Too much time had been taken up in the advance. General Van Rensselaer, with a strong force, was on the way to meet the enemy. Brant and Johnson began a retreat, but it was now too late. A heavy battle was fought. At sunset the advantage was with the Americans. But Van Rensselaer, who was proverbially slow or incompetent, failed to push it. That night was of unusual darkness and favored the retreat of the enemy.

An amusing thing happened at this time. Nine Tories were hurrying through the forest in full retreat. Suddenly a stern voice cried out in the darkness, "Lay down your arms." They obeyed promptly and were made prisoners. Every Tory was securely pinioned and led away. In the morning they found themselves in a little block-house. Their captors were seven militiamen. The nine had surrendered to the seven.

According to Eggleston another curious incident happened in connection with this expedition. "The famous Cornplanter, who commanded the Senecas who served under Brant, was a half-breed. He said of himself: 'When I was a child and began to play with the Indian boys in the village, they took notice of my skin being a different color from theirs and spoke about it. I inquired of my mother the cause, and she told me that my father was a white man.' Cornplanter's father was, in fact, an Indian trader named O'Beel, who was settled in the Mohawk Valley at the time of its invasion. During the progress of the army Cornplanter went with a band of Indians to his father's house, and taking him prisoner, marched off with him. After going some ten or twelve miles, he stopped abruptly, and, walking up in front of his father, said: 'My name is John O'Beel, commonly called Cornplanter. I am your son. You are my father. You are now my prisoner and subject to the customs of Indian war-fare. You shall not be harmed. You need not fear. I am a warrior. Many are the scalps which I have taken. Many prisoners I have put to death. I am your son. I am a warrior. I was anxious to see you and greet you in friendship. I went to your cabin and took you by force, but your life shall be spared. Indians love their friends and their kindred, and treat them with kindness. If now you choose to fellow the fortunes of your yellow son, I will cherish your old age with plenty of venison and you shall live easy. But if you prefer to return to the arms of your pale-face squaw and the caresses of your pale-face children, my brothers, it is well. You are free to choose.' The old man preferred to go back and Cornplanter sent him with an Indian escort."

The last scene of the bloody drama on the Mohawk took place October 24, 1781. The British force of regulars, Tories and Indians, to the number of a thousand, were under the command of Major Ross and Walter N. Butler. The Americans, under the command of Colonels Rowley and Willett, met the invaders near Johnson Hall and a battle immediately ensued. The advantage was with the Americans, and the enemy retreated, in a northerly course along West Canada creek, pursued by Willett. Night came on and Willett and his force encamped in a thick wood upon the "Royal Grant," which Sir William Johnson obtained from King Hendrick, the Indian chief, in a dreaming contest.

The next day the Americans overtook the enemy, commanded by Walter Butler, on the opposite side of the stream. A brisk fire was kept up across the creek, by both parties, until Butler was shot in the head by an Oneida Indian, who knew him and took deliberate aim. His men now fled in confusion. The friendly Oneida bounded across the stream, and found his victim not dead, but writhing in great agony. The bloody Tory who had never shown mercy to others begged piteously for his life, "Save me! Save me!" he cried out, "Give me quarter!" while the tomahawk of the warrior glittered over his head. "Me give you Sherry Falley quarter!" shouted the Indian, and buried his hatchet in the head of his enemy. He took his scalp, and, with the rest of the Oneidas, continued the pursuit of the flying host. The body of Butler was left to the beasts and birds, without burial, for charity toward one so inhuman and blood-stained had no dwelling place in the bosom of his foes. The place where he fell is still called Butler's Ford. The pursuit was kept up until evening, when Willett, completely successful by entirely routing and dispersing the enemy, wheeled his victorious little army and returned to Fort Dayton in triumph.

Quite a different fate was in store for the second in command at Cherry Valley, the humane Brant. At the close of the American Revolution, when the treaty of peace was made between Great Britain and the United States not one word was said in it about the Six Nations. It was ever thus. Indians have a great sense of their own dignity and importance. They were much hurt at being thus overlooked by the power they had aided so materially in the late war. Brant immediately exerted himself to get a home for his people. The Mohawks had left forever their own beautiful country in New York and were now encamped on the American side of Niagara river.

The Senecas, who were very anxious for the Mohawks in any future wars, offered them a home in the Genesee Valley. But Brant said the Mohawks were determined to "sink or swim" with the English. Accordingly, he went to Quebec, and with the aid of General Haldiman, secured a grant of land on Grand river, which flows into Lake Erie. Brant and his Mohawks received a title to the land on both sides of the river from its mouth to its source. This made a tract both beautiful and fertile twelve miles wide and one hundred miles long. The Mohawks soon after took possession of their new home.

The Baroness De Riedesel, a charming German lady, who was the wife of the general commanding the Hessians during Burgoyne's campaign, met Brant at Quebec. She says in her memoirs: "I saw at that time the famous Indian chief, Captain Brant. His manners are polished; he expressed himself with fluency, and was much esteemed by General Haldiman. I dined with him once at the general's. In his dress he showed off to advantage the half military and half savage costume. His countenance was manly and intelligent, and his disposition very mild."

Like other ambitious warriors, since and before, Brant planned at one time a confederacy of the Northwestern tribes, over which he should be the head chief. He never succeeded in uniting the Indians, however.

In 1785 Brant made a second visit to England, and was received with more splendor and ceremony than before. This was in consideration of his eminent services for the crown during the Revolution. He was well acquainted with Sir Guy Carlton, afterward Lord Dorchester. Earl Moira, afterward Marquis of Hastings, had formed an attachment for Brant and gave him his picture set in gold. Lord Percy, who afterward became Duke of Northumberland, had been adopted by the Mohawks, and on the occasion of his adoption Brant had given him the name of Thorighwegeri, or the Evergreen Brake.

Brant, therefore, had many friends among the nobility, and was presented at court. He refused to kiss the King's hand, but gallantly offered to kiss the hand of the Queen. He became quite a favorite with the royal family. The Prince of Wales, afterward George IV., who was then very wild, took a good deal of pleasure in the sachem's company. He invited Brant to go with him on some of his rambles, in which he visited places, as Brant afterward said, "very queer for a prince to go to." He was often a guest at the Prince's table, where he met many Whig leaders, among them, the celebrated Charles James Fox. Brant learned from the conversation of these Whig leaders to have much less respect for the King than he had been taught in America. Fox presented the chief with a silver snuff-box with his initials engraved upon it.

Brant met, in society, a nobleman (?) save the mark! of whom he had heard the scandalous story that his honors were purchased at the expense of the virtue of his beautiful wife. This nobleman very foolishly hectored Brant rather rudely upon the wild customs and manners of the Indians.

"There are customs in England also which the Indians think very strange," said the chief coolly. "And pray what are they?" inquired the nobleman, "Why, the Indians have heard," said Brant, "that it is a practice in England for men who are born chiefs to sell the virtue of their squaws for place and for money to buy their venison." It is unnecessary to add that the nobleman was effectually silenced.

Eggleston informs us, that, "while Brant was in London a great masquerade was given, to which he was invited. He needed no mask. He dressed himself for the occasion in his rich semi-savage costume, wore his handsome tomahawk in his belt, and painted one-half his face in the Indian manner. There were some Turks also present at the ball. One of them examined Brant very closely, and at last raised his hand and pulled the chief's Roman nose, supposing it to be a mask. Instantly Brant gave the war-whoop and swung his glistening tomahawk around the Turk's head in that dangerous way in which Indians handle this weapon. It was only an Indian joke, but the Turk cowered in abject terror and the ladies shrieked and ran as though they had been in as much danger as the settlers' wives and daughters of America, who had dreaded this same sound but a few years before."

Having accomplished the purpose of his visit to England, which was some reparation to the Mohawks for losses sustained in the war, and money with which to build a church and school-house, Brant returned to Canada.

He now began his labors for the improvement of his people, and hoped to induce them to devote themselves more to agriculture.

The Western nations still looked to the great war-chief for advice. Brant thus retained his importance. He was under half-pay as a British officer, and held the commission of colonel from the King of England, though he was usually called captain.

When he visited Philadelphia, then the capital of the United States, the new government offered to double his salary and make him many presents if he would influence the Western nations for peace. Brant refused the offer, knowing that he would be accused of duplicity if he received anything from the United States. An Indian chief quickly loses his influence if he is suspected of being mercenary.

Brant, in fact, joined the Western Indians, and is said to have been present with one hundred and fifty Mohawks in the fierce battle which resulted in St. Clair's defeat, though this fact is disputed. It is well known that Little Turtle commanded the Indians in that battle, and it hardly seems reasonable that the great war-chief and head of the Iroquois would take second place to another.

He erected for himself a fine mansion on the western shore of Lake Ontario, where he lived in great splendor. Here he held his barbaric court, "with a retinue of thirty Negro servants, and surrounded by gay soldiers, cavaliers in powdered wigs and scarlet coats, and all the motley assemblage of that picturesque era."

His correspondence, of which much is yet extant, reveals a rugged and powerful intellect, on which his associations with white men had exerted a marked influence. He encouraged missionaries to come among his people, and renewed his Christian professions, which had, perhaps, been suspended or eclipsed while he was hurling his warriors like destroying thunderbolts on the people of the Mohawk Valley. His letters reveal a proud, sensitive spirit, jealous of its dignity, and which could not brook the slightest imputation of dishonor. His mind was eminently diplomatic and nothing escaped his attention, whether in the cabinets of ministers or around the council fire of distant tribes of Western Indians.

The oft-quoted saying that, "uneasy lies the head which wears a crown," was demonstrated in his career. On one of his Eastern trips, a Dutchman from the Mohawk Valley, whose entire family had been killed by Brant's warriors, swore vengeance. The man shadowed him day and night, seeking an opportunity to kill him. Brant had taken a room in a New York hotel, which fronted on Broadway. Looking out of the window, he saw his enemy on the opposite side of the street aiming a gun at him. Our old hero, Colonel Willet, interfered. He assured the Dutchman, whose name was Dygert, that the war was over, and he would be hanged if he murdered the chief. This so frightened the man that he went home without carrying his threat into execution. Thus we find that the very man who refused burial to the body of Walter N. Butler, saved the life of Brant. The chief had planned to return through the Mohawk Valley, but learning of a plot to assassinate him en route he changed his course and went home another way. He was most cordially abhorred, and lived and died virtually an exile from his native land.

Nor was his ascendancy among the Iroquois maintained without some heartburning. His old enemy, Red Jacket, the orator, gathered a number of malcontents around his standard, and at a pretended meeting of the sachems of the confederacy, during Brant's absence, he was impeached and formally deposed from the position of head chief of the Six Nations. When Thay-en-da-ne-gea heard of it on his return, he boldly confronted his enemies in public council; he defied them, denied their calumnies and charges, and demanded a fair trial before his people. The military fame and prestige of the great war-chief overcame even the burning eloquence and invectives of Red Jacket, and Brant triumphed over all opposition.

Brant proved conclusively that he had always been loyal to the British cause, and the best interest of the Six Nations.

It is a little remarkable, therefore, that among his warmest personal friends was Colonel Aaron Burr, who was afterward a traitor to his country, in thought and intention, if not in actual fact.

Colonel Burr was at this time in the zenith of his popularity. He gave Brant a letter of introduction to his talented daughter, Theodosia, then but fourteen years old. Her father said of Brant in this letter: "Colonel Brant is a man of education—speaks and writes the English perfectly—and has seen much of Europe and America. Receive him with respect and hospitality. He is not one of those Indians who drink, but is quite a gentleman; not one who will make you fine bows, but one who understands and practices what belongs to propriety and good breeding. He has daughters; if you could think of some little present to send to one of them-a pair of earrings, for example—it would please him."

Theodosia Burr received Brant with great hospitality, and gave him a dinner party, to which she invited some of the most eminent gentlemen in New York. Several years afterward, when Theodosia was married, she and her husband visited Brant and his family at Grand River.

Brant died in 1807, at the age of sixty-four years, leaving unfinished his work for the security of the Mohawks in the full possession of their lands. Among his last words he said to the chief, Norton: "Have pity on the poor Indian; if you can get any influence with the great, endeavor to do them all the good you can."

A few years before the chief's death he had built a large house on a tract of land at the head of Lake Ontario, a gift from the King. He had a number of Negro slaves whom he had captured during the war and who lived with him in contentment, it is said, satisfied with the Indian customs.

The great chief was buried beside the church which he had built at Grand River, the first church in upper Canada. There is a monument over his grave, said to have cost thirty thousand dollars, with the following inscription:

"This tomb is erected to the memory of Thay-en-da-ne-gea, or Capt. Joseph Brant, principal chief and warrior of the Six Nations Indians, by his fellow-subjects, admirers of his fidelity and attachment to the British crown."

On the death of Joseph Brant, his youngest son, John, became chief, and head of the confederacy. He was a gentlemanly young man and distinguished himself on the British side in the war of 1812, and was given a captain's commission.

In 1832 he was elected a member of the Provincial Parliament for the county of Haldiman.

He and his youngest sister, Elizabeth, lived in their father's house in civilized style, but their mother preferred to live among the Indians in the Mohawk village at Grand River. A gentleman and his daughters who visited them in 1819 found the parlor carpeted and furnished with mahogany tables, the fashionable chairs of the day, a guitar, and a number of books. Miss Brant proved to be "a noble-looking Indian girl." The upper part of her hair was done up in a silk net, while the long lower tresses hung down her back. She wore a short black silk petticoat, with a tunic of the same material, black silk stockings and black kid shoes. She was remarkably self-possessed and ladylike. She afterward married William Johnson Kerr, a grandson of Sir William Johnson, and they lived together happily in the Brant house.

[CHAPTER VIII.]

RED JACKET, OR SA-GO-YE-WAT-HA,
"THE KEEPER AWAKE"—THE INDIAN DEMOSTHENES—CHIEF OF THE SENECAS.

The subject of this sketch was certainly the greatest orator of the Six Nations, and it is doubtful if his equal was ever known among all the American Indians. His birth is supposed to have taken place about the year 1750, under a great tree which formerly stood near the spring of water at Canoga point on the west shore of Cayuga Lake, in Western New York.

His parents were of the Seneca tribe, the most western of the Iroquois confederation, and lived at Can-e-de-sa-ga, a large Indian village on the present site of Geneva.

At the time of his birth, owing to scarcity of game, his parents, with others, were hunting on the west shore of Cayuga Lake. The locality has been purchased by Judge Sackett, of Seneca Falls, who derived the statement here quoted from the great orator himself. When interrogated about his birthplace the sachem would answer, counting on his fingers as he spoke, "One, two, three, four above John Harris," meaning four miles above where Harris kept his ferry across the Cayuga, before the erection of the bridge.

The orator, whose eloquence was the pride of the race, and the special glory of the Senecas, owed nothing to the advantages of illustrious descent, but was of humble parentage. He was a Cayuga on his father's side, and the Cayugas claim to have been a thoughtful and far-seeing people. The fact of his possessing wonderful eloquence was never disputed at any time. The name which Red Jacket received in his infancy was O-te-tiana, and signified "Always Ready." According to the custom of his people, when he became chief he took another—Sa-go-ye-wat-ha,—which means "The Keeper Awake."

But little is known of his history until the campaign of Sullivan, when Red Jacket must have been about twenty-nine years of age.

Tradition says that he was remarkably swift in the chase and possessed a marvelous power of endurance. For these reasons, he was very successful in hunting. On account of his fleetness he was often employed as a messenger or "runner" by his people in his youth, and afterward in a like capacity by the British officers during the Revolution.

According to Mr. Stone, the learned Indian biographist, Sa-go-ye-wat-ha obtained the name of Red Jacket from the following circumstance: "During the War of the Revolution he made himself very useful to the British officers as a messenger. He was doubtless the more so because of his intelligence and gift for oratory. In return for his services the officers presented the young man with a scarlet jacket, very richly embroidered." One can imagine the immense pride with which the "Young Prince of the Wolf Clan," as his admiring people were accustomed to call him, donned this brilliant garment. He took such delight in the jacket that he was kept in such garments by the British officers during the Revolution. This peculiar dress became a mark of distinction and gave him the name by which he was afterward best known. Even after the war, when the Americans wished to find a way to his heart, they clothed his back with a red jacket.

It has been almost the universal testimony of books that Red Jacket, the Indian orator, like the two greatest of the ancient world, Demosthenes and Cicero, was a coward. This inference has been drawn very naturally, perhaps, from the fact that he generally, but not always, opposed war and seldom wielded the tomahawk. But the old men of his nation, who knew him best and the motives from which he acted, deny the charge. Many even asserted that he was brave, though prudent, and not at all lacking in the qualities they admire in a warrior. They assign other reasons for his persistent opposition to war, and maintain that his superior sagacity led him to see its consequences to the Indian.

In the Revolutionary contest the red men generally enlisted on the side of the British, believing it to be for their interests. They could not understand anything of the real nature of the controversy of the two rival powers, and were justifiable in studying their own interest alone. In taking the British side the Iroquois were strongly influenced by the Johnsons, the Tory leaders of New York, and their powerful ally, Captain Joseph Brant, the great war-chief of the Mohawks. But it was all done in spite of the eloquent protest of Red Jacket. "Let them alone," said the wise man and orator. "Let us remain upon our lands and take care of ourselves. What have the English done for us?" he exclaimed, drawing his proud form to its fullest height and pointing with the zeal of despair toward the winding Mohawk, "that we should become homeless and helpless wanderers for their sakes?"

But his motives were impugned and misunderstood. Some of his own warriors called him a coward and promptly followed Cornplanter and Brant to battle. These two chiefs seemed to have had a contempt for Red Jacket because of his supposed cowardice. They nicknamed him Cow-Killer, and often told with much gusto a story at his expense. This story was to the effect that at the commencement of the Revolutionary War, the young chief, with his usual eloquence, exhorted the Indians to courage, and promised to be with them in the thickest of the fight. When the battle came off, however, he was missing, having stayed at home to cut up a cow which he had captured. This story, with the speech just quoted in opposition to war, tended to convince many of the Indians that the Seneca sachem was a coward.

But when the very things he prophesied literally happened, when in the progress of the war, as we have recorded in the life of Brant, Sullivan's army destroyed forty populous towns, with many orchards and fields of golden grain; when the Senecas were driven further west, and the proud Mohawks across the boundary into Canada, the deluded Indians saw that Red Jacket, the sage, was a true prophet. Had they followed his advice all would have been well, but they refused, and the Mohawks had "become homeless and helpless wanderers" for the sake of the British, who cared nothing for them when the war was over.

At the close of the Revolution, the influence of Red Jacket was restored; for the reason that even his enemies had to concede that he was right, that he opposed war not from cowardice, but because his sagacious mind could see the end from the beginning, and he knew that in any case it must end disastrously for the Indian. He is to be commended for acting with wisdom and prudence. Another sage of old has said: "A prudent man foreseeth the evil, and hideth himself; but the simple pass on and are punished."

No one accused Washington of cowardice, when he advised his countrymen to keep neutral and make no entangling alliance with a foreign power. This, in its last analysis, was about the same position taken by Red Jacket. Why, then, should it be assumed that he was a coward?

But there are other positive proofs of Red Jacket's courage. On one occasion the Mohawks challenged the Senecas to a game of ball. The challenge was accepted, and a large number of the Iroquois had gathered to witness the game.

Many valuable articles, such as ornaments, weapons, belts and furs were bet on the result of the game. The stakes were placed under the care of a company of aged Indians and the game was called. The ball was of deerskin; the bats, or rackets, were woven with deerskin thongs. A certain number of players were chosen upon each side. They were entirely nude except a breech-cloth about their loins. Each party had a gate, or two poles, planted in the ground about three rods apart. The aim of the players on each side was to drive the ball through their own gate a specified number of times. It took several contests to decide the match. The players, provided with bats, were ranged in opposite lines, and between them stood two picked players, one from either side, who were expected to start the game. Sometimes a pretty Indian girl, very gayly dressed and decked with silver ornaments, ran between the lines until she reached the two leaders in the center, when she would drop the ball between them. The instant it touched the ground each of the two Indians would make a struggle to start the ball toward his own gate.

It was a rule of the game that the ball must not be touched by foot or hand. But a player might strike it with, or catch it on, his racket and run with it to the goal, if he could. But the opposite side would have men stationed to guard against such easy success. A fierce struggle for the possession of the ball was continually in progress, and players were frequently hurt, sometimes severely. It was usually taken in good part, but at this particular game a Mohawk player struck a Seneca a hard blow with his bat. Instantly the Senecas dropped their bats, took up the stakes that they had laid down in betting, and returned to their own country. Three weeks after Red Jacket and some other chiefs sent a belligerent message to the Mohawks demanding satisfaction for the insult. Brant immediately called a council of his people, and it was decided to recommend a friendly council of both nations to settle the difference. The Senecas consented to this, and the council met. Red Jacket was opposed to a reconciliation. He made a stirring speech, in which he pictured the offense in its blackest light, and was in favor of nothing less than war. But the older Senecas, and among them Cornplanter, who had not yet lost his influence, were opposed to a break between the two nations, and proposed that presents should be made in atonement to the young man who had been injured. The Mohawks consented to this, and the pipe of peace was finally smoked in friendship.

Now, remember, it was Red Jacket who sent the belligerent message to the Mohawks, demanding satisfaction for the injury to the young man, and insult to his tribe. He it was who favored war, as the only way in which it could be wiped out. In the event of hostilities, he well knew that he and his tribe would be arrayed against the terrible Mohawks, under the command of their great war-chief, Captain Brant, whose name was a terror to white and red foe alike. There was certainly no evidence of cowardice in this transaction.

A treaty was made with the Six Nations on the part of the United States at Fort Stanwix, in 1784. General Lafayette was present at this council, and was struck with the eloquence of Red Jacket. The war-chief of the Senecas, Cornplanter, was in favor of peace, while Red Jacket, who was called a coward, used all his eloquence in favor of war.

There are only two ways to account for his action at this time. Either he was a courageous leader, or else he believed the war policy would be the most popular, at least with the Senecas. Red Jacket and the Senecas also took part in the war of 1812. As early as 1810 the orator gave information to the Indian agent of attempts made by Tecumseh, the Prophet, and others, to draw his nation into the great Western combination; but the war of 1812 had scarcely commenced, when the Senecas volunteered their services to their American neighbors. For some time these were rejected, and every exertion was made to induce them to remain neutral. The Indians bore the restraint with an ill grace, but said nothing. At length, in the summer of 1812, the English unadvisedly took possession of Grand Island, in the Niagara River, a valuable territory of the Senecas. This was too much for the pride of such men as Red Jacket and Farmer's Brother. A council was called immediately—the American agent was summoned to attend—and the orator arose and thus addressed him:

"Brother!" said he, after stating the information received, "you have told us we had nothing to do with the war between you and the British. But the war has come to our doors. Our property is seized upon by the British and their Indian friends. It is necessary for us, then, to take up this business. We must defend our property; we must drive the enemy from our soil. If we sit still on our lands, and take no means of redress, the British, following the customs of you white people, will hold them by conquest; and you, if you conquer Canada, will claim them on the same principles, as conquered from the British. Brother, we wish to go with our warriors and drive off these bad people, and take possession of those lands."

The effect of this reasonable declaration, and especially of the manner in which it was made, was such as might be expected. A grand council of the Six Nations came together, and a manifesto, of which the following is a literal translation, according to Thatcher, was issued against the British in Canada, and signed by all the grand councilors of the Confederation:

"We, the chiefs and councilors of the Six Nations of Indians, residing in the State of New York, do hereby proclaim to all the war-chiefs and warriors of the Six Nations, that war is declared on our part against the provinces of Upper and Lower Canada. Therefore, we do hereby command and advise all the war-chiefs to call forth immediately the warriors under them, and put them in motion to protect their rights and liberties, which our brethren, the Americans, are now defending."

We regret that no speech of Red Jacket on this memorable occasion is preserved. But his eloquence, and that of his brother chiefs, must have inspired the warriors to great zeal and courage for although the declaration was made quite late in 1812, we find quite a number of them in the battle near Fort George. An official account of this action was given by General Boyd, under date of August 13. The enemy were completely routed, and a number of British Indians (Mohawks) were captured by our allies. "Those," continued the general in his report, "who participated in this contest, particularly the Indians, conducted with great bravery and activity. General Porter volunteered in the affair, and Major Chapin evinced his accustomed zeal and courage. The regulars under Major Cummings, as far as they were engaged, conducted well. The principal chiefs who led the warriors this day were Farmer's Brother, Red Jacket, Little Billy, Pollard, Black Snake, Johnson, Silver Heels, Captain Halftown, Major Henry 0. Ball (Cornplanter's son) and Captain Cold, who was wounded. In a council which was held with them yesterday, they covenanted not to scalp or murder, and I am happy to say that they treated the prisoners with humanity, committed no wanton cruelties on the dead, but obeyed orders, and behaved in a soldier-like manner."

Thatcher says: "We believe all the chiefs here mentioned were Senecas except Captain Cold." In his next bulletin, the General reports, "The bravery and humanity of the Indians were equally conspicuous." Another authority quoted in Nile's "Register" says, "They behaved with great gallantry and betrayed no disposition to violate the restrictions which Boyd had imposed."

"These restrictions," as Thatcher says, "it should be observed in justice to Red Jacket and his brave comrades, had been previously agreed upon at the grand council, and the former probably felt no humiliation in departing in this particular from the usual savagery of his warriors. We have met with no authentic charges against him, either of cruelty or cowardice, and it is well known that he took part in a number of sharply contested engagements."

Is not all this a complete vindication of Red Jacket's courage?

Of the boyhood of this great sachem we know nothing. Like many another he owed his celebrity to the troublous times in which he lived. The powers of the orator can only be exhibited on occasions of great interest; and the mighty intellect of Red Jacket could not have exercised itself upon theology, philosophy, or law, for the Indian was a stranger to all these things. He was, however, a natural logician, and had gifts which, in a white man, would have insured success as a lawyer. One of the first forensic efforts of the young chief was in behalf of the women of his people, who, among the Iroquois, were permitted to exert their influence in all public and important matters. And to this extent, the Six Nations of this period were more civilized than many of the white nations of the twentieth century, including our own.

In the year 1791, when Washington wished to secure the neutrality of the Six Nations, a deputation was sent to treat with them, but was not favorably received, as many of the young chiefs were for war and sided with the British. The women, as is usual, preferred peace, and argued that the land was theirs, for they cultivated and took care of it, and, therefore, had a right to speak concerning the use that should be made of its products. They demanded to be heard on this occasion, and addressed the deputation first themselves in the following words:

"Brother:—The Great Ruler has spared us until another day to talk together; for since you came here from General Washington, you and our uncles, the sachems, have been counseling together. Moreover, your sisters, the women, have taken the same into great consideration, because you and our sachems have said so much about it. Now, that is the reason we have come to say something to you, and to tell you that the Great Ruler hath preserved you, and that you ought to hear and listen to what we women shall speak, as well as the sachems; for we are the owners of this land, AND IT IS OURS! It is we that plant it for our and their use. Hear us, therefore, for we speak things that concern us and our children; and you must not think hard of us while our men shall say more to you, for we have told them."

They then designated Red Jacket as their speaker, and he took up the speech of his clients as follows:

"Brothers from Pennsylvania: You that are sent from General Washington and by the thirteen fires you have been sitting side by side with us every day, and the Great Ruler has appointed us another pleasant day to meet again.

"Now, listen, brothers; you know it has been the request of our head warriors, that we are left to answer for our women who are to conclude what ought to be done by both sachems and warriors. So hear what is their conclusion. The business you come on is very troublesome, and we have been a long time considering it; and now the elder of our women have said that our sachems and warriors must help you, for the good of them and their children, and you tell us the Americans are strong for peace.

"Now, all that has been done for you has been done by our women; the rest will be a hard task for us; for the people at the setting sun are bad people, and you have come in too much haste for such great matters of importance. And now, brothers, you must look when it is light in the morning, until the setting sun, and you must reach your neck over the land to take in all the light you can to show the danger. And these are the words of our women to you, and the sachems and warriors who shall go with you.

"Now, brothers from Pennsylvania and from General Washington, I have told you all I was directed. Make your minds easy, and let us throw all care on the mercy of the Great Keeper, in hopes that he will assist us."

"So," as Minnie Myrtle says, "there was peace instead of war, as there would often be if the voice of women could be heard! and though the Senecas, in revising their laws and customs, have in a measure acceded to the civilized barbarism of treating the opinions of women with contempt, where their interest is equal, they still cannot sign a treaty without the consent of two-thirds of the mothers!"

On another occasion the women sent a message, which Red Jacket delivered for them, saying that they fully concurred in the opinion of their sachems, that the white people had been the cause of all the Indians' distresses. The white people had pressed and squeezed them together, until it gave them great pain at their hearts. One of the white women had told the Indians to repent; and they now, in turn, called on the white people to repent—they having as much need of repentance as the Indians. They, therefore, hoped the pale-faces would repent and wrong the Indians no more, but give back the lands they had taken.

At the termination of the Revolution, the Indians who were the allies of the English were left to take care of themselves as best they could. Though they had fought desperately in their own way, and inflicted every species of suffering on our people, Washington extended to them the hand of friendship and offered them protection. His kindness won him the gratitude of the Indians. He undoubtedly filled a place in their affections never occupied by any other white man, save Roger Williams, or William Penn. His influence over the Indians helps to explain the fact that in all subsequent wars the Senecas were either neutral or loyal to the Americans; proof that the "Father of His Country" was also revered by his red children.

Red Jacket was one of fifty chiefs who visited President Washington at Philadelphia, then the seat of government, in 1792. While there the President presented him with a silver medal, on which Washington, in military uniform, was represented as handing a long peace-pipe to an Indian chief with a scalp lock decorated with plumes on the top of his head, while a white man was plowing with a yoke of oxen in the background. This last figure was probably intended as a hint for the Indians to abandon war and the chase, and adopt the peaceful pursuits of agriculture. On the reverse side was the eagle, and motto of our country, "E Pluribus Unum." Indians prefer ornaments of silver to those of gold, for they are more becoming to their red skin. Red Jacket prized this medal very highly. He wore it on all state occasions. Nevertheless, sad to relate, it is stated that the beloved medal was more than once in pawn for whisky.

The medal in question was quite large. The exact dimensions were seven inches long, by five broad. The last heard of the medal was in 1867, when it was in possession of Brigadier-General Parker, of Grant's staff, who was at that time chief sachem of the Six Nations.

While in Philadelphia, each member of the deputation of chiefs received from General Knox, on the part of the Government, a military uniform such, as was worn by the officers, together with a cocked hat. When Red Jacket's suit was offered him he sent back word to General Knox that he could not consistently wear such a garb, as he was not a war-chief, and requested that a different suit might be given him, more suitable to his station. But when the plain suit was brought to him, he declined giving up the regimentals, coolly remarking that though as a sachem he could not wear a military uniform in time of peace, yet in time of war the sachem joined the warriors, and he would therefore keep it till war broke out, when he could assume a military dress with propriety.

On one occasion, being invited with several of his people to dine at the home of an officer, he ate very heartily of several kinds of meat; and seeing the surprise of the host, he remarked that he belonged to the Wolf Clan, and "wolves were always fond of meat."

About the year 1790, a council was held on the shore of Lake Canandaigua to negotiate a purchase of land from the Indians. After two days spent in discussing the terms, a treaty was agreed upon, and only wanted the formality of a signature to make it complete, when Red Jacket, who had not yet been heard, arose to speak. An eye-witness thus describes the scene: "With the grace and dignity of a Roman Senator, he drew his blanket around him, and with a piercing eye surveyed the multitude. All was hushed; nothing interposed to break the silence, save the gentle rustle of the tree-tops, under whose shade they were gathered. After a long and solemn, but not unmeaning pause, he commenced his speech in a low voice and sententious style. Rising gradually with the subject, he depicted the primitive simplicity and happiness of his nation, and the wrongs they had sustained from the usurpations of white men, with such bold but faithful eloquence that every auditor was soon roused to vengeance or melted into tears. The effect was inexpressible. But ere the emotions of admiration and sympathy had subsided, the white men became alarmed. They were in the heart of an Indian country, surrounded by more than ten times their number, who were inflamed by the remembrance of their injuries and excited to indignation by the eloquence of a favorite chief. Appalled and terrified, the white men cast a cheerless gaze upon the hordes around them. A nod from the chiefs might be the onset of destruction. At this portentous moment, Farmer's Brother interposed. He replied not to his brother chief, but with sagacity truly aboriginal, he caused a cessation of the council, introduced good cheer, commended the eloquence of Red Jacket, and before the meeting had reassembled, with the aid of other prudent chiefs, he had moderated the fury of his nation to a more salutary view of the question before them."

The fame of his great eloquence gained Red Jacket a powerful influence, not only in his own tribe but among all the Six Nations of Indians. "I am an orator; I was born an orator," was his boastful declaration; and to all future generations his name will descend enrolled on the list with Demosthenes and Cicero in ancient, and Pitt, Henry or Webster in modern times; and though a Pagan and belonging to a rude, uncultured race, his vices were no greater than those of men who lived all their lives under Christian influences. He strenuously opposed every effort to introduce Christianity among his people, for he could not understand how it could be so valuable or necessary, when he saw how little it influenced the conduct of white men and the wrongs they inflicted in the name of their God upon the red man. He could not make the distinction between those who possessed religion and those who merely professed it; and as he came in contact with very few who walked uprightly, he naturally concluded that a religion which did no more for its followers was not worth adopting. He believed the Great Spirit had formed the red and white man distinct; that they could no more be of one creed than one color; and when the wars were over and there was nothing more for them to do, he wished his people to be separated entirely from white men, and return as much as possible to their old customs.

He saw his people wasting away before the pale-faces; as he once said in a speech before a great assemblage: "We stand a small island in the bosom of the great waters. We are encircled—we are encompassed. The Evil Spirit rides upon the blast, and the waters are disturbed. They rise, they press upon us, and the waves once settled over us, we disappear for ever. Who, then, lives to mourn us? None! What prevents our extermination? Nothing! We are mingled with the common elements."

From all accounts, the first missionaries sent among the Senecas were not very judicious, and did not take the wisest course to make their religion acceptable to any people, and especially to a wronged and outraged race. In 1805 a young missionary by the name of Cram was sent into the country of the Six Nations. A council was called to consider whether to receive him, and after he had made an introductory speech, Red Jacket made the following reply:

"Friend and Brother: It was the will of the Great Spirit that we should meet together this day. He orders all things, and has given us a fine day for our council. He has taken his garment from before the sun and caused it to shine with brightness upon us. For all these things we thank the Great Ruler, and Him only!

"Brother, this council-fire was kindled by you. It was, at your request that we came together at this time. We have listened with joy to what you have said. You requested us to speak our minds freely. This gives us great joy, for we now consider that we stand upright before you and can speak what we think. All have heard your voice and can speak to you as one man. Our minds are agreed.

"Brother, listen to what we say. There was a time when our forefathers owned this great island. Their seats extended from the rising to the setting sun. The Great Spirit had made it for the use of Indians. He had created the buffalo, the deer and other animals for food. He had made the bear and the beaver. Their skins served us for clothing. He had scattered them over the country and taught us how to take them. He had caused the earth to produce corn for bread. All this he had done for his red children because he loved them. If we had some disputes about our hunting-ground, they were generally settled without the shedding of much blood. But an evil day came upon us. Your forefathers crossed the great water and landed upon this island. Their numbers were small. They found us friends and not enemies. They told us they had fled from their own country on account of wicked men, and had come here to enjoy their religion. They asked for a small seat. We took pity on them and granted their request, and they sat down amongst us. We gave them corn and meat; they gave us poison (rum) in return.

"The white people, brother, had now found our country. Tidings were carried back, and more came amongst us. Yet we did not fear them. We took them to be friends. They called us brothers; we believed them, and gave them a larger seat. At length their numbers had greatly increased. They wanted more land; they wanted our country. Our eyes were opened, and our minds became uneasy. Wars took place. Indians were hired to fight against Indians, and many of our people were destroyed. They also brought strong liquor amongst us. It was strong and powerful and has slain thousands.

"Brother, our seats were once large, and yours were small. You have now become a great people, and we have scarcely a place left to spread our blankets. You have got our country, but are not satisfied you want to force your religion upon us.

"Brother, continue to listen. You say that you are sent to instruct us how to worship the Great Spirit agreeable to his mind; and if we do not take hold of the religion which you white people teach, we shall be unhappy hereafter. You say that you are right, and we are lost. How do we know this to be true? We understand that your religion is written in a book. If it was intended for us as well as you, why has not the Great Spirit given to us—and not only to us, but to our forefathers—the knowledge of that book, with the means of understanding it rightly? We only know what you tell us about it. How shall we know when to believe, being so often deceived by the white people?

"Brother, you say there is but one way to worship and serve the Great Spirit. If there is but one religion, why do you white people differ so much about it? Why not all agree, as you can all read the book?

"Brother, we do not understand these things. We are told that your religion was given to your forefathers, and has been handed down from father to son. We, also, have a religion which was given to our forefathers, and has been handed down to us, their children. We worship in that way. It teaches us to be thankful for all the favors we receive; to love each other, and be united. We never quarrel about religion, because it is a matter which concerns each man and the Great Spirit.

"Brother, we do not wish to destroy your religion or take it from you; we only want to enjoy our own.

"Brother, we have been told that you have been preaching to the white people in this place. These people are our neighbors. We are acquainted with them. We will wait a little while and see what effect your preaching has upon them. If we find it does them good, makes them honest and less disposed to cheat Indians, we will consider again of what you have said.

"Brother, you have now heard our talk, and this is all we have to say at present. As we are going to part, we will come and take you by the hand, and hope the Great Spirit will protect you on your journey, and return you safely to your friends."

According to the suggestion of their orator, the Indians moved forward to shake hands with the missionary; but he refused, saying, "There was no fellowship between the religion of God and the Devil." Yet the Indians smiled and retired peacefully.

At another time Red Jacket said, referring to this same unwise missionary: "The white people were not content with the wrongs they had done his people, but wanted to cram their doctrines down their throats."

The great chief could never be induced to look upon Christianity with favor. But it was the pagan white people, with whom he came in contact, who poisoned his mind, and prejudiced him against the missionaries and their religion. They, knowing that the missionaries were the true friends of the Indian, and understood their own evil machinations, wished to banish them from the reservations.

Red Jacket lost ten or eleven children by consumption, the grim destroyer of so many of all races. A lady once asked him whether he had any children living. "Red Jacket was once a great man, and in favor with the Great Spirit," sorrowfully answered the chief. "He was a lofty pine among the smaller trees of the forest; but after years of glory he degraded himself by drinking the fire-water of the white man. The Great Spirit has looked upon him in anger and his lightning has stripped the pine of its branches, and left standing only the scarred trunk dead at the top."

Had he hated the white men sufficiently to resist their temptations, he might have been the glory and the savior of his people. The word which in Seneca is used to express strong drink very truly and emphatically describes it as "the mind destroyer." This was its office, and if the noble mind of Red Jacket had not been partly destroyed by its agency, he would have seen clearly through the dark plots of his enemies, and been able to counter-plot to their destruction and thus rescued his people from the grasp of their pursuers.

We find no evidence that he was addicted to any other debasing vice except intemperance, while his life exemplified many ennobling virtues. He had an intuitive perception of propriety, as was observed by an incident which occurred while a white gentleman was traveling with a party of Indian chiefs and their interpreter. Red Jacket was one of the party, but he was uniformly grave. The others were much inclined to merriment, and during an evening, when they were gathered around the fire in a log cabin, the mirth was so great and the conversation so jocular, that Red Jacket was afraid the stranger, who could not understand their language, would think himself treated with impoliteness, and infer that their sport was at his expense. He evidently enjoyed their happiness, though he took no part, but after a while he spoke to Mr. Parish, the interpreter, and requested him to repeat a few words to Mr. Hospres, which were as follows: "We have been made uncomfortable by the storm; we are now warm and comfortable; it has caused us to feel cheerful and merry; but I hope our friend who is traveling with us will not be hurt at this merriment, or suppose that we are taking advantage of his ignorance of our language to make him in any manner the subject of mirth." On being assured that no such suspicion could be entertained of the honorable men who were present, they resumed their mirth and Red Jacket his gravity.

When Lafayette visited Buffalo in 1825, among those who thronged to pay their respects was Red Jacket. When the chief was introduced to Lafayette he said: "Do you remember being at the treaty of peace with the Six Nations at Fort Stanwix?" "Yes," answered the general, "I have not forgotten that great council. By the way, what has become of that young chief who opposed so eloquently the burying of the tomahawk?" "He is before you," said Red Jacket.

"Time has worked great changes upon us both," said Lafayette, "Ah," replied the chief, "time has not been so severe upon you as it has upon me. It has left you a fresh countenance and hair to cover your head; while to me—behold!" The chief pulled a handkerchief from his head and disclosed its baldness. But Lafayette did not leave him to think thus harshly of time but proved to him that the ravages had been nearly the same upon both, by removing a wig and exposing a head almost as bald as the chief's; upon which he remarked, with much pleasantry, that a scalp from some bystander would renew his youth in the same manner!

Red Jacket pretended to understand no language but his own, and entertained a great dislike for English. He would not reply to any of Lafayette's questions until his interpreter had translated them into Seneca. Levasseur states that in his conference with Lafayette, he evidently comprehended everything uttered in his presence, while he would speak only Indian; and that his former high opinion of the general seemed to be much increased by a few chance-medley Seneca words, which the latter had the good fortune to remember, and the courtesy to repeat.

Thatcher informs us that on another occasion the notorious fanatic, Jemima Wilkenson, while trying to make proselytes, invited the Senecas to a conference. This strange woman professed to be the world's Savior at his second appearance upon earth, and was then living in fine style in the western part of New York State with her dupes. Red Jacket attended the council with his people and listened patiently to the end of a long address. Most of it he probably understood, but instead of replying to her argument in detail, he laid the axe at the root of her authority. Having risen very gravely and spoken a few words in Seneca, he noticed her inquire what he was talking about? "Ha!" He exclaimed with an arch look—"she inspired—she Jesus Christ—and not know indian?" The solidity of her pretensions was at once decided adversely, in the minds of at least the heathen part of her audience.

The gifted sachem on one occasion used the following figurative language, in speaking of the enchroachments of the white people:

"We first knew you a feeble plant which wanted a little earth whereon to grow. We gave it you and afterward, when we could have trod you under our feet, we watered and protected you; and now you have grown to be a mighty tree, whose top reaches the clouds, and whose branches overspread the whole land, whilst we, who were the tall pine of the forest, have become a feeble plant and need your protection.

"When you first came here, you clung around our knee and called us father; we took you by the hand and called you brothers. You have grown greater than we, so that we can no longer reach up to your hand; but we wish to cling around your knee and be called your children." Is not this at once beautiful and pathetic?

But Sa-go-ye-wat-ha could be sarcastic, as well as pathetic; in fact he ran the whole gamut, and was deficient in nothing essential to eloquence.

Minnie Myrtle, in her book. "The Iroquois," relates the following incident:

"A young French nobleman visited Buffalo on one occasion, and having heard much of the fame of Red Jacket, sent him word that he wished to see him, and invited him to come the next day. Red Jacket received the message, and affected great contempt, saying: 'Tell the young man if he wishes to visit the old chief he will find him with his nation, where other strangers pay their respects to him, and Red Jacket will be glad to see him.' The count sent back word that he had taken a long journey and was fatigued; that he had come all the way from France to see the great orator of the Seneca nation, and hoped he would not refuse to meet him at Buffalo. 'Tell him,' said the sarcastic chief, 'that, having come so far to see me, it is strange he should stop within seven miles of my lodge.' So the young Frenchman was obliged to seek him in his wigwam; after which he consented to dine with the count at Buffalo, and was pronounced by him a greater wonder than Niagara Falls itself."

On another occasion he was visited by a gentleman who talked incessantly and to little purpose, and who would go very near the person he was addressing and chatter about as intelligibly as a magpie. Red Jacket, receiving the message that a stranger wished to see him, dressed himself with great care, and came forth in all his dignity. One glance of his keen eye was sufficient for him to understand the character of his guest, and listening a few moments with contempt in all his features, he then went close to him and exclaimed, "Cha! cha! cha!" as fast as he could speak, and turned on his heel to his own cabin "as straight as an Indian," nor deigned to look behind him while in sight of the house occupied by the loquacious stranger, who stood for once speechless!

Like other great orators, he had his full share of vanity. He was fully aware of his importance, and disposed to make others aware of it. Colonel Pickering was often employed by the government to negotiate treaties, and would take down the speeches on the occasion in writing. At one time, when Red Jacket was the orator, he thought he would note the words of the interpreter whilst the chief was himself speaking. He immediately paused, and on being requested to proceed, said, "No, not whilst you hold down your head." "Why can you not speak whilst I write?" "Because, if you look me in the eye, you can tell whether I tell you the truth."

At another time he turned his head to speak to a third person, when Red Jacket very haughtily rebuked him, saying, "When a Seneca speaks he ought to be listened to with attention from one end of this great island to the other."

When he returned from Philadelphia, he was in the habit of using his oratorical powers to embellish the manner of his reception, and would collect around him the chiefs and people of his nation, and, dressed in his uniform, with the cocked hat under his arm, would personify the President, and bow to all present as if they were the company in the great saloon, imitating the manners and gestures of the original with true grace and dignity, and then entertain his audience with the compliments and attentions which had been bestowed upon him.

When invited to dine or be present at any social function among white people, he conformed with wonderful tact to the customs to which he was a stranger, never manifesting any surprise or asking any questions till he could consult some friend whose ridicule he did not fear. He once told a gentleman that when he dined with President Washington, a man ran off with his knife and fork every now and then and returned with others. "Now," said Red Jacket, "what was that for?"

The gentleman told him that there were a great many kinds of dishes, each cooked in a different manner, and that the plates, knives and forks were changed every time a new dish was brought on.

"Ah," said Red Jacket thoughtfully, "is that it? You must then suppose that the plates and knives and forks retain the taste of the cookery?" "Yes."

"Have you then," demanded the chief, "any method by which you can change your palates every time you change your plate? For I think the taste would remain on the palate longer than it would on the plate."

"We are in the habit of washing that away by drinking wine," answered the gentleman.

"Ah," said Red Jacket, "now I understand it. I was persuaded that so general a custom among you must be founded in reason, and I only regret that when I was in Philadelphia I did not understand it. The moment the man went off with my plate I would have drunk wine until he brought me another; for although I am fond of eating, I am more so of drinking."

Red Jacket was extremely fond of sugar. He was once at the table of Captain Jones, the interpreter. Mrs. Jones handed him his coffee without sugar, for a joke.

"My son," said the chief, looking at the captain severely, "do you allow your squaw thus to trifle with your father?" The children giggled. "And do you allow your children to make sport of their chief?" added Red Jacket. Apologies were made and the sugar-bowl was handed to the offended chief. He filled his cup to the brim with sugar and ate it out by the spoonful with the utmost gravity.

Eggleston informs us that, "Red Jacket could see no justice in the white man's court of law. An Indian who had broken in to a house and stolen some small article of value was indicted for burglary. Red Jacket made a long speech in court in his defense. But the Indian was sentenced to imprisonment for life, much to the orator's disgust. After the proceedings were over Red Jacket left the courthouse in company with the lawyers. Across the street was the sign of a printing-office with the arms of the State, representing Liberty and Justice. Red Jacket stopped and pointed to the sign.

"What him call?" demanded the chief.

"Liberty," answered the bystanders.

"Ugh!" said the sachem.

"What him call?" pointing to the other figure upon the sign.

"Justice," was the answer.

"Where him live now?" inquired the chief.

Red Jacket was one day met going the opposite direction from an execution to which everybody was crowding. He was asked why he, too, did not go. "Fools enough there already. Battle is the place to see men die," he answered.

Although fond of good things, Red Jacket had a great contempt for a sensualist. When asked his opinion of a chief appropriately named Hot Bread, who was known to be indolent and gluttonous, he exclaimed, "Waugh! big man here (laying his hand upon his abdomen), but very small man here," bringing the palm of his hand with significant emphasis across his forehead.

For a long time the great chief refused to sit for his portrait, though often importuned. "When Red Jacket dies," he would say, "all that belongs to him shall die too." But at length an appeal to his vanity availed, and on being assured that his picture was wanted to hang with those of Washington and Jefferson, and other great men in the National Galleries, he consented; and having once broken his resolution, no longer resisted, and was painted by several artists. The one by Weir is considered best, and was taken during a visit of the chief to New York, in 1828, at the request of Dr. Francis. He dressed himself with great care in the costume he thought most becoming and appropriate, decorated with his brilliant war-dress, his tomahawk, and Washington medal. He then seated himself in a large arm-chair, while around him groups of Indians were reclining upon the floor. He was more than seventy years of age at the time, but tall, erect and firm, though with many of the traces of time and dissipation upon his form and countenance. He manifested great pleasure as the outlines of the picture were filled up, and especially when his favorite medal came out in full relief; and when the picture was finished, started to his feet and clasped the hand of the artist, exclaiming, "Good! good!"

One who knew him remarks, "That his characteristics are preserved to admiration, and his majestic front exhibits an attitude surpassing every other I have ever seen of the human skull."

Mr. Stone, in his "Life of Red Jacket," gives an account of an interview between that chief and Rev. Dr. Breckenridge, which took place at the residence of General Porter, Black Rock, New York, in 1821.

General Porter's wife was a sister to Dr. Breckenridge, and he was visiting them at the time. Several chiefs, including Red Jacket, were invited to dine with the general and meet his kinsmen.

"On the appointed day," wrote Dr. Breckenridge, "they made their appearance in due form, headed by Red Jacket, to the number of eight or ten besides himself. He wore a blue dress, the upper garment cut after the fashion of a hunting shirt, with blue leggings, a red jacket and a girdle of red about his waist. I have seldom seen a more dignified or noble looking body of men than the entire group.

"After the introduction was over, and the object of their invitation stated, Red Jacket turned to me familiarly and asked: 'What are you? You say you are not a government agent; are you a gambler (meaning a land speculator), or a black-coat (clergyman), or what are you?'

"I answered, 'I am yet too young a man to engage in any profession; but I hope some of these days to be a black-coat.'

"He lifted up his hands, accompanied by his eyes, in a most expressive way; and though not a word was uttered, every one fully understood that he very distinctly expressed the sentiment, 'What a fool!' I commanded my countenance and seeming not to have observed him, proceeded to tell him something of our colleges and other institutions."

It was during this interview that the objects of speculators were so explained to him that he understood their evil designs; and the true nature of the missionary enterprise was made clear to his comprehension, so that his enmity was never afterward so bitter. When assured that by the course he was pursuing, he was doing more than any one else to break up and drive away his people, and that the effect of the teachings of the missionaries was to preserve them, he grasped the hand of the speaker and said: "If this is so it is new to me, and I will lay it up in my mind," pointing to his noble forehead, "and talk of it to the chiefs and the people."

Dr. Breckenridge continues: "Red Jacket was about sixty years old at this time, and had a weather-beaten look, which age, and more than all, intemperance, had produced; but his general appearance was striking, and his face noble. His lofty and capacious forehead, his piercing black eye, his gently curved lips, fine cheek and slightly aquiline nose—all marked a great man; and as sustained and expressed by his dignified air, made a deep impression on all who saw him. All these features became doubly expressive, when his mind and body were set in motion by the effort of speaking—if effort that may be called which flowed like a stream from his lips. I saw him in the wane of life, and heard him only in private, and through a stupid and careless interpreter. Yet, notwithstanding these disadvantages, he was one of the greatest and most eloquent orators I ever knew. His cadence was measured, and yet very musical; and when excited he would spring to his feet, elevate his head, expand his arms and utter with indescribable effect of manner and tone, some of his noblest thoughts."

General Porter speaks of him as a man endowed with great intellectual powers, and who, as an orator, was not only unsurpassed, but unequaled by any of his contemporaries. Although those who were ignorant of his language could not fully appreciate the force and beauty of his speeches, when received through the medium of an interpreter—generally coarse and clumsy—yet such was the peculiar gracefulness of his person, attitudes and action, and the mellow tones of his Seneca dialect, and such the astonishing effects produced on that part of the auditory who did fully understand him, and whose souls appeared to be engrossed and borne away by the orator, that he was listened to by all with perfect delight. His figures were frequently so sublime, so apposite and so beautiful that the interpreter often said the English language was not rich enough to allow of doing him justice.

Another gentleman says: "It is evident that the best translations of Indian speeches must fail to express the beauty and sublimity of the originals—especially of such an original as Red Jacket. It has been my good fortune to hear him a few times, but only in late years, when his powers were enfeebled by age and intemperance; but I shall never forget the impression made on me the first time I saw him in council. The English language has no figures to convey the true meaning of the original, but though coming through the medium of an illiterate interpreter, I saw the dismembered parts of a splendid oration."

Through the machinations of his great rival, Cornplanter, Red Jacket was once accused of being a wizard, and actually tried for witchcraft. Very likely he was accused of spitting fire at night or some other wizard's performance. At any rate Red Jacket arose and made his own defense. Eggleston says: "For three hours he spoke with the most wonderful eloquence, moving the Indians in spite of themselves. They were divided. A bare majority was in favor of Red Jacket and his life was saved." We question whether his life was actually in any danger, even had the decision gone against him, for the reason that Red Jacket had a great many white friends, and they would certainly have interfered in his behalf, as they did in the case of other Indians of less prominence accused of witchcraft at the same time.

Near the close of his life Red Jacket was formally deposed by twenty-six chiefs of his tribe. This was due partly to the jealousy of rival chiefs, but mainly because of his opposition to the Christian party, and on account of his intemperate habits.

But Red Jacket was not yet prepared to submit patiently to such degradation, especially when he knew so well the true motives of those who effected it. Nor was he by any means so much under the control of his bad habits as not to feel occasionally, perhaps generally, both the consciousness of his power and the sting of shame. "It shall not be said of me" thought the old orator, with a gleam of a fiery soul in his eye—"It shall not be said that Sa-go-ye-wat-ha lived in insignificance and died in dishonor. Am I too feeble to avenge myself of my enemies? Am I not as I have been?" In fine, he roused himself to a great effort. Representations were made to the neighboring tribes—for he knew too well the hopelessness of a movement confined to his own—and only a month had elapsed since his deposition, when a grand council of the chiefs of the Six Nations assembled together at the upper council-house of the Seneca village reservation.

The document of the Christian party was read, and then Half-Town rose, and, in behalf of the Seneca Indians, said there was but one voice in his nation, among the common people, and that was of general indignation at contumely cast on so great a man as Red Jacket. Several other chiefs addressed the council to the same, effect. The condemned orator rose slowly, as if grieved and humiliated, but yet with his ancient air of command.

"My Brothers," he said after a solemn pause, "you have this day been correctly informed of an attempt to make me sit down and throw off the authority of a chief, by twenty-six misguided chiefs of my nation. You have heard the statements of my associates in council, and their explanations of the foolish charges brought against me. I have taken the legal and proper way to meet these charges. It is the only way in which I could notice them. Charges which I despise, and which nothing would induce me to notice but the concern which many respected chiefs of my nation feel in the character of their aged comrade. Were it otherwise, I should not be before you. I would fold my arms and sit quietly under these ridiculous slanders.

"The Christian party have not even proceeded legally, according to our usages, to put me down. Ah! it grieves my heart, when I look around me and see the situation of my people—in old-time united and powerful, now divided and feeble. I feel sorry for my nation. When I am gone to the other world—when the Great Spirit calls me away—who among my people can take my place? Many years have I guided the nation."

Here he introduced some artful observations on the origin of the attack upon him. He then alluded to the course taken by the Christians, as ruinous and disgraceful, especially in their abandonment of the religion of their fathers, and their sacrifices, for paltry considerations, of the land given them by the Great Spirit. As for the "Black-Coats," Mr. Calhoun had told him at Washington, four years before, that the Indians must treat with them as they thought proper; the Government would not interfere. "I will not consent," he concluded, sagaciously identifying his disgrace with his opposition to the Christians, "I will not consent silently to be trampled under foot. As long as I can raise my voice, I will oppose such measures. As long as I can stand in my moccasins, I will do all that I can for my nation." It is scarcely necessary to add that the result of the conference was the triumphant restoration of the orator to his former rank.

In a council which was held with the Senecas by General Tompkins, of New York, a discussion arose concerning some point in a treaty made several years before. The agent stated one thing and Red Jacket another, insisting that he was correct. He was answered that it was written on paper, in the record of that treaty, and must be so.

"The paper then tells a lie," said the orator, "for I have it written here (placing his hand upon his brow). You Yankees are born with a feather between your fingers, but your paper does not speak the truth. The Indian keeps his knowledge here this is the book the Great Spirit has given him and it does not lie." On consulting the documents more particularly, it was found that the Indian record was, indeed, the most correct!

Red Jacket's early youth was spent in the beautiful valley of the Genesee; there were his favorite hunting grounds, and there his memory loved to linger. During the strife of wars and the more bitter strife of treaties, he had indulged very little in his favorite pastime; and when a day of comparative quiet came, he, in company with a friend, took his gun and went forth to enjoy one more hunt in this favored region. They had gone but a short distance, however, when a clearing opened before them. With a contemptuous sneer, the old man turned aside and wandered in another direction. In a little while he came to another, and looking over a fence, he saw a white man holding a plow, which was turning up the earth in dark furrows over a large field. Again he turned sadly away, and plunged deeper in the forest, but soon another open field presented itself and though he had been all his life oppressed with the woes of his people, he now for the first time sat down and wept. There was no longer any hope—they had wasted away.

A gentleman who knew Red Jacket intimately for half a century, says: "He was the most graceful public speaker I ever heard. His stature was above the middle size; his eyes fine, and expressive of the intellect which gave them fire; he was fluent without being too rapid; and dignified and stately, without rigidity. When he arose, he would turn toward the Indians and ask their attention to what he was about to say in behalf of the Commissioner of the United States. He would then turn toward the Commissioner, and with a slight but dignified inclination of the head, proceed."

Red Jacket visited the Atlantic cities repeatedly, and for the last time as late as the spring of 1829. He was, on these occasions, and especially on the latter, the object of no little curiosity and attention. He enjoyed both, and was particularly careful to demean himself in a manner suited to the dignity of his rank and reputation.

One of the Boston papers contained the following mention of his visit to that city: "Red Jacket.—This celebrated Indian chief, who has recently attracted so much attention at New York and the Southern cities, has arrived in this city, and has accepted an invitation of the Superintendent to visit the New England Museum this evening, March 21, in his full Indian costume, attended by Captain Johnson, his interpreter, by whom those who wish it can be introduced and hold conversation with him."

Boston, then as now, was nothing if not literary, and a poetical friend does him but justice in thus alluding to his Washington medal, his forest costume and the stately carriage which the chieftain still gallantly sustained:

"Thy garb—though Austria's bosom-star would frighten That medal pale, as diamonds, the dark mine, And George the Fourth wore, in the dance at Brighton, A more becoming evening dress than thine. "Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather. And fitted for thy couch on field and flood. As Rob Roy's tartans for the highland heather. Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. "Is strength a monarch's merit?—like a whaler's— Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong As earth's first kings—the Argo's gallant sailors— Heroes in history, and gods in song. "Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the patriarch's, soothe a dying hour; With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing, As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower "With look like patient Job's eschewing evil With motions graceful as a bird's in air Thou art in truth, the veriest devil That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair! "That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that which bathes the Upas tree; And in thy wrath a nursing cat o' mountain Is calm as her babe's sleep compared to thee! "And underneath that face, like summer's oceans— Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear— Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow—all, save fear. "Love—for thy land, as if she were thy daughter; Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred of missionaries and cold water; Pride—in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars; "Hope—that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit Remembered and revenged when thou art gone; Sorrow—that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions and thy throne."

This poet is not the only civilized authority who noticed that Red Jacket possessed personal attractions which greatly aided his forensic success, for one of the most distinguished public men of the State of New York was wont to say that the chieftain reminded him strongly of the celebrated John Randolph, of Roanoke, in his best estate, and that these two were the only orators of nature he had ever heard or seen.

In the last stanza quoted is an allusion to the melancholy domestic circumstances of the subject of them. He had been—according to Thatcher—the father of thirteen children, during his lifetime, and had buried them all.

Some time after this visit to the Atlantic cities, he was invited to the launching of a schooner which was named after him. He christened the vessel with a short speech.

"You have a great name given to you," said he, addressing the ship, "strive to deserve it. Be brave and daring. Go boldly into the great lakes and fear neither the swift wind nor the strong waves. Be not frightened nor overcome by them, for it is in resisting storms and tempest that I, whose name you bear, obtained my renown. Let my great example inspire you to courage and lead you to glory."

Of the domestic character and habits of the great Indian orator we know, of course, very little. It has not been the custom of civilized or Christian people to relate much concerning the home life of eminent Indians.

We know, however, that Red Jacket separated from his first wife after she had become the mother of several children, and that her infidelity was the alleged cause. The repugnance which he ever afterward manifested toward her is in accordance with his known moral purity of character.

Red Jacket married a second wife. She was the widow of a chief named Two Guns, and a woman of fine face and bearing. She became interested in Christianity, and thought of joining the church; whereupon Red Jacket was enraged. He said that they had lived happily together, but that now if she joined the party to which her husband was opposed, he would leave her. His wife, however, joined the church, and Red Jacket immediately left her and went to the other reservation.

But he was not happy separated from those he loved, and those he left were not happy without him. He missed the caresses of the children, and especially the youngest daughter, of whom he was very fond. Through the agency of this little girl a reconciliation was effected. He even promised that he would never again interfere with his wife's religious privileges, and to his credit be it said, he kept the promise.

The great orator was suddenly taken ill of cholera morbus in the council house, where he had gone that day dressed with more than ordinary care, with all his gay apparel and ornaments. When he returned he said to his wife, "I am sick; I could not stay till the council had finished. I shall never recover." He then took off all his rich costume and laid it carefully away; reclined himself upon his couch and did not rise again till morning, or speak except to answer some slight question. His wife prepared him medicine which he patiently took, but said, "It will do no good. I shall die." The next day he called her to him, and requested her and the little girl he loved so much, to sit beside him, and listen to his parting words.

"I am going to die," he said. "I shall never leave the house again alive. I wish to thank you for your kindness to me. You have loved me. You have always prepared my food and taken care of my clothes, and been patient with me. I am sorry I ever treated you unkindly. I am sorry I left you, because of your new religion, and I am convinced that it is a good religion and has made you a better woman, and wish you to persevere in it. I should like to have lived a little longer for your sake. I meant to build you a new house and make you more comfortable, but it is now too late. But I hope my daughter will remember what I have often told her—not to go in the streets with strangers or improper persons. She must stay with her mother, and grow up a respectable woman.

"When I am dead it will be noised abroad through all the world—they will hear of it across the great waters, and say, 'Red Jacket, the great orator, is dead.' And white men will come and ask you for my body. They will wish to bury me. But do not let them take me. Clothe me in my simplest dress put on my leggings and my moccasins, and hang the cross which I have worn so long, around my neck, and let it lie upon my bosom. Then bury me among my people. Neither do I wish to be buried with Pagan rites. I wish the ceremonies to be as you like, according to the customs of your new religion if you choose. Your minister says the dead will rise. Perhaps they will. If they do, I wish to rise with my old comrades. I do not wish to rise among pale-faces. I wish to be surrounded by red men. Do not make a feast according to the customs of the Indians. Whenever my friends chose, they could come and feast with me when I was well, and I do not wish those who have never eaten with me in my cabin to surfeit at my funeral feast."

When he had finished, he laid himself again upon the couch and did not rise again. He lived several days, but was most of the time in a stupor, or else delirious. He often asked for Mr. Harris, the missionary, and afterward would unconsciously mutter—"I do not hate him—he thinks I hate him, but I do not. I would not hurt him." The missionary was sent for repeatedly, but he did not return till the chieftain was dead. When the messenger told him Mr. Harris had not come, he replied, "Very well. The Great Spirit will order it as he sees best, whether I have an opportunity to speak with him." Again he would murmur, "He accused me of being a snake, and trying to bite somebody. This was very true, and I wish to repent and make satisfaction."

Whether it was Mr. Harris that he referred to all the time he was talking in this way could not be ascertained, as he did not seem to comprehend if any direct question was put to him, but from his remarks, and his known enmity to him, this was the natural supposition.

The cross which he wore was a very rich one, of stones set in gold, and very large; it was given to him, but by whom his friends never knew. This was all the ornament which he requested should be buried with him.

It certainly was very remarkable that Red Jacket, after a life of sworn enmity to Christianity, should be so influenced by the unobtrusive example of his Christian wife, as to abjure Pagan rites and request Christian burial. But such was undoubtedly the case, as we are informed by Minnie Myrtle, who spent much time among the Iroquois, especially the Senecas, and got her information concerning "the closing scene" from the sachem's favorite stepdaughter.

The wife and daughter were the only ones to whom he spoke parting words or gave a parting blessing; but as his last hour drew nigh, his family all gathered around him, and mournful it was to think that the children were not his own—his were all sleeping in the little churchyard where he was soon to be laid—they were his stepchildren—the children of his favorite wife. It has been somewhere stated that his first wife died before him, but this is a mistake; she was living at the time of his death.

His last words were still, "Where is the missionary?" He then clasped the little girl, whom he loved so devotedly, to his bosom; while she sobbed in anguish her ears caught his hurried breathing—his arms relaxed their hold—she looked up, and he was gone. There was mourning in the household, and there was mourning among the people. The orator, the great man of whom they were still proud, while they lamented his degeneracy, was gone. He had been a true though mistaken friend, and who would take his place?

All his requests were complied with strictly. The funeral took place in the little mission church, with appropriate but most simple ceremonies. In these the Pagans took but little interest. Wrapped in profound and solemn thought, they, however, waited patiently their termination. Some of them then arose, and successively addressed their countrymen in their own language. They recounted the exploits and the virtues of him whose remains they were now about to bear to his last home. They remembered his own prophetic appeal—"Who shall take my place among my people?" They thought of the ancient glory of their nation, and they looked around them on its miserable remnant. The contrast made their hearts sick, and tears trickled down their cheeks. Well might they weep! The strong warrior's arm was mouldering into dust, and the eye of the gifted orator was cold and motionless forever.

The last council he attended he recommended to both parties among his people, the Christian and Pagan, that they should resolve to quarrel no more, but each man believe according, to his own way. In his last public speech to his people he said: "I am about to leave you, and when I am gone, and my warning shall no longer be heard or regarded, the craft and avarice of the white man will prevail. Many winters have I breasted the storm, but I am an aged tree and can stand no longer. My leaves are fallen, my branches are withered, and I am shaken by every breeze. Soon my aged trunk will be prostrate, and the foot of the exulting foe of the Indian may be placed upon it in safety; for I have none who will be able to avenge such an indignity. Think not I mourn for myself. I go to join the spirits of my fathers, where age can not come; but my heart fails me when I think of my people, who are so soon to be scattered and forgotten."

In less than nine years after his death "the craft and avarice of the white man" had prevailed, as he predicted, and "every foot of the ancient inheritance of the Senecas was ceded to the white man, in exchange for a tract west of the Mississippi." Through the intervention of the Friends, however, this calamity was averted, and for the first and only time, the Indians recovered their land after it had been fraudulently obtained.

Red Jacket was buried in the little mission burying ground, at the gateway of what was once an old fort.

A simple stone was erected to mark his grave, and the spot became a resort for travelers from far and near.

The following inscription was cut on his tombstone:

SA-GO-YE-WAT-HA,
THE KEEPER AWAKE.
RED JACKET,
CHIEF OF THE
WOLF TRIBE OF THE SENECAS.
Died, Jan. 20, 1830.
Aged, 78 years.

His headstone was desecrated by relic-hunting vandals, until his name disappeared from the marble.

Some among those who knew and honored him, wished to remove his remains to the new cemetery at Buffalo. They even caused him to be disinterred and placed in a leaden coffin, preparatory to a second burial. But ere their desire was accomplished, his family had heard of what they considered the terrible sacrilege, and immediately demanded that he should be given up. They had removed from the Buffalo to the Cattaraugus reservation, and therefore did not wish to bury him again in the mission churchyard, so they brought his precious dust to their own dwelling, where for many years it remained unburied. They almost felt as if he would rise up to curse them, if they allowed him to lie side by side with those he so cordially hated. He did not wish to rise with pale-faces, whom he considered the despoilers of his people, nor to mingle his red dust with that of his white foes.

Recently a splendid monument, surmounted by a statue of the great Seneca orator, has been erected in the beautiful city of Buffalo.

[CHAPTER IX.]

LITTLE TURTLE, OR MICHIKINIQUA.
WAR-CHIEF OF THE MIAMIS, AND CONQUEROR OF HARMAR AND ST. CLAIR.

Judged from his success on the field of battle and his sagacity in council, Little Turtle deserves to rank among the four greatest American Indians, the other three being Pontiac, Tecumseh and Chief Joseph. Indeed, when it is remembered that "nothing succeeds like success," and that he alone of all the Indian commanders had three victories to his credit (for the defeat of the whites at Blue Lick, in Kentucky, is also conceded to him), he might be regarded as in some respects the greatest American Indian.

Little Turtle was thought to have been born on the banks of the Miami River, in Ohio, about the year 1747. He was the son of a Miami chief, but his mother was a Mohegan woman, probably captured in war and adopted into the tribe. As the Indian maxim in relation to descents is generally the same with that of our obsolete civil law in relation to slaves, that the condition of the offspring follows the condition of the mother. {FN} Little Turtle had no advantage whatever from his father's rank. He, however, became a chief at an early age, for his extraordinary talents attracted the notice of his countrymen in boyhood.

{FN} "Partus sequitur ventrum."

His first services worthy of mention were those of a young warrior in the ranks of his tribe. Here the soundness of his judgment and his skill and bravery in battle soon made him chief, and finally bore him on to a commanding influence, not only in his own nation, but among all the neighboring tribes.

Notwithstanding his name, Little Turtle was at this time at least six feet tall; strong, muscular and remarkably dignified in his manner, though of a somewhat morose countenance and apparently very crafty and subtle. As a warrior he was fearless, but not rash; shrewd to plan, bold and energetic to execute—no peril could daunt and no emergency could surprise him. Politically he was the first follower of Pontiac, and the latest model of Tecumseh. He indulged in much the same gloomy apprehension that the whites would over top and finally uproot his race; and he sought much the same combination of the Indian nations to prevent it.

Long after the conclusion of the peace of 1783, the British retained possession of several posts within our ceded limits on the north, which were rallying-points for the Indians hostile to the American cause, and where they were supplied and subsisted to a considerable extent, while they continued to wage that war with us, which their civilized ally no longer maintained. The infant Government made strenuous exertions to pacify all these tribes. With some they succeeded, but the Indians of the Miami and Wabash would consent to no terms. They were strong in domestic combination, besides receiving encouragement from across the Canadian border.

Little Turtle, ably assisted by Blue Jacket, head chief of the Shawnees of this period, and Buckongahelas, who led the Delawares, formed a confederation of the Wyandots, Pottawatomies, Chippewas, Ottawas, Shawnees, Delawares and Miamis, and parts of several other tribes.

These were substantially the same tribes who had thirty years before been united under Pontiac, and formed an exact precedent for the combination of Tecumseh and his brother at Tippecanoe some years after, as will be seen.

On September 13, 1791—all attempts to conciliate the hostile tribes, who were now ravaging the frontiers, having been abandoned—General Harmar, under the direction of the Federal Government, marched against them from Fort Washington, where Cincinnati now stands, with three hundred and twenty regulars, who were soon after joined by a body of militia, making the whole force about fifteen hundred men.

When they reached the Miami villages they were found deserted by the Indians. The army burned them, destroyed the standing corn, and then encamped on the ground. An Indian trail being discovered soon after, Hardin, with one hundred and fifty militia, properly officered, and thirty regulars, commanded by Captain Armstrong, was sent in pursuit.

In a prairie at the distance of six miles, the Indians had formed an ambush on each side of their own trail, where they were concealed among the bushes and long grass. All unsuspicious of danger the troops followed the trail, but were no sooner involved within the snare laid for them than the enemy poured in a heavy fire from both sides. Greatly to the mortification of their colonel, the militia broke ranks at once and fled, deserting the regulars, who stood firm till nearly all of them were killed.

The Indians remained on the field, and during the night held a dance of victory over their dead and dying enemies. To this ceremony Captain Armstrong was a constrained and unwilling witness, being sunk to his neck in mud and water, within a hundred yards of the scene.

The life of Ensign Hartshorn was also saved by his having accidentally fallen over a log hidden among the weeds and grass. During the night both these officers eluded the notice of their enemies, and reached camp before sunrise.

Apparently disheartened by the result of this skirmish, Harmar broke up his camp in a day or two afterward and retreated nearer the settlements. On the second day of the march, when about ten miles from the ruined villages, the general ordered a halt, and sent Colonel Hardin back to the main town with some sixty regulars and three hundred militia. Hardin had no sooner reached the point to which he had been ordered, than a small body of Indians appeared on the ground. After receiving the fire of the militia, the savages broke into separate parties, and by seeming to fly, as if panic-stricken, encouraged the militia to follow in pursuit. The stratagem was successful. The militia had no sooner disappeared in chase of the fugitives, than the regulars, thus left alone, were suddenly assaulted by large numbers of the foe, who had hitherto remained in concealment.

The Indians precipitated themselves upon the sixty regulars under Major Willis, but were received with the most inflexible determination. The Indian war-whoop, so appalling even to the bravest hearts, was heard in cool, inflexible silence. The whirling of the tomahawk was met by the thrust of the bayonet.

Nothing could exceed the intrepidity of the savages on this occasion. The militia they appeared to despise, and with all the undauntedness conceivable threw down their guns and rushed upon the bayonets of the regular soldiers. Quite a few of them fell, but being far superior in numbers the regulars were soon overpowered; for, while the poor soldier had his bayonet in one Indian two more would sink their tomahawks in his head. The defeat of the troops was complete, the dead and wounded were left on the field of action in possession of the savages.

In the meantime, the militia came straggling in from their vain and hopeless pursuit, and the struggle was renewed for a time, but when they realized that the regulars had been almost annihilated during their absence, they lost heart and retreated.

Of the regulars engaged in this most sanguinary battle only ten escaped back to the camp, while the militia, under Hardin, lost ninety-eight in killed and ten others wounded.

After this unfortunate repulse, Harmar retired without attempting anything further. The conduct of Harmar and Hardin did not escape severe criticism and censure, not, it would seem, without cause.

Of the eleven hundred or more men under the command of Harmar in this expedition, there were three hundred and twenty regulars and seven hundred and eighty militia. But he sent only thirty regulars and one hundred and fifty militia to the first engagement, and only sixty regulars and three hundred militia to the second.

Why was it he always sent the raw recruits to find and attack the Indians and kept the best soldiers idle in the camp? Was it to insure his own safety, by having a strong guard always present?

Again, it is noticed that, in both cases, instead of advancing himself with the main body, he sent Colonel Hardin to lead the forlorn hope. He was always ready to give the command, "Go!" but in his lexicon there was no such word as "Come!" Consequently the word "fail" was written so plain that "he who runs might read." Colonel Hardin, for his part, displayed great courage, and but little skill as an Indian fighter, as he was ambushed and out-generaled on both occasions. In fact, the only generalship shown in this campaign was that evinced by the Indian commander, who was none other than the hero of this sketch, Little Turtle.

General Harmar, deeply chagrined, returned to Fort Washington. He and Hardin both demanded a court-martial; the latter was unanimously and honorably acquitted. Harmar was also acquitted, but immediately afterward resigned his commission.

Elated by their success, the Indians continued their depredations with greater audacity than ever, and the situation of the frontiers became truly alarming.

The early movements of the newly organized Federal Government were difficult and embarrassing. With a view, however, to the defense of the northern and western frontiers, an act was passed by Congress for increasing the army; St. Clair, the Governor of the Northwestern territories, received a commission as major-general, and steps were taken for raising the new regiment and the levies, the command of which was to be given to General Butler.

Washington, who was President at this time, had been deeply chagrined by the mortifying disasters of General Harmar's expedition against the Miamis, resulting from Indian ambushes. In taking leave, therefore, of his old military comrade, St. Clair, he wished him success and honor, and added this solemn warning: "You have your instructions from the Secretary of War. I had a strict eye to them, and will add but one word—Beware of a surprise! You know how the Indians fight. I repeat it—Beware of a surprise!" With these warning words sounding in his ear, fresh with Washington's awful emphasis, St. Clair started to the front to assume command.

"Old men for council, young men for war," is a good maxim which was not regarded at this time. St. Clair was not only old and infirm, but weak and sick with an attack of gout, and at times almost helpless. Moreover, he had been very unfortunate in his military career in the Revolutionary War. Neither he nor the second in command, Maj.-Gen. Richard Butler, possessed any of the qualities of leadership save courage. The whole burden fell on the adjutant-general, Colonel Winthrop Sargent, an old Revolutionary veteran, without whom the expedition would probably have failed in ignominy even before the Indians were reached, and he showed courage and ability of a high order; yet in planning for battle he was unable to remedy to the blunders of his superiors.

Napoleon is quoted as saying. "Better an army of deer led on by a lion than an army of lions led on by a deer," In the light of subsequent events, this was much like an army of deer led on by a deer.

The troops were, for the most part, of wretched stuff. St. Clair was particularly unpopular in Kentucky, and no volunteers could be found to serve under him. The militia of Kentucky had been called on, and about one thousand reluctantly furnished by draft; but as they were all unfavorable to the commander-in-chief, many desertions took place daily. They seemed to think that the only possible outcome of this expedition was defeat.

St. Clair made his headquarters at Fort Hamilton, now Hamilton, Ohio, about twenty-five miles northward of Fort Washington, or Cincinnati.

The season was already advanced before St. Clair took the field. The whole force of regulars and levies able to march from Fort Washington did not much exceed two thousand men. Desertion reduced the number to about fourteen hundred before they had advanced far into the hostile territory. Continuing the march, however, on the 3d of November he encamped on a piece of commanding ground, within fifteen miles of the Miami villages. An interval of only seventy paces was left between the two wings of the army. The right was in some degree protected by a creek with a steep bank; the left by cavalry and pickets. Colonel Oldham, who commanded the remains of the Kentucky levies, was sent across the creek and took a position on the first rising ground beyond it, about a quarter of a mile distant. Indians were seen during the afternoon and evening, skulking about the camp, and were fired at by the sentinels, yet neither St. Clair nor Butler took any adequate measures to ward off the impending blow, or prevent a surprise. Indeed, they did not expect to be attacked.

Meantime the Indians were holding a grand war council. The plan of attack was decided, and the order and rank of the various tribes settled, and positions assigned them. The Wyandots stretched to the west; the Delawares were stationed next to them; the Senecas third in order, while the other tribes and bands took similar positions on the other side. The Turtle, acting as commander-in-chief, superintended and stimulated the whole, but headed no particular detachment; the arm of the warrior was to do much, but the eye and voice of the chieftain much more. Nothing happened during the night to alarm the Americans, and the noise and stir of the outskirts in the early part of the evening gradually subsided. All at length was silent, and it might well be supposed, as it probably was, that the enemy had taken advantage of the darkness of the night to make good a precipitate retreat, or that their whole force as yet consisted only of a few scouting and scalping parties. But they were soon undeceived.

On the morning of November 4, the militia were violently attacked between dawn and sunrise by a large body of Indians, who, with terrific yells, poured in a volley of musketry along the entire length of the picket line. Never was surprise more complete. The ranks of the militia were thrown into confusion at once by the fury of the onset, the heavy firing, and the appalling whoops and yells of the throngs of painted savages.

After a brief resistance they broke and fled in wild panic to the camp of the regulars, among whom they rushed like frightened sheep, spreading confusion and demoralization.

The troops sprang to arms as soon as they heard the firing at the picket line, and their volleys checked the onrush of the savages but only for a moment. The plumed warriors divided and filed off to either side, as if at the command of their leader, completely surrounding the camp, killing the pickets and advancing close to the main lines.

The battle was now fiercely contested on both sides, but it was almost a hopeless struggle for the Americans from the beginning, as it was impossible for the gunners to hit an enemy they could not see, as they crept from tree to tree, and log to log. The soldiers stood in close order in the center, where their ranks were steadily thinned by the rapid fire or hurtling tomahawk of the Indians.

The Indians fought with great courage and ferocity, and slaughtered the bewildered soldiers like sheep, as they vainly fired through the dense smoke into the surrounding woods.

The best description of this battle we have seen is given in Roosevelt's "Winning of the West," volume IV, chapter 1, in which he says: "The officers behaved very well, cheering and encouraging their men: but they were the special targets of the Indians, and fell rapidly. St. Clair and Butler, by their cool fearlessness in the hour of extreme peril, made some amends for their shortcomings as commanders. They walked up and down the lines from flank to flank, passing and repassing each other; for the two lines of battle were facing outward, and each general was busy trying to keep his wing from falling back. St. Clair's clothes were pierced by eight bullets, but he was himself untouched. He wore a blanket coat with a hood; he had a long queue, and his thick gray hair flowed from under his three-cornered hat; a lock of his hair was carried off by a bullet. Several times he headed the charges, sword in hand. General Butler had his arm broken early in the fight, but he continued to walk to and fro along the line, his coat off and the wounded arm in a sling. Another bullet struck him in the side, inflicting a mortal wound; and he was carried to the middle of the camp, where he sat propped up by knapsacks. Men and horses were falling around him at every moment. St. Clair sent an aide, Lieut. Ebenezer Denny, to ask how he was; he displayed no anxiety, and answered that he felt well. While speaking, a young cadet, who stood near by, was hit on the knee-cap by a spent ball, and at the shock cried aloud; whereat the general laughed so that his wounded side shook. The aide left him and there is no further certain record of his fate except that he was slain; but it is said that in one of the Indian rushes a warrior bounded toward him and sunk the tomahawk in his brain before any one could interfere.

"Instead of being awed by the bellowing artillery, the Indians made the gunners a special object of attack. Man after man was picked off, until every officer was killed but one, who was wounded; and most of the privates were slain or disabled. The artillery was thus almost silenced, and the Indians, emboldened by success, swarmed forward and seized the guns, while at the same time a part of the left wing of the army began to shrink back. But the Indians were now on comparatively open ground, where the regulars could see them and get at them; and under St. Clair's own leadership the troops rushed fiercely at the savages, with fixed bayonets, and drove them back to cover. By this time the confusion and disorder were great; while from every hollow and grass patch, from behind every stump and tree and fallen log, the Indians continued their fire. Again and again the officers led forward the troops in bayonet charges; and at first the men followed them with a will. Each charge seemed for a moment to be successful, the Indians rising in swarms and running in headlong flight from the bayonets. In one of these charges Colonel Darke's battalion drove the Indians several hundred yards, across the branch of the Wabash; but when the colonel halted and rallied his men, he found the savages had closed in behind him, and he had to fight his way back, while the foe he had been chasing at once turned and harrassed his rear. He was himself wounded, and lost most of his command. On reentering camp he found the Indians again in possession of the artillery and baggage, from which they were again driven; they had already scalped the slain, who lay about the guns. Major Thomas Butler had his thigh broken by a bullet; but continued on horseback in command of his battalion until the end of the fight. The only regular regiment present lost every officer killed or wounded. The commander of the Kentucky militia, Colonel Oldham, was killed early in the action, while trying to rally his men and berating them for cowards.

"The charging troops could accomplish nothing permanent. The men were too clumsy and ill-trained in forest warfare to overtake their fleet, half-naked antagonists. The latter never received the shock; but though they fled they were nothing daunted, for they turned the instant the battalion did and followed firing, and, indeed, were only visible when raised by a charge.

"The Indian attack was relentless, and could neither be avoided, parried nor met by counter assault. For two hours the soldiers kept up a slowly lessening resistance; but by degrees their hearts failed. In vain the officers tried, by encouragement, by jeers, and even blows, to drive them back to the fight. They were unnerved.

"There was but one thing to do. If possible the remnant of the army must be saved, and it could only be done by instant flight, even at the cost of abandoning the wounded. The broad road by which the army had advanced was the only line of retreat. The artillery had already been spiked and abandoned. Most of the horses had been killed, but a few were still left, and on one of these St. Clair mounted. He gathered together those fragments of the different battalions which contained the few men who still kept heart and head, and ordered them to charge and regain the road from which the savages had cut them off. Repeated orders were necessary before some of the men could be roused from their stupor sufficiently to follow the charging party; and they were only induced to move when told that it was a retreat.

"Colonel Darke and a few officers placed themselves at the head of the column, the coolest and boldest men drew up behind them, and they fell on the Indians with such fury as to force them back well beyond the road. This made an opening through which the rest of the troops pressed 'like a drove of bullocks.'" {FN}

{FN} Van Cleve's Journal.

"The Indians were surprised by the vigor of the charge and puzzled as to its object. They opened out on both sides and half the soldiers had gone through before they tired more than a chance shot or two. They then fell on the rear and began a hot pursuit. St. Clair sent his aide, Denny, to the front to try to keep order, but neither he nor any one else could check the flight. Major Clark tried to rally his battalion to cover the retreat, but he was killed and the effort abandoned."

As soon as the men realized that in flight there lay some hope of safety they broke into a stampede which soon became uncontrollable. Even St. Clair admitted in his dispatches that this retreat "was a precipitate one, in fact, a flight." Most of the militia threw away their arms and accoutrements, and in their headlong flight the weak and wounded, and even some of the women who were with the army, were knocked down and ruthlessly trampled by the terrified men.

The pursuit continued about four miles, when the Indian commander, Little Turtle, restrained his dusky warriors, saying they had killed enough and should now divide the spoils. The natural greediness of the savage appetite for plunder made the red men willing to obey this command, otherwise hardly a man would have escaped.

General St. Clair tried to stay behind and stem the torrent of fugitives, but failed utterly, being swept along in the mad stampede. He now attempted to ride to the front to rally the troops, but the clumsy pack-horse which he rode could not be pricked out of a walk. The flight continued from half-past nine until after sunset, when the routed troops reached Fort Jefferson, some thirty miles distant, completely exhausted.

One day's hurried flight had carried them over a space which covered a fortnight's advance. Here they met the detached regiment, three hundred strong, which had been sent by St. Clair after the deserters. Leaving their wounded at Fort Jefferson, the retreat was continued until the half-armed rabble reached Fort Washington and the log huts of the infant city of Cincinnati. {FN}

{FN} Washington was called "the Cincinnati of the West." Hence it was an easy and natural change from Fort Washington to Cincinnati.

The loss in this disastrous expedition amounted to upward of nine hundred men, including fifty-nine officers. Of these six hundred and thirty were killed, and two hundred and eighty wounded. Only one or two were taken prisoners, as the savages killed every one who fell into their hands. It is said that the influence of Little Turtle prevented any captives being tortured, but he could not prevent one case of cannibalism.

In Brickell's Narrative it is stated that the savage Chippewas from the far-off North devoured one of the slain soldiers, {FN} probably in a spirit of ferocious bravado; the other tribes expressed horror at the deed.

{FN} In our investigations we have found several cases of cannibalism, but they have always been Canadian Indians, especially the tribes living near lakes Huron and Superior. We believe it was not common.

St. Clair's defeat, with the possible exception of that of Braddock, was the most complete and overwhelming in the annals of Indian warfare. He and his apologists always claimed that he was overpowered by numbers; but as no English historian makes the Indians more numerous than the Americans, some credit must be given to them upon other grounds than the pretext of numerical superiority. Indeed, their attack was conducted with astonishing intrepidity. After the first volley of firearms, they fought every inch of the field hand to hand, with their tomahawks.

The Indians were rich in spoil. They got horses, cattle, tents, guns, axes, powder, bullets, clothing, blankets and a supply of provisions—in short, everything they needed.

Thatcher is responsible for the statement that "an American officer, who encountered a party of thirty Indians near the battle-ground, a day or two after the defeat, and was detained by them till they were made to believe him a friend to their cause, from Canada, was informed that the number of the Indians engaged in the battle was twelve hundred, of whom the larger portion were Miamis, besides half-breeds and renegades, including among the latter the notorious Simon Girty." This officer was also informed that the number killed on the Indian side was fifty-six.

These savages were returning home with their share of the plunder. One of them had a hundred and twenty-seven American scalps, strung on a pole, and the rest were laden with various other articles of different values. They had also three pack-horses, carrying as many kegs of wine and spirits as could be piled on their backs. {FN}

{FN} Perhaps this last statement tends to explain the easy victory of the Indians.

When the remnant of the shattered army reached Fort Washington, St. Clair dispatched his aide, the ever ready Lieut. Ebenezer Denny, to carry the news to Philadelphia, the national capital.

The manner in which the news of this disaster affected Washington is thus described by Mr. Rush. Said he, "Mr. Lear (the President's private secretary) saw a storm was gathering. In the agony of his emotion he (Washington) struck his clenched hands with fearful force against his forehead, and in a paroxysm of anguish exclaimed: 'It's all over! St. Clair's defeated—routed; the officers nearly all killed—the men by wholesale—that brave army cut to pieces—the rout complete! Too shocking to think of—and a surprise in the bargain!' He uttered all this with great vehemence. Then he paused and walked about the room several times, agitated, but saying nothing. Near the door he stopped short and stood still a few seconds; then turning to the secretary, who stood amazed at the spectacle of Washington in all his wrath, he again broke forth:

"'Yes, sir. Here, in this very room, on this very spot, I took leave of him: I wished him success and honor. 'You have your instructions,' I said, 'from the Secretary of War: I had a strict eye to them, and will add but one word—beware of a surprise! I repeat it—beware of a surprise! You know how the Indians fight us. He went off with that as my last solemn warning thrown into his ears. And yet to suffer that army to be cut to pieces, hacked by a surprise—the very thing I guarded him against! 0. God! 0. God! He's worse than a murderer! How can he answer it to his country? The blood of the slain is upon him—the curse of widows and orphans—the curse of heaven!'"

This torrent came out in tone appalling. His very frame shook. "It was awful!" said Mr. Lear. "More than once he threw his hands up as he hurled imprecations upon St. Clair." Mr. Lear remained speechless—awed into breathless silence. Presently the roused chief sat down on the sofa once more. He seemed conscious of his passion, and uncomfortable. He was silent; his wrath began to subside. He at length said, in an altered voice: "This must not go beyond this room." Another pause followed—a longer one—when he said in a tone quite low, "General St. Clair shall have justice. I looked hastily through the dispatches—saw the whole disaster, but not all the particulars. I will hear him without prejudice; he shall have full justice; yes, long, faithful and meritorious services have their claims."

Washington was now perfectly calm. Half an hour had gone by; the storm of indignation and passion was over, and no sign of it was afterward seen in his conduct or heard in his conversation. His wrath on this occasion was perhaps never before aroused to so great a degree, except when he confronted Lee, when the latter was retreating at the battle of Monmouth.

The effect of this terrible disaster was at once encouraging to Little Turtle and his formidable confederation, and correspondingly depressing to the youthful government and the settlers of the Northwest Territory, where Indian depredations increased alarmingly.

Congress soon took the necessary steps to raise and equip another army, and tendered the command to Gen. Anthony Wayne, commonly called "Mad Anthony" because of his intrepid courage and energy. General Wayne accepted the command on condition that sufficient time be allotted him to thoroughly drill his raw recruits. Wayne proved to be the right man for the place and fully sustained the reputation he had won at Stony Point and other battles of the Revolution. He soon had his militia under such perfect discipline that they were ready and anxious to meet the enemy.

Perhaps no man in the country was better qualified to meet the emergencies of an Indian warfare in the woods. Thatcher says, "The Indians were themselves, indeed, sensible of this fact, and the mere intelligence of his approach had its effect on their spirits. They universally called him the 'Black Snake,' from the superior cunning which they ascribed to him; and even allowed him the credit of being a fair match for Buckongahelas, Blue Jacket or the Turtle himself."

Wayne prosecuted the decisive campaign of 1794 with a spirit which justified the estimate of his enemy, although, owing to the difficulties of transporting stores and provisions through a wilderness, which at that time could not be traversed by wagons, he was unable to commence operations until near midsummer. He had already in the fall of the previous season erected Fort Recovery, on the site of St. Clair's defeat; and early in August, he raised a fortification at the confluence of the Au-Glaize and Miami, which he named Fort Defiance. His whole force was now nearly two thousand regulars, exclusive of eleven hundred mounted Kentucky militia, under General Scott. Here he had expected to surprise the neighboring villages of the enemy; and the more effectually to insure the success of his coup-de-main, he had not only advanced thus far by an obscure and very difficult route, but taken pains to clear out two roads from Greenville in that direction, in order to attract and divert the attention of the Indians, while he marched by neither. But his generalship proved of no avail. The Turtle and his warriors kept too vigilant an eye on the foe they were now awaiting, to be easily surprised, even had not their movements been quickened, as they were, by the information of an American deserter.

On the 12th of the month the General learned from some of the Indians taken prisoners, that their main body occupied a camp near the British fort at the rapids of the Miami. But he now resolved before approaching them much nearer to try the effect of one more proposal of peace. He had in his army a man named Miller, who had long been a captive with some of the tribes, and spoke their language, and he selected him for the hazardous undertaking.

Miller did not want to go; he believed the Indians were determined on war, and that they would not respect a flag of truce, but would probably kill him. General Wayne, however, assured Miller that he would hold the eight prisoners then in his custody as pledges for his safety, and that he might take with him any escort he desired. Thus encouraged, the soldier consented to go with the message; and to attend him, he selected from the prisoners one of the men and a squaw. With these he left camp at 4 P. M. on the 13th, and at daybreak next morning arrived at the tents of the hostile chiefs, which were near together, and known by his attendants, without being discovered. He immediately displayed his white flag and proclaimed himself "a messenger with a peace talk." Instantly he was assailed on all sides, with a hideous yell, while some of the Indians shouted, "Kill the runner! Kill the spy!" But when he addressed them in their own language and explained to them his real character, they suspended the blow, and took him into custody. He showed and explained the general's letter, not omitting the positive assurance that if they did not send the bearer back to him by the 16th of the month, he would at sunset on that day cause every Indian in his camp to be put to death.

Miller was closely confined and a council called by the chiefs. On the 15th he was liberated, and furnished with an answer to General Wayne, which was "that if he waited where he was for ten days, and then sent Miller for them, they would treat with him; but that if he advanced, they would give him battle." The general's impatience had prevented his waiting the return of his minister. Miller came up with the army on the 16th, however, and delivered the answer; to which he added, that "from the manner in which the Indians were dressed and painted, and the constant arrival of parties, it was his opinion they had determined on war and only wanted time to muster their whole force." {FN}

{FN} Marshall.

This intelligence caused Wayne to rapidly continue his march down the Maumee.

Meantime the red men, through their runners, had full knowledge of his movements. During the night preceding the battle of Fallen Timbers, the chiefs of the different tribes of the confederation held a council, and it was proposed by some to go up and attack General Wayne in his encampment. The proposition was opposed, and it was determined to wait until the next day and fight the battle on ground of their own selection, in front of the British fort. Little Turtle, more wise than the other chiefs, disapproved of this plan, while Blue Jacket was warmly in favor of it. The former disliked the idea of fighting Wayne under present circumstances, and was even inclined to make peace. Schoolcraft informs us that, in his speech in the council, he said, "We have beaten the enemy twice, under separate commanders. We can not expect the same good fortune to always attend us. The Americans are now led by a chief who never sleeps. The night and the day are alike to him; and during all the time that he has been marching upon our villages, notwithstanding the watchfulness of our young men, we have never been able to surprise him. Think well of it. There is something whispers me, it would be prudent to listen to his offers of peace." On this he was reproached by one of the chiefs with cowardice, and that ended the conference. Stung to the quick by a reproach which he felt he never merited; he would have laid the reviler dead at his feet; but his was not the bravery of an assassin. He took his post at the head of the Miamis when the battle was fought, determined to do his duty; and that event proved that he had formed a very correct estimate of the ability of General Wayne.

Having been reinforced by sixteen hundred Kentuckians, under the brave general, Charles Scott, Wayne's army now numbered about four thousand men, and he was ready for battle. He used every caution while in the Indian's country, and invariably went into camp about the middle of the afternoon, in a hollow square, which was inclosed by a rampart of logs. He was well aware that hundreds of eyes were watching his every movement from tree and bush, and he was determined never to be surprised.

The battle of Fallen Timbers, so called because at this place a large number of forest trees had been blown down by a tornado, was fought August 20, 1794.

The Indians took this position because it would give them favorable, covert for their mode of warfare, and prevent the successful use of cavalry. Moreover, it was practically under the guns of the British fort, on the Maumee, from whence the Indians doubtless expected aid. The savages were formed in three lines, within supporting distance of each other, and extending for nearly two miles at right angles with the river.

A selected battalion of mounted volunteers moved in front of the legion, commanded by Major Price, who was ordered to keep sufficiently in advance so as to give timely warning for the troops to form for action. After advancing about five miles, Major Price's corps received the fire of the enemy, who were secreted in the high grass and behind bushes, and fell back to the main army. The legion was immediately formed into two lines and ordered to charge with trailed arms and rouse the Indians from their coverts with point of bayonet, and when up to deliver a close and well directed fire on their backs, followed by a brisk charge, so as not to give them time to reload. The cavalry was ordered to make a wide circuit and attack the Indians after they were driven from their position. But so impetuous was the charge of the well-trained infantry, they had the red men routed and in full retreat before the cavalry could head them off. The Indians were driven in the course of an hour several miles through the thick woods by less than half their numbers.

The panic-stricken savages were chased with great slaughter to the very walls of the British fort of Maumee, the commander of which had promised, in case of defeat, to open the gates and give them protection. But he probably had no real intention of doing so; certain it is, the gates remained closed while scores of Indians were cut down without mercy by the "Long Knives," {FN} even while huddled about the gates clamoring for admission. Thus it was that this fort, instead of being a place of refuge, became a delusion and a snare, and a veritable death trap to the routed Indians.

{FN} The name "Long Knives" had been given by the Indians to the American soldiers before this battle, but it was now revived as the Kentucky cavalry, who did much of the slaughter, were all armed with long swords.

General Wayne, in his official report, gave his killed as thirty-eight, and his wounded, one hundred and one. The loss of the Indians' could not be definitely ascertained, but, inasmuch as they had two thousand warriors engaged, it must have been great.

The formidable confederation of tribes was so completely crushed, they did not recover from the effects of it for twenty years. After destroying all the cornfields of the Indians for miles around, and laying waste all their towns, Wayne gave the savages to understand that their alternative was peace or destruction.

Seeing only starvation confronting them, and knowing, from sad experience, the folly of expecting aid from the British or Canadians, the Indians determined to make a treaty with Wayne in the summer of 1795. This was ratified at Greenville, Ohio, August 7. Red men were present to the number of eleven hundred and thirty, including a full delegation from every hostile tribe. By the conditions of this treaty the Indians solemnly covenanted to keep the peace, and agreed to cede to our Government a vast tract of land lying in the present States of Ohio, Indiana and Michigan.

The Government in its turn agreed to pay the tribes annuities aggregating nine thousand five hundred dollars, and acknowledge the Indian title to the remaining territories, probably with the usual mental reservation, until such time as the white men wanted to settle on it. In addition to this, all prisoners on both sides were to be restored.

Dawson, in his memoirs of General Harrison (who was educated in General Wayne's family), has given some interesting reminiscences respecting the conclusion of this peace. He states that Little Turtle took a decided part against the giving up of the large tract of country which General Wayne required on the part of the United States. This circumstance, however, was not unfavorable to the attainment of the object, as it was evident there was a violent jealousy of the Turtle among most of the Ottawas, Chippewas and Pottawatomies, so that they invariably opposed everything which he advocated. And as they and their friends constituted the majority of the council the Turtle was always in the minority. The superiority of his mind was conspicuous not only in their company, but in his deportment in the society of white people. All the chiefs were invited, in their turns, to the general's table, and on these occasions the most of them showed themselves still savages. But the Turtle seemed to readily adopt the ways of civilization, and, in comparison with his brother chiefs, was quite a gentleman.

After the peace was concluded, the Turtle settled upon Eel River, about twenty miles from Fort Wayne, where the Americans erected for him a comfortable house. He frequently visited the seat of government, both at Philadelphia and Washington. His taste for civilized life being observed, the Indian agents were desired by the Government to furnish him with every reasonable accommodation for his comfortable subsistence, hoping that the example might prove beneficial in their exertions to civilize the other Indians.

Thatcher informs us that, "These indulgences, however, entirely destroyed, for a time at least, the Turtle's influence among the savages; for some envied his good fortune and others suspected his honesty. Being perfectly sensible of this, and not a little chagrined by it, we may fairly presume that he made various attempts to recover his popularity. This was probably the secret of his opposition to the interests of the United States, on more occasions than one, where it was not altogether indispensable. But we certainly need not deny him on that account the credit of real patriotism, which he manifested at all times. The truth is that in some indifferent cases, when he might have yielded to the demands of the American authorities without disgrace, he opposed them chiefly for the sake of retaining or regaining his influence with his countrymen."

Schoolcraft, who speaks of Little Turtle in very complimentary terms, gives him the credit of doing at least as much as any other Indian in America "to abolish the rites of human sacrifice." By this he means the torture of prisoners, especially burning them at the stake. In this he is undoubtedly right, for the Turtle uniformly enjoyed the reputation of being as humane as he was brave. No prisoner was ever reserved for torture by his warriors.

Nor was this the only case in which he acted the part of a reformer, so much needed among his countrymen. He was the first chief to originate an efficient system of measures for the suppression of intemperance among his people. And never was a similar system so loudly called for, for the condition of his people was truly deplorable. The Turtle was no less mortified than incensed by these abuses. He saw his countrymen destroyed, and destroying each other, every day in peace, and no tribe was more besotted than the Eel River Miamis; and he saw hundreds of them in war, at one time, surprised and massacred in their cups without resistance, like sheep assailed by wolves, on the very ground still red and wet with his victories. Possibly chagrin was as strong a motive with him as philanthropy. But, however that might be, he devoted himself with his usual energy to the correction of the evil. In 1802, or 1803, he went before the Legislature of Kentucky, attended by his friend and interpreter, Captain Wells, {FN} and made his appeal to them in person. A committee was appointed to consider the subject, and we believe a law was passed to prevent the sale of whisky to the Indians, as he desired. He also visited the Legislature of Ohio, and made a highly animated address. His description of the Indian traders was drawn from life, when he said, "They stripped the poor Indian of skins, gun, blanket, everything—while his squaw and the children dependent on him lay starving and shivering in his wigwam." Thatcher informs us that nothing came of this eloquent speech except the empty honor of addressing that august body.

{FN} This Captain William Wells, when a lad, was captured with four others while hunting near Louisville, Kentucky. The Indians conveyed them to Indiana. Afterward Wells was taken to a village of the Miamis in Ohio, and, on being adopted into the tribe became a brother-in-law to Little Turtle. He afterward left the Indians to become one of Wayne's scouts, and was killed at the Fort Dearborn massacre in 1812. He left a family of half breed children, and for him Wells street, Chicago, is named.

Little Turtle seems to have been an all-round reformer. He it was who first introduced the practice of inoculation for the prevention of smallpox among the Indians—a scourge second only to whisky, as we learn from the European (London) Magazine, of April, 1802. The article was compiled from American papers, and made this statement: "Last winter, there was a grand embassy of Indians to the President and Congress at Washington. Little Turtle was the head warrior. The President had supplied them with plows, spinning-wheels, etc., and to crown all he explained to them how the Great Spirit had made a donation to the white men—first to one in England (Dr. Jenner), and then to one in America (Dr. Waterhouse, of Boston)—of a means of preventing the smallpox. Such a confidence had the copper-colored King in the words of his 'Father,' that he submitted to be inoculated, together with the rest of the warriors. It further appears that he took a quantity of the vaccine matter home with him, which he probably administered in person not long afterward fifteen more of his tribe visited the seat of government in pursuit of the same remedy."

We shall conclude our sketch of this eminent chief with a few anecdotes preserved by Mr. Dawson:

"What distinguished him most," says that writer, "was his ardent desire to be informed of all that relates to our institutions; and he seemed to possess a mind capable of understanding and valuing the advantages of civilized life, in a degree far superior to any other Indian of his time. During the frequent visits which he made to the seat of government, he examined everything he saw with an inquisitive eye, and never failed to embrace every opportunity to acquire information by inquiring of those with whom he could take that liberty.

"Upon his return from Philadelphia, in 1797, he visited Governor Harrison, at that time a captain in the army, and commander at Fort Washington. He told the captain he had seen many things, which he wished to have explained, but said he was afraid of giving offense by asking too many questions. 'My friend here,' said he, meaning Captain Wells, the interpreter, 'being about as ignorant as myself, could give me but little satisfaction.' He then desired the captain to inform him how our Government was formed, and what particular powers and duties were exercised by the two houses of Congress, by the President, the Secretaries, etc. Being satisfied on this subject, he told the captain he had become acquainted with a great warrior while in Philadelphia, in whose fate he was much interested and whose history he wished to learn. This was no other than the immortal Kosciusko; he had arrived at Philadelphia a short time before, and hearing that a celebrated Indian chief was in the city, he sent for him. They were mutually pleased with each other, and the Turtle's visits were often repeated. When he went to take his final leave of the wounded patriot, the latter presented Little Turtle with an elegant pair of pistols, and a splendid robe, made of sea otter's skin, worth several hundred dollars.

"The Turtle now told his host that he wished very much to know in what wars his friend had received those grievous wounds which had rendered him so crippled and infirm. The captain showed him, upon a map of Europe, the situation of Poland, and explained to him the usurpations of its territory by the neighboring powers—the exertions of Kosciusko to free his country from this foreign yoke—his first victories, and his final defeat and captivity. While he was describing the last unsuccessful battle of Kosciusko, the Turtle seemed scarcely able to contain himself. At the conclusion he traversed the room with great agitation, violently flourished the pipe tomahawk which he had been smoking, and exclaimed, 'Let that woman take care of herself'—meaning the Empress Catharine—'this may yet be a dangerous man!'

"The captain explained to the Turtle some anecdotes respecting the Empress and her favorites, one of whom—the King of Poland—had at first been by her elevated to the throne and afterward driven from it. He was much astonished to find that men, and particularly warriors, would submit to a woman. He said that perhaps if his friend Kosciusko had been a portly, handsome man, he might have had better success with her majesty of all the Russias, and might by means of a love-intrigue have obtained that independence for his country, to which his skill and valor in the field had been found unequal.

"The Turtle was fond of joking, and was possessed of considerable talent for repartee. In the year 1797 he lodged in a house in Philadelphia, in which was an Irish gentleman of considerable wit, who became much attached to the Indian and frequently amused himself in drawing out his wit by good-humored jests. The Turtle and this gentleman were at that time both sitting for their portraits—the former by order of the President of the United States, the picture to be hung up in the war-office—to the celebrated Stewart. The two meeting one morning in the painter's studio, the Turtle appeared to be rather more thoughtful than usual. The Irishman rallied him upon it, and affected to construe it into an acknowledgment of his superiority in the jocular contest. 'He mistakes,' said the Turtle to the interpreter, 'I was just thinking of proposing to this man, to paint us both on one board, and here I would stand face to face with him, and berate him to all eternity.'"

Little Turtle opposed the designs of Tecumseh and the Prophet, from the time of their first appearance on the political stage, and it was owing to his influence that very little was effected by them among the Miamis, as well as other tribes, for a long time. Had he lived through the war of 1812, he would undoubtedly have exerted himself more energetically for the American interest than ever before. The following communication indicates the part he was prepared to take, subsequent to the battle of Tippecanoe. The "witness" probably acted as amanuensis:

"Fort Wayne, 25th Jan., 1812.

Governor Harrison:

"My friend,—I have been requested by my nation to speak to you, and obey their request with pleasure, because I believe their situation requires all the aid I can afford them.

"When your speech by Mr. Dubois was received by the Miamis, they answered it, and I made known to you their opinion at that time.

"Your letter to William Wells, of the 23d November last, has been explained to the Miamis and Eel River tribes of Indians.

"My friend, although neither of these tribes have had anything to do with the late unfortunate affair which happened on the Wabash, still they all rejoice to hear you say, that if those foolish Indians which were engaged in that action would return to their several homes and remain quiet, that they would be pardoned, and again received by the President as his children. We believe there is none of them that will be so foolish as not to accept of this friendly offer; whilst, at the same time, I assure you, that nothing shall be wanting on my part to prevail on them to accept it.

"All the Prophet's followers have left him (with the exception of two camps of his own tribe); Tecumseh has just joined him with eight men only. No danger can be apprehended from them at present. Our eyes will be constantly kept on them, and should they attempt to gather strength again, we will do all in our power to prevent it, and at the same time give you immediate information of their intentions.

"We are sorry that the peace and friendship which has so long existed between the red and white people, could not be preserved, without the loss of so many good men as fell on both sides in the late action on the Wabash; but we are satisfied that it will be the means of making that peace which ought to exist between us more respected, both by the red and the white people.

"We have been lately told by different Indians from that quarter, that you wished the Indians from this country to visit you; this they will do with pleasure when you give them information of it in writing.