Chapter X: Part 10

The hardy adventurer was never heard of again. As for the mutineers, although they steered for Ireland, before they reached the coast they were so weakened that no one was found strong enough to stand by the helm. When only one fowl was left for their subsistence and another day would be their last, they abandoned all care of the vessel and prepared to meet their fate. Suddenly the joyful cry of “a sail” was heard, and a fishing vessel came alongside which took them into a harbor of Ireland. They arrived in London after an absence of one year and five months.

The English people were horrified to learn of the treatment which the mutinous crew had administered to Henry Hudson and sent out two vessels, the next Spring, in the hope of learning something of the fate of this brave navigator. Yet nothing was ever seen or heard of the unfortunate discoverer, who perished amidst the fogs and the ice of that bleak, northern ocean.

Hudson was brave, resourceful, and resolute. He has been accused of cruelty to the Indians, and of want of high principle in causing their general intoxication when sailing upon the great river which was to be named after him. Yet you must remember that he had a mutinous body of men under his command, and could not easily restrain them from returning insult for injury, when their redskinned friends shot arrows at them. The death of the nine Indians killed at the head of Manhattan Island may be said to have been caused in a war of self-defense. As for the charge of heartlessness in getting the redskins intoxicated, you must also remember, that, like his men, he was suspicious and alarmed, and therefore was determined to learn the honesty or treachery of the Indians by any means whatsoever. In England, they grieved deeply for the death of such a gallant countryman, and in the new world he has perpetual monuments to his memory, for here a great bay, a city, and a mighty river, all bear the name of this brave yet unfortunate navigator.

THE WIND FROM THE NORTHLAND

The wind blew from the northland, as the frozen bergs went by,
And it sobbed a song through the grizzly murk, to the bobbing siren’s
cry.
It sang of men of daring, and it whined of maids of the mist,
Who burnish the shields of their men-at-arms, where the ice with the
sunset’s kissed.
Ah! it told of Leif the Lucky, with his sword and his Vikings bold,
Who hounded the bear to his cavern in the land where the penguins
scold.
We heard the clang of their axes; we were jarred with the crash of
their swords,
As the blaring bugles shrilled their notes in thin, transparent words.
And the wind sang of brave Hudson, and it sobbed for his starving son,
As, adrift in a boat, they were chilled by the glut of that night
without a sun.
And the blast sobbed out its tale of death, of Baffin, Franklin, and
Kane,
Of Marvin, de Long, and Parry; of the days of sorrow and pain.
Yet, the blinding sea-mew caroled with joy, as it whined by the
loitering fleet,
Which cruised where the cod and the haddock shoal, at the rock-ribbed
island’s feet.
And it shouted and roared a pæan, to the heroes who’d carried a flag,
A bit of a piece of red, white, and blue, to the spot where the
ice-drifts sag,
As it southward flew, it grew and it grew, ’til it roared out a
rollicking psalm,
To Peary, MacMillan, Borup; brave travelers, silent and calm.
Southward it sang its slogan, where the tossing palm groves sway,
And it rolled out a cheer of three times three, for “Uncle Sam and the
U. S. A.!”

PIERRE ESPRIT RADISSON:

FIRST EXPLORER OF THE WEST AND
NORTHWEST.

(1651-1710)

_Where sheldrakes dart on Lak Niege,_
_Where the lazy beaver swim,_
_He drove his blade and packed the trail,_
_By the icy snow lake’s rim._
_From the shores of Athabasca,_
_To the caves of Saguenay,_
_From the sleepy Mistassini,_
_To the marsh of Hudson Bay;_
_From the steppes of old Fort Caribou,_
_From the glades of Fon du Lac,_
_He slept and dwelt with redskins,_
_And followed the unknown track._

PIERRE ESPRIT RADISSON:

FIRST EXPLORER OF THE WEST AND NORTHWEST.

(1651-1710)

IT was at the trading post of Three Rivers on the St. Lawrence River, the year 1662, and the time, early in the morning, when the wood thrush had just begun his call. Strange things happened then, but these were frontier days when strange things used to happen, so do not be surprised when you learn what befell Pierre Radisson, son of a French emigrant to Canada, and then a youth of about seventeen years of age.

With two companions, young Pierre had gone out from the stockade to shoot ducks on Lake St. Peter, not far from this first home of the French emigrants to Canada.

The sportsmen were all young, for only young boys would have left the shelter of the fortification at this time, as all the Canadians knew that the dreaded Iroquois had been lying in ambush around the little settlement of Three Rivers, day and night, for a whole year. In fact, not a week passed but that some settler was set upon in the fields and left dead by the terrible redskins. Farmers had flocked to the little fortification and would only venture back to their broad acres when armed with a musket.

But these were only boys, and, like all boys, they went along, boasting how they would fight when the Indians came. One kept near the edge of the forest, on the lookout for the Iroquois, while the others kept to the water in quest of game. They had gone along in this manner for about three miles, when they met a fellow who was tending sheep.

“Keep out from the foot of the hills!” he called to them. “The Iroquois are there! I saw about a hundred heads rising out of the bushes about an hour ago.”

The boys loaded their pistols and primed their muskets.

In a short time they shot some ducks, and this seemed to satisfy one of the young men.

“I have had enough,” said he. “I am going back to the stockade where I can be safe.”

“And I will go with you,” said the second.

But young Radisson laughed at them.

“If you are afraid to go forward,” said he, “I will go ahead by myself.”

So the wild youth went onward, shooting game at many places, until, at length, he had a large number of geese, ducks, and teal. There were more than he could possibly carry, so, hiding in a hollow tree the game that he could not bring back, he began trudging towards Three Rivers. Wading swollen brooks and scrambling over fallen trees, he finally caught sight of the town chapel, glimmering in the sunlight against the darkening horizon above the river. He had reached the place where his comrades had left him, so he sat down to rest himself.

The shepherd had driven his sheep back to Three Rivers and there was no one near. The river came lapping through the rushes. There was a clacking of ducks as they came swooping down to their marsh nests and Radisson felt strangely lonely. He noticed, too, that his pistols were water-soaked. Emptying the charges, he re-loaded, then crept back to reconnoiter the woodland. Great flocks of ducks were swimming on the river, so he determined to have one more shot before he returned to the fort, now within easy hail.

Young Pierre crept through the grass towards the game, but he suddenly stopped, for, before him was a sight that rooted him to the ground with horror. Just as they had fallen, naked and scalped, with bullet and hatchet wounds all over their bodies, lay his comrades of the morning. They were stone dead, lying face upward among the rushes.

Radisson was too far away from the woods to get back to them, so, stooping down, he tried to reach a hiding place in the marsh. As he bent over, half a hundred tufted heads rose from the high grass, and beady eyes looked to see which way he might go. They were behind him, before him, on all sides of him,—his only hope was a dash for the cane-grown river, where he might hide himself until darkness would give him a chance to rush to the fort.

Slipping a bullet and some powder into his musket as he ran, and ramming it down, young Pierre dashed through the brushwood for a place of safety. _Crash!_ A score of guns roared from the forest. He turned, and fired back, but; before he could re-load, an Iroquois brave was upon him, he was thrown upon his back, was disarmed, his hands were bound behind him with deer thongs, and he was dragged into the woods, where the Indians flaunted the scalps of his friends before his eyes. Half drawn, half driven, he was taken to the shore where a flotilla of canoes was hidden. Fires were kindled, and, upon forked sticks driven into the ground, the redskins boiled a kettle of water for the evening meal.

The Iroquois admired bravery in any man, and they now evinced a certain affection for this young Frenchman, for, in defiance of danger, they had seen him go hunting alone. When attacked, he had fired back at enough enemies to have terrified any ordinary Canadian. This they liked, so his clothing was returned to him, they daubed his cheeks with war paint, shaved his head in the manner of the redskinned braves, and, when they saw that their stewed dog turned him faint, they boiled him some meat in clean water and gave him some meal, browned upon burning sand. That night he slept beneath a blanket, between two warriors.

In the morning the Indians embarked in thirty-seven canoes, two redskins in each boat, with young Pierre tied to a cross-bar in one of them. Spreading out on the river, they beat their paddles upon the gunwales of their bateaux, shot off their guns, and uttered their shrill war cry,—“Ah-oh! Ah-oh! Ah-oh!”

The echoes carried along the wailing call, and in the log stockade the Canadians looked furtively at one another as the horrid sound was borne to them by the gentle wind. Then the chief stood up in his canoe, signaled silence, and gave three long blood-curdling yells. The whole company answered with a quavering chorus like wolf barks, and, firing their guns into the air, the canoes were driven out into the river, past the nestling log-stockade of Three Rivers, and up the current of the rushing stream. By sunset they were among the islands at the mouth of the river Richelieu, where were great clouds of wild-ducks, which darkened the air at their approach.

Young Pierre bore up bravely, determined to remain with his captors until an opportunity to escape presented itself. The red men treated him kindly, saying: “_Chagon! Chagon!_ Be merry! Cheer up!” He was given a paddle and was told to row, which he did right willingly. Another band of warriors was met with on the river, and the prisoner was forced to show himself as a trophy of victory and to sing songs for his captors, which he did to the best of his ability. That evening an enormous camp-fire was kindled and the united bands danced a scalp-dance around it, flaunting the scalps of the two dead French boys from spear heads, and reënacted in pantomime all the episodes of the massacre, while the women beat on rude, Indian drums.

Pierre was now a thorough savage. He was given a tin looking-glass by which the Indians used to signal by the sun, and also a hunting knife. The Iroquois neared Lake Champlain where the river became so turbulent that they were forced to land and make a portage. Young Radisson hurried over the rocks, helping the older warriors to carry their packs. As night came on, he was the first to cut wood for the camp-fire.

It was now about a week since the redmen had left Lake St. Peter and they entered the gray waste of Lake Champlain. Paddling down its entire length, they entered the waters of beautiful Lake George, and, beaching the canoes upon its western bank, abandoned them: the warriors striking out through the forest for the country of the Iroquois. For two days they thus journeyed from the lake, when they were met by several women, who loaded themselves down with the luggage of the party, and accompanied the victorious braves to the village. Here the whole tribe marched out to meet them, singing, firing guns, shouting a welcome, dancing a war-dance of joy.

It was now time for young Pierre to run the gauntlet. Sometimes the white prisoners were slowly led along with trussed arms and shackled feet, so that they could not fail to be killed before they reached the end of the line. With Radisson it was different. He was stripped free and was told to run so fast that his tormentors could not hit him. He did this and reached the end of the human lane unscathed.

As the white boy dashed free of the line of his tormentors, a captive Huron woman, who had been adopted by the tribe, caught him and led him to her cabin, where she fed and clothed him. But soon a band of braves marched to her door, demanded his surrender, and took him to the Council Lodge of the Iroquois for judgment.

Radisson was led into a huge cabin, where several old men sat solemnly around a central fire, smoking their calumets, or peace pipes. He was ordered to sit down. A coal of fire was then put into the bowl of the great Council Pipe and it was passed reverently around the assemblage. The old Huron woman now entered, waved her arms aloft, and begged for the life of the young man. As she made her appeal, the old men smoked on silently with deep, guttural “ho-ho’s” meaning “Yes—yes. We are much pleased.” So she was granted permission to adopt Radisson as a son. The nerve and courage of the young French boy had thus saved his life. He must bide his time,—bye and bye, he would have an opportunity to escape.

It was soon Autumn, the period of the hunt, so young Pierre set out into the forest with three savages in order to lay in a supply of meat for the winter months. One night, as the woodland rovers were returning to their wigwams, there came the sound of some one singing through the leafy thicket, and a man approached. He was an Algonquin brave, a captive among the Iroquois, and he told them that he had been on the track of bear since day-break. He was welcomed to the camp-fire, and, when he learned that Radisson was from Three Rivers, he immediately grew friendly with the captive white boy.

That evening, when the camp-fire was roaring and crackling so that the Iroquois could not hear what he said, the Indian told Radisson that he had been a captive for two years and that he longed to make his escape.

“Hist! Boy!” said he. “Do you love the French?”

Pierre looked around cautiously.

“Do you love the Algonquins?” he replied.

“As I do my own mother,” was the answer. Then, leaning closer, the warrior whispered: “Brother—white man—let us escape! The Three Rivers, it is not so far off! Will you live like a dog in bondage, or will you have your liberty with the French?” Then he lowered his voice. “Let us kill all three of these hounds to-night, when they are asleep, and then let us paddle away, up Lake Champlain, again to the country of our own people.”

Radisson’s face grew pale beneath his war paint. He hesitated to answer, and, as he looked about him, the suspicious Iroquois cried out:

“Why so much whispering?”

“We are telling hunting stories,” answered the Algonquin, smiling.

This seemed to satisfy the Iroquois, for, wearied by the day’s hunt, they soon dozed off in sleep and were snoring heavily: their feet to the glowing embers. Their guns were stacked carelessly against a tree. It was the time for action.

The French boy was terrified lest the Algonquin should carry out his threat, and so pretended to be asleep. Rising noiselessly, the captive redskin crept up to the fire and eyed the three sleeping Mohawks with no kindly glance. The redmen slept heavily on, while the cry of a whip-poor-will sounded ominously from the black and gloomy forest.

The crafty Algonquin stepped, like a cat, over the sleeping forms of the braves, took possession of their firearms, and then walked to where Radisson was lying. The French boy rose uneasily. As he did so, the Indian thrust a tomahawk into one of his hands, pointing, with a menacing gesture, to the three Iroquois. Radisson’s hand shook like a leaf.

But the captive red man’s hand did not shake, and, lifting his own hatchet, he had brained one of the sleeping redskins without more ado. Pierre endeavored to imitate the warrior, but, unnerved with the horror of it all, he lost hold of his tomahawk, just as it struck the head of the sleeping Iroquois. The redskin leaped to his feet, uttering a wild yell, which awakened the third sleeper. But he had no chance to rise, as the Algonquin felled him with one, swift blow, while Radisson, recovering his hatchet, hit the second red man with such force, that he fell back, lifeless.

Hurray! Radisson was free!

The Algonquin did not waste precious moments; but, hastily scalping the dead, he threw their bodies into the river, then, packing up all their possessions, they placed them in the canoe, took to the water, and slipped away towards Lake Champlain.

“I was sorry to have been in such an encounter,” writes Radisson. “But it was too late to repent.”

The fugitives were a long way from Three Rivers, on the St. Lawrence, and they knew that many roving Iroquois were hunting in the country between them and the French settlement. They must go carefully, be perpetually on their guard, and then,—they would be among their own people again! Only, caution! caution! And never a sound at any time!

Traveling only at night, and hiding during the day, the fugitives crossed Lake Champlain, entered the Richelieu, and, after many portages, finally swept out upon the wide surface of Lake St. Peter, in the St. Lawrence. They paddled hard and were soon within a day’s journey of Three Rivers, yet they were in greater danger then than at any time in the hazardous trip, as the Iroquois had infested this part of the St. Lawrence for more than a year, and often lay hidden in the rush-grown marshes and the wooded islands, waiting for some unsuspecting French Canadian to pass by. It was four o’clock in the morning when the Algonquin and white boy reached the side of Lake St. Peter. They cooked their breakfast, covered the fire, and lay down to sleep.

At six o’clock, the Algonquin shook Pierre by the shoulder, urging him to cross the lake to the Three Rivers side.

“The Iroquois are lurking about here,” the French boy answered. “I am afraid to go. Let us wait until dark. Then, all will be well.”

“No, no,” answered the brave. “Let us paddle forward. We are past fear. Let us shake off the yoke of these whelps who have killed so many French and black robes (priests). If you do not come now, I will leave you, and I will tell the Governor that you were afraid to come.”

Radisson consented to take a chance at getting to the stockade, although his judgment told him to wait until dark. So the canoe was pushed out from the rushes, and, with strong strokes, the flimsy boat was driven towards the north shore. They were half way across, when Pierre called out: “I see shadows on the water ahead.”

The Indian, who was in the stern, stood up, saying:

“It is but the shadow of a flying bird. There is no danger.”

So they kept on; but, as they progressed, the shadows multiplied, for they were the reflections of many Iroquois, hidden among the rushes. The fugitives now saw them, and, heading their canoe for the south shore, fled for their lives.

On, on they went; but, on, on, came the Iroquois. The redskins came nearer and nearer, there was a crash of musketry and the bottom of the canoe was punctured by a ball. The Algonquin fell dead with two bullet wounds in his head, while the canoe gradually filled with water, settled, and sank, with the young Frenchman clinging to the side. Now a firm hand seized him, and he was hauled into one of the canoes of the Iroquois.

The victors set up a shrill yelp of triumph. Then they went ashore, kindled a great fire, tore the heart out of the dead Algonquin, put his head on a pike, and cast the mutilated body into the flames. Radisson was bound, roped around the waist, and thrown down upon the ground, where he lay with other captives: two Frenchmen, one white woman, and twenty Hurons.

In seventeen canoes, the Iroquois now paddled up the Richelieu River for their own country, frequently landing to camp and cook, at which times young Pierre was pegged out on the sand, and left to be tortured by sand-flies and mosquitoes.

When they reached the village, Radisson was greeted with shouts of rage by the friends of the murdered Mohawks, who, armed with rods and skull-crackers (leather bags loaded with stones) rushed upon him and beat him sorely. As the prisoners moved on, the Hurons wailed the death dirge. But suddenly there broke from the throng of onlookers the Iroquois family that had adopted young Pierre. Pushing through the crowd of torturers, the mother caught Radisson by the hair, crying out: “Orimba! Orimba!” She then cut the thongs that bound him to the poles, and shoved him to her husband, who led the trembling young Frenchman to their own lodge.

“Thou fool,” cried the old chief, turning wrathfully upon the young man. “Thou wast my son! Thou lovest us not, although we saved thy life! Wouldst kill me, too?” Then he shoved him to a mat upon the ground, saying: “_Chagon_—now be merry! It is a fine business you’ve gotten yourself into, to be sure.”

Radisson sank to the ground, trembling with fear, and endeavored to eat something. He was relating his adventures when there was a roar of anger from the Iroquois outside, and, a moment later, the rabble broke into the lodge. He was seized, carried back to the other prisoners, and turned over to the torture. We will draw a veil over what now befell him.

After three days of misery the half-dead Frenchman was brought before the council of the Mohawk Chiefs. Sachem after sachem rose and spoke, while tobacco was sacrificed to the fire-god. The question to be decided was, could the Mohawks afford to offend the great Iroquois chief who was the French youth’s friend? This chieftain wished to have the young man’s life spared. Would they do so?

After much talk and passing of the peace-pipe, it was decided that the young man could go free. The captive’s bonds were cut, he was allowed to leave the council chamber, and, although unable to walk, was carried to the lodge of his deliverer. For the second time his life had been saved.

Spring came at last and the young Frenchman was taken on a raid amidst the enemies of the Iroquois. Then they went on a free-booting expedition against the whites of the Dutch settlements at Orange (Albany), which consisted, at that time, of some fifty thatched log-houses surrounded by the settlements of one hundred and fifty farmers. The raid was a bloodless one, the red warriors looting the farmers’ cabins, emptying their cupboards, and drinking up all the beer in their cellars. Finally they all became intoxicated, and, as they wanted guns, the Dutch easily took advantage of them in trade.

Radisson had been painted like a Mohawk and was dressed in buckskin. For the first time in two years he saw white men, and, although he could not understand the Dutch language, it gave him great pleasure to see some one of his own race again.

As the white Mohawk moved about the fort, he noticed a soldier among the Dutch who was a Frenchman, and, at the same instant the soldier saw, that, beneath all the paint and grease, was a brother. They spoke to each other, threw their arms around one another’s necks, and from that moment Radisson became the lion of Fort Orange.

The Dutch people crowded about him, shook his hand, offered him presents of wine and of money. They wished to ransom him at any price; but he was pledged to return to his Indian parents and he feared the revenge of the Mohawk braves. So he had to decline the kind offer of the white men, returning to his lodge in the Indian country, far more of a hero in the eyes of his Indian allies than ever before.

Young Pierre had not been back among the Iroquois for more than two weeks when he began to pine for the log fortress at Three Rivers. He loathed the filthy food, the smoky lodges, the cruelties of the Mohawks, and he longed to be once more among his own people. Hidden beneath all the grease and war paint was the true nature of the white man, and he determined to escape, even if he had to die for the attempt.

The white Indian left his lodge, early one morning in the month of September, taking only his hatchet, as if he were going to cut wood. Once out of sight of the Mohawk village, he broke into a run, following the trail, through the dense forests of the Mohawk Valley, towards Fort Orange. On, on, he ran until the morning, when, spent with fatigue, he fell exhausted to the ground. After a short sleep, he again arose, pressed forward through the brush, and finally came to a clearing in the forest where a man was chopping wood. He found that there were no redskins in the cabin, then, hiding in it, he persuaded the settler to carry a message to the Fort. While he was absent, he hid behind some sacks of wheat.

The frontiersman had been gone about an hour, when he returned with a rescue party, which conducted the young Frenchman to the Fort. Here he hid for three days, while a mob of Mohawks wandered through the stockade, calling for him by name, but they could not find him. Gifts of money from a Jesuit priest enabled him to take a ship to New York, then a settlement of five hundred houses, with stores, barracks, and a stone church. After a stay of three weeks the ex-Mohawk set sail for Amsterdam, where he arrived in January, 1674.

He took a ship for Rochelle, but alas! he there found that all of his relatives had moved to Three Rivers in New France. Why remain here? In a week’s time he had embarked with the fishing fleet which yearly left France for the Great Banks, and came, early in the Spring of 1675, to Isle Percée, at the mouth of the St. Lawrence. He was a week’s journey from Three Rivers, but Algonquin canoes were on their way up the blue St. Lawrence for a fight with the Iroquois. He jumped into one of them, and, in a very short time, once more sprang ashore at the stockade of Three Rivers where he was welcomed as one risen from the dead.

Not long after this, we find Radisson at the stockade of Onondaga, a French fort built upon a hill above a lake upon the Oswego River. Here the French had established a post, the farthest in the wilderness; and here about sixty Frenchmen were spending the winter, waiting for the Spring to break up the ice so that they could return to Quebec. The redskins seemed to be friendly; but, early in February, vague rumors of a conspiracy against them came to the ears of the white men. A dying Mohawk confessed to a Jesuit priest that the Iroquois Council had decided to massacre half the garrison, and to hold the other half captive until their own Mohawk hostages were released from Quebec. These were held there by the French to ensure good treatment of their own people at this far-distant fortress.

What were the French to do? Here they were, miles and miles from Three Rivers, surrounded by hostiles, with Winter at hand. How could they escape? Radisson was quite equal to the emergency and proposed a way to outwit the savages, which was as cunning as it was amusing. He would invite all of the braves to a big feast, he would get them stupefied with food and with drink, then, when all were asleep, the sixty Frenchmen would take to their boats and would make a break for it down the river. A bold idea—this. Let us see how it worked out?

Radisson told the redskins that he had had a “big dream,” a dream to the effect that the white men were to give a great feast to the Iroquois. They greeted the news with joy, and, as couriers ran through the forest, bidding the Mohawks to the banquet, the warriors hastened to the walls of Onondaga. To sharpen their appetites, they were kept waiting outside for two whole days.

Meanwhile, inside the fort everything was made ready for a hasty departure. Ammunition was scattered in the snow; guns which could not be taken along were either burned or broken; canoes were prepared to be launched; all the live stock, except one solitary pig, a few chickens, and the dogs, was sacrificed for the feast. The soldiers cooked great kettles of meat and kept the redskins from peering into the stockade, lest they discover what was going on.

The evening of the second day arrived, and a great fire was kindled in the outer inclosure of the fort, between the two walls, where blankets were spread for the redskinned guests. Now the trumpets blew a deafening blast, the Mohawks shouted, and the French clapped their hands wildly. As the outer gates were thrown open, in trooped several hundred Mohawk warriors, who seated themselves in a circle around the fire, saying:

“Ugh! Ugh! We much hungry!”

Again the trumpets blared, and twelve enormous kettles of mince-meat were carried around the circle of guests. All dipped deeply into the steaming dish, while one Mohawk chieftain arose solemnly, saying:

“The French are the most generous people on earth. The Great Spirit has indeed blessed the French, to make them so kind to the Mohawks. We are truly glad to be at the feast with our white brothers.”

Other speakers arose, proclaiming the great virtues of the French; but, before they had finished talking, there came a second and a third relay of kettles. Here were plates of salted fowl, of venison, and of bear. The Indians gorged themselves, each looking at his neighbor to see if he could still eat.

“Cheer up! Cheer up!” cried Radisson, as he circled among the braves. “If sleep overcomes you, you must awake! Cheer up! Cheer up! Beat the drum! Blow the trumpet! Cheer up!”

The eyes of the Indians began to roll, for never before had they had such a banquet. Some shook their heads and lolled backwards, others fell over in the dead sleep which comes from long fasting, fresh air and overfeeding. By midnight all were sprawled upon the ground in deep slumber. The moment for action was at hand.

The French retired to the inner court, while the main gate was bolted and chained. The Indians were all outside the French quarters, so they could not see what was going on inside, even if they had been awake. Through the loop-hole of the gate ran a rope attached to a bell which was used to summon the sentry, and to this rope Radisson tied the only remaining pig, so that, when the Indians would pull the rope for admission, the noise of the disturbed porker would give the impression of a sentry’s _tramp, tramp_ on parade. Stuffed soldiers were placed around the palisades, so that, if an Indian should climb up to look into the fort, he would still see Frenchmen there.

The baggage was now stowed away in flat boats, and dugouts were brought out for the rest of the company. The night was raw and cold, while a thin sheeting of ice had formed upon the margin of the river. The fugitives were soon on board their craft, had pushed out into the stream, and were off; while, behind them, the redskins still lay around in a circle of stupid insensibility. Only the barking of a dog disturbed the quiet of the evening.

Piloted by the crafty Radisson, the French left Onondago on the 20th. day of March, 1678. On the evening of April 3d. they came to Montreal, where they learned that New France had suffered intolerable insolence from the Iroquois all winter. On the 23d., they moored safely under the walls of the citadel of Quebec, where all laughed heartily at the good trick which they had worked upon the bloodthirsty Mohawks.

When Spring came and canoes could venture up the river, couriers brought word that the Mohawks at Onondago had been greatly deceived by the pig and the ringing bell. The stuffed figures had led them to believe that the French were there, for more than a week. Crowing of cocks had come from the chicken yard, dogs had bayed in the kennels, and whenever a curious brave had yanked the bell at the gate, he could hear the measured march of the sentry.

When seven days passed by, and not a white man came from the fort:

“The black robes must be at prayers,” whispered the Mohawks.

But they could not pray on for seven days. Suspicions of trickery flashed on the minds of the Iroquois, and a warrior climbed to the top of the palisade. It was empty, and the French had gone!

Two hundred Mohawks immediately set out in pursuit, but there was much ice and snow, so that they had to return, cursing their stupidity, and the cleverness of Pierre Radisson.

* * * * *

Radisson did more than this, he discovered the Great Northwest. When a captive among the Mohawks, he had cherished boyish dreams of discovering many wild nations; and, when his brother-in-law, Groseillers, asked him to take a journey with him far to the westward, he only too readily acquiesced. Late one night in June, Groseillers and he stole out from Three Rivers, accompanied by Algonquin guides. They went as far as Green Bay, spent the winter there, then, when the Spring sun warmed the land, they traveled westward, passed across what is now the State of Wisconsin, and reached a “mighty river rushing profound and comparable to the St. Lawrence.” It was the upper Mississippi, now seen for the first time by white men.

The Spring of 1679 found the explorers still among the prairie tribes of the Mississippi, and from them Radisson learned of the Sioux, a warlike nation to the West, who had no fixed abode, but lived by the chase and were at constant war with another tribe to the north, the Crees.

The two Frenchmen pressed westward, circled over the territory now known as Wisconsin, eastern Iowa and Nebraska, South Dakota, and Montana, and back over North Dakota and Minnesota to the north shore of Lake Superior.

Then Radisson made a snow-shoe trip towards Hudson’s Bay and back again, living on moose meat and the flesh of beaver and caribou. Finally, after adventures exciting and hair-raising, he and Groseillers found their way to Three Rivers.

Although Radisson was not yet twenty-eight years of age, his explorations into the Great Northwest had won him both fame and fortune.

So this is the way that he spent his life. Voyaging, trapping, trading, he covered all this great, wild country, paddled up her rivers, fished in her lakes, smoked the pipe of peace in her settlements. In ten years’ time he brought half a million dollars’ worth of furs to an English trading company which employed him.

Yet, with all his explorations, all his adventures, all his trading, as he grew old, he remained as poor as one of the _couriers de bois_ who used to paddle him up the streams of New France. Until the year 1710 he drew an allowance of £50 a year ($250) from the English Hudson Bay Trading Company, then payments seemed to have stopped. Radisson had a wife and four children to support, but what happened to him, or to them, is unknown to history.

Somewhere in the vast country of New France the life of this daring adventurer went out. And somewhere in that vast possession lies the body of this, the first white man to explore the Great Northwest. Oblivion hides all record of his death, and only the cry of the moose-bird, harsh, discordant—the true call of the wilderness—echoes over the unknown spot where lie, no doubt, the bones of this trickster of the Mohawks and explorer of the wastes of New France.

Memorial tablets have been erected in many cities to commemorate La Salle, Champlain, and other discoverers. Radisson has no monument, save the memory of a valiant man-of-the-woods, reverently held in the hearts of all those who love the hemlock forests, the paddle, the pack, and the magnetic call of the wilderness.

FATHER MARQUETTE:

TRUE MAN OF GOD, AND EXPLORER OF
THE MIGHTY MISSISSIPPI.

(1637-1675)

_The wild goose honked its message of fear,_
_As it winged away o’er the marshes sere,_
_And the little brown teal went, “quack, quack, quack,”_
_it fled from the man all dressed in black._
_But he, a priest, had a smile on his lips,_
_For he saw a stream with the sunset kissed,_
_And he raised aloft his hand, with a cross,_
_And blessed the waves, which the wild winds toss._

FATHER MARQUETTE:

TRUE MAN OE GOD, AND EXPLORER OF THE MIGHTY MISSISSIPPI.

(1637-1675)

MANY, many years ago, when the Indian tribes inhabited the wilderness of North America, a good priest came among them to teach them the ways of Christ. He was a Frenchman called Père, or Father Marquette, and he had been born at Laon, France, June 1st., 1627.

Early choosing the profession of priesthood, he entered the Jesuit College at Nancy, where he finally graduated, a man of saintly character, accurate learning and distinguished culture. Yet, disdaining to remain in France, he eagerly looked forward to adventure in the wilderness of North America, and was consequently overjoyed to receive an order to proceed to Canada, then termed New France. He set sail, arrived at the struggling village of Quebec, September 20th., 1666, and, in October of that same year, was sent to Three Rivers, to begin the study of the Indian language and to obtain some knowledge of the life of a missionary.

Some of you have doubtless camped in the Canadian wilderness, where you have seen the Indians, trappers, and guides, who hover around the outfitter’s store, where one buys his food for a canoe trip into the woods. The Canadian wilderness, then, was much wilder than it is now. In those days there were thousands of redskins, where now there are only a few, and in those days the red men were really ferocious, often engaging in great battles with each other, and torturing their prisoners with fire-brands and also making them run the gauntlet.

The French were very kind to the redskins and sent many Jesuit missionaries among them, so the red men liked the Frenchmen, even as they disliked the English. The Englishmen treated them like some inferior sort of dogs, whereas the French priests endeavored to help them in every way possible; taught them medicine, cooking and house-building, and looked after them when they were ill.

Father Marquette was accustomed to the refinement and culture of the France of his day, so it must have been a curious experience for him to be suddenly thrown into the wilderness life. Yet he settled down to his career of a missionary with zeal and enthusiasm, taking up a residence with one Father Drulettes, who lived in a log hut. Here he spent two years of hard study and still harder life, eagerly learning woodcraft, canoeing and the Indian language, which was to be of great assistance to him in later years.

Time passed pleasantly by. Finally it was agreed that young Father Marquette knew sufficient “Indian talk” to make himself understood by the redskins, so, in April, 1668, he was sent forth among the Ottawas. With several others he left Three Rivers for Montreal, traveling by canoe, and from this small settlement journeyed to the Sault de Sainte Marie, a trading post built where the waters of Lake Superior rush tumultuously through boiling rapids towards Lake Huron. Here was the mission of St. Mary, the headquarters of the Jesuit fathers who labored among the Ottawa Indians. Here also were many white fur traders, who wished to barter with the red men.

The Indians were many. The Ottawa tribe consisted of the Chippewas, Beavers, Creeks, Ottawas, Hurons, Menomonees, Pottawattomies, Sacs, Foxes, Winnebagoes, Miamis, Illinois and the Sioux. The natives lived along the shores of Lake Superior, Lake Huron, and through the woods of Michigan and Wisconsin, near the banks of the many rivers in this region.

The “Soo” or Sault Ste. Marie is a busy place to-day, and it was a busy place then, for it was the heart of all Indian activity, being the place from which all the redskins set out upon their trips to the wilderness and to Quebec and Montreal. Now the great locks make continuous travel by water possible between Buffalo and Detroit. In our times as many ships pass this point as did birch-bark canoes in the year of 1600. Yet then, there was as much trade and barter at the “Soo,” in comparison to the Indian and white population, as there is now, with the vast population which surrounds it.

Father Marquette enjoyed himself greatly among the redskins, and particularly loved the long canoe trips in the beautiful rivers and lakes. He was much respected by the Indians, who called him, “the good brother,” and so successful was he in converting them to Christianity that he was sent from Mission Sault Ste. Marie to Mission La Pointe, on Lake Superior, where he arrived in September, 1669. Here he labored among the peaceful red men until the post was abandoned in 1671, because the warlike Sioux had determined to fight with the Hurons.

For the poor Hurons to accept the gauge of battle would have meant their utter destruction, so they fled to the south, taking up their residence at Michillimackinac, on Lake Huron. Thither went the noble Father Marquette, and, seated among them in his black robe, took part in all their many deliberations. He baptized their children, married their young braves, and taught the gospel of Jesus Christ. Here he established the Mission St. Ignace and built a beautiful chapel, to which, years later, worn out and exhausted by his serious labors in the wilderness, his body was carried by the redskins for burial.

As the good priest lived among the red men, he heard stories of a great river which lay to the westward, so he determined to discover and explore it. Wandering trappers brought him news of this stream, and, as he now knew how to talk with these wild men of the north, he easily learned all that they could tell him about it. His heart and mind were stirred with the fever of the adventurer. He _must_, he _would_ go and see what lay far to the westward where were ferocious redskins, wild beasts, and unknown water-courses.

As dreams of exploration floated through the pure and boyish mind of the good Jesuit missionary, a Frenchman, called Joliet, arrived from Quebec. Ah, but he was a roving dog, this Joliet, and, when he heard that the priest was contemplating a trip of exploration and adventure, up went his hands, a smile came to his face, and he exclaimed, “Oh, my good Father Marquette, I am the man to go with you! I, and I alone, shall be your companion in this venture into the wilderness. Here’s my hand upon it!”

So the two adventurers clasped hands, then set about to secure five stout canoemen with backwoods experience, to paddle with them to the great unknown. It was not difficult to find such fellows (_couriers de bois_, they were called).

On May 17th., 1673, Marquette and Joliet, with five as staunch Frenchmen as ever lifted a pack and poled a canoe, started upon an ever-memorable journey of exploration. They went in but two canoes—big birch-bark fellows to be sure—and carried with them guns, clothing, food, robes, books, and scientific instruments. ’Twas a good load to stow away in such small bateaux, but they must have been larger canoes than we use to-day, where only three can comfortably travel. There were two brave men at the head of this expedition; they loved God; they loved France, and they strove to do something for God and Fatherland. They succeeded in both.

From the little mission of St. Ignace the party of explorers followed the right shore of Lake Michigan in a westerly and southerly direction. They first stopped at Green Bay, where they visited the tribe of Menomonees, so called after the wild rice which there grew luxuriously in the rich mud bottoms and swamplands. The red men were very hospitable and begged the good priest in his black robe not to proceed farther. “You will meet a nation which never shows mercy to strangers,” said one chieftain. “They will break your heads with their stone hatchets. The great river which you look for is very dangerous. It is full of horrible monsters which will devour your canoes. There is a big Demon in the path which swallows all who approach him, and the heat is so great that you will all die.”

To this the Jesuit missionary replied,

“I do not fear these things, my red brothers. My God is with me and he will protect me from all these demons.”

So the voyagers bade the doubting redskins good-bye, turned the bows of their canoes towards the setting sun, and went forth upon their journey.

The paddles drove the light birch-bark boats along the shore of Lake Michigan. Many times the voyagers gazed at the magnificent scenery with rapt attention, for they were in the heart of the wilderness, and, as lovers of nature, they enjoyed the magnificence of wooded shore-line and wave-tossed water. On, on, they went, passing from Green Bay to the southern end, and down this into Lake Winnebago: blue, forest-hidden, and shimmering in the rays of the brilliant sunlight.

At the end of this beautiful sheet of water was an Indian village, where now is the town of Oshkosh. Here were many redskins, Mascoutens, Miamis and Kickapoos, some of whom had migrated thither from Virginia and Ohio. Pere Marquette was greeted hospitably, for many of these Indians were Christians and had erected a handsome cross in the center of their town, adorned with skins of the fox and the beaver, with red belts, bows and arrows, all offerings to the Great Manitou, or God of all Gods.

The wandering priest conducted religious services, then asked his hearers for two guides to pilot them to the mighty river, which he heard was to the westward. Joyfully the red men gave him two Miami braves, who, leading him to the branches of the upper Fox, showed him where to take to the land and portage across country to the head-waters of the _Weskonsing_, now the Wisconsin River. The birch-bark boats were soon floating past virgin forests, in which robins and cat-birds caroled songs of welcome to these, the first white men who had ever sailed past upon the surface of the stream, The Miami guides now departed and the adventurers went forward alone.

For seven days the paddles drove the shallow canoes down the slow-moving Wisconsin, and then, upon the morning of the eighth day, the waters widened and the _couriers de bois_ with their venturesome man-of-God suddenly paddled into the muddied current of the mighty _Missi-sepi_, or Great River. It was a point where the Father of Waters was a mile across and was fifty-three feet deep, so, as Pere Marquette gazed upon the turbid current, he had “a joy which he could not express.” For days he had journeyed westward to view the fabled river, and now he saw that wonderful stream of which the wandering fur traders and redskins had told him at the far distant mission of St. Ignace.

It was the tenth of June. Marquette had left the quiet mission on May the seventeenth, nearly a month before this; the journey, so far, had been pleasant, but what lay beyond? Hostile Indians, fever, treacherous currents, death in the stream and death upon the shore! Yet, on, on, went Pere Marquette until he had reached the mouth of the Arkansas. Here he halted, for he believed that he was within three days’ journey of the ocean. The good priest was feverish, for the malarial mosquito hovered over the yellow current of the Mississippi then, even as he does now. Yet, what cared he? His work had been well done and he had added much to the glory of France and to the renown of the Jesuit brotherhood.

Again and again, as they descended the stream, the canoes had struck the backs of monster fish, the sturgeons, which looked and felt like great tree trunks in the water. The boatmen had landed, every day, and had shot wild turkeys, ducks and prairie hens. Near the spot where is now the town of Rock Island, they saw great herds of bison, or buffalo, and they marveled at their stupidity and their ugliness. Whenever the explorers landed they kept a strict guard, for fear of an Indian attack, and as each evening came on, they made a small fire on shore to cook their meals, then entered the two canoes, paddled into the stream, and slept as far from the bank as possible.

As the French adventurers came down the mighty Mississippi, there were, of course, many meetings with the various Indian tribes which had their homes upon its banks. On the 25th. day of June, they saw the tracks of men upon the water’s edge and a narrow, beaten path across the prairie. “It must be a road leading to a village,” said Marquette; “we will reconnoiter it and see what is there!”

Recommending themselves to God, Marquette and Joliet undertook to investigate, and silently followed the narrow path. They walked onward for about two miles and then heard voices. Before them was an Indian village. They halted, and then advanced, shouted with all their energy. The redskins swarmed from their huts, much excited, but, seeing the Black Robes, of whom the traveling Hurons had told them, they quieted down, sending four of their old men to meet the white voyagers.

As the Indians approached, they bore, in their hands, tobacco pipes, finely ornamented and adorned with various feathers. They walked slowly, with the pipes raised to the sun and said nothing at all. These were calumets, or peace pipes, which they carried. As Marquette and Joliet walked towards the village, with an Indian on either side, they saw before them an old man standing before a lodge, with his hands outstretched and raised towards the sun. Looking intently at the priest and his companion, he said:

“How beautiful is the sun, O Frenchmen, when you come to visit us! All our town awaits thee, and thou shalt enter all our cabins of peace. Welcome to the land of the Illinois. Welcome, thrice welcome!”

The visitors entered the cabin, where was a crowd of red men, who kept silence, but eagerly gazed upon the strangers. Finally several spoke, saying:

“Well done, brothers, to visit us!”

Now all sat down, the peace pipe was passed around, they smoked, and then conversed in sign-language. But soon messengers arrived from the Grand Sachem of the Illinois, inviting the Frenchmen to visit his town, where he wished to hold a council with them.

So the seven explorers started for the village of the Grand Sachem, attended by a vast crowd of red men, who, never having seen a Frenchman before, could not apparently see enough of them. At length they reached the lodge of the Grand Sachem, who stood in his doorway holding his calumet, or peace pipe, towards the sun.

“Welcome, my white brothers,” said he. “Welcome to the land of the Illinois.”

Marquette stepped forward, and, presenting the old man with four separate gifts of beads and of knives, said: