 | Letters found in the ruins of Fort Braddock, including an interesting American tale |  |
LETTER VII.
In Chevy Chase befal.”
The two succeeding days were employed by the
Garrison at the Blasted Tree in busy preparations
for their hunting expedition.—Provisions, blankets,
runlets and knapsacks, were got ready—several
horses were loaded, guns and ammunition, bows,
arrows, axes, &c. were put in order, with a view
their nights in the woods. They arranged
themselves in three bodies, which were to keep the
same general direction, at no greater distance from
one another, if practicable, than would admit of
their meeting at night. Indeed, for the two first
nights, they appointed their rendezvous, and as
they did so, they talked of Buffalœ paths and prairies,
and beaver ponds, and wolf dens, and Indian
names which are no where to be found on the map.
It was expressly forbidden to blow a horn or a
bugle except in case of imminent danger. Du
Quesne and Weshop, were to head one party, Jonathan
and Shadrach another, and the third was
to be directed by some of their sturdy neighbours.
Thus equipped, our adventurers sallied forth at daybreak
on their perilous and fatiguing duty.
The incidents of this hunt made a lasting impression
on the memories of all who survived it;
and Shadrach in after days, charmed many a breathless
listener, as he smoked his pipe in the chimney
corner, and told this hunting story. The manuscript
is less minute. It seems that the game was
abundant, consisting principally of the moose and
common deer, the bear and the buffaloe—sometimes
the wolf or the wild cat would fall in the way
of the hunters.
During this time, the parties sometimes met and
were sometimes separated. Weshop and Du
Quesne were apart from the rest, but kept near one
another, from a sense of duty on the part of the Indian,
and of dependance on the part of Du Quesne,
who missed his way, when he missed his guide, and was
in constant danger of losing him self in the woods.
The attention of Weshop, was suddenly arrested
by the actions of a small spaniel dog that kept at
his heels—and then by a slight rustling noise in
stir, and crept softly among the bushes, where he
saw several of the hostile Indians, and had convincing
proof that there were many of them in the
neighbourhood.
He perceived the nature of his danger, and
guessed the extent of it. Without being discovered,
he made good his retreat to Du Quesne, and
with his finger on his lip, led his noiseless way to a
place where the heavy timbered upland joins the
edge of a large natural meadow that extended
farther than the eye could reach, and was covered
with a coarse jointed grass, which grew thick, and
in most places, taller than a man's head.—Weshop
explained the danger, and said they must take
means to notify and assemble their party, and instantly
retreat for the garrison. “But tell them,”
added he, “to avoid the direct course, for between
the Lion's Tail (which was the name given to the
extremity of a long ridge of hills,) and the beaver
ponds, that pass will be guarded. I would rather
risque the run than the ambush.”
It is proper to observe, that when a party of the
settlers and a party of the Indians discovered each
other in the woods, the weaker was pursued by the
stronger, without any hope of mercy if they were
overtaken, and with little chance that the pursuers
would relinquish their object until the flying enemy
should gain a place of safety. Day after day
sometimes, would the hurried and fearful march be
kept up, usually in Indian file, from the difficulty
of the way, and the necessary caution of leaving as
few signs as possible, by which the pursuers could
discover their course. This was termed running
the Indians, or being run by the Indians, depending
as a lawyer would say, on who was the party Plaintiff,
and who was the party Defendant.
Our two wary hunters moved with extreme caution
through the high grass, lest the waving motion
of the top should detect them as with all their
caution, it probably did. It was not till they came
to the buffalo path, that Weshop directed his friend
to blow his bugle, and himself set up the Indian
cry of alarm, which he continued as he went, to
give a hint of the direction he was taking. The
hunters began to fall in from different quarters,
and the horns and bugles were heard in several directions.
It was determined that they should attempt
their flight in three divisions, and by different
routes, so as to divide, and perhaps confuse
their pursuers. Du Quesne and his party were under
the guidance of Weshop, who set off again at
a brisk trot for the head of the lake. “Quick,
quick, said the Indian, “the woods will soon be on
fire, and this day the grass will flash like gunpowder.
See the smoke there and there; we must get
out of the grass; don't wait for it to kindle.” He
kept near the eastern border that he might have it
in his power to escape being burnt alive; but all
his speed and caution were nearly in vain. The
fire was now seen darting its streams to the top of
the pines and hemlock, and leaping with the activity
that belongs to that element, from one dry tree
to another, till the woods were in a blaze—seizing
the tallest trees that crowned the little head-lands,
and breaking them, as if by manual force. It caught
the grass in several places at once. Without stopping
to consume the fuel before them, the long
pointed flames, darted and kindled as they touched.
The wind rose with the fire, and the wild animals
who seek in these spots their food and shelter, were
seen and heard with cries and bellowings, to fly before
it.
It often happens, that the deer are overtaken at
full speed, and consumed by the flames before they
reach the upland, while the waves of this fiery deluge
pass over them.
The hunting party had already turned to the east
short of reaching the place of their destination:
and had scarcely gained a dry ridge, when the
whole plain was one continued sea of fire. A strong
current of air was raised by the heat, which occasioned
a roar much resembling heavy thunder.
The senses of Du Quesne were confounded. He
dared hardly turn his eyes to this dreadful conflagration,
which threatened to consume the spot on
which he stood. He trod close to the steps of
Weshop, who was now certain that the hostile Indians
were on his track, and whose only hope rested
on gaining the lake. Every nerve was strained;
partly from the heat, and partly from exertion,
Du Quesne was ready to fall, when he sprained his
ancle and dropped.
“Leave me, Weshop,” said he, as the sweat
poured from his body, “escape if you can, but lay
me in the bushes, and depart, perhaps they may
pass me by.” Weshop cast on him one look of
agony, as he said “a man who falls in the run is
never heard from again.” He took him by the
arm, and sometimes carried him on his shoulders,
till they found themselves cut off from their party,
and surprised and taken by a party of the pursuing
Indians.
As Du Quesne moved with difficulty, his fate was
for a moment uncertain; but the encampment of
the enemy happened to be near, and Weshop was
compelled to assist his companion in keeping up
with the party.
They arrived about nightfall, at a spot near the
left bank of the Saranac, where that stream which
and is bounded by a country which corresponds
with the troubled motion of its waters. Several
wigwams were disposed under the shelter of a rocky
height, the face of which was nearly perpendicular,
and whose top was thinly covered with savin bushes
that seemed looking down as they bent over the
brink. The warriors immediately betook themselves
to eating and sleeping; some in the wigwams,
and some round loose fires which were already
kindled, where the squaws, and shantops and
pappooses (as the larger and smaller children are
called,) stood ready to welcome their friends.
Weshop and Du Quesne were secured in one of
those natural caverns or openings in the rock,
which are common in this vicinity, and which the
Indians with a little labour often convert into places
of residence—they generally resort to them in
times of danger as affording shelter and safety.
The narrow entrance was strongly secured and
they were left to conjecture their approaching fate.
Du Quesne bewailed the continual misfortunes in
which he seemed to have involved himself, and
those with whom he had been and was connected,
and compared his present misery with his more
tolerable imprisonment at New Amsterdam, from
which his fellow sufferer had released him.
“What,” said he, “will these wretches do with
us? shall we be tortured and murdered, Weshop?
I have heard they roast their prisoners—I have
heard even worse than that!” Weshop slowly replied,
“they can get pay for a white man, if they
carry him to the next French town, but me,” said
he firmly, “they will burn.”
“Oh!” said Du Quesne in horror, “God forbid
—tell them, I beg of you, if they carry me as a
prisoner among civilized men to wait till I can send
all the property at Blasted Tree, if it costs the evacuation
of the whole country, if it costs my life;
certainly they can ask no more,”—and he groaned
with anguish.
“'Twill do no good,” was the answer. “I once
escaped before; may be they won't save you.” He
paused, and then continued. “Do not the white
men say, that the good are happy as soon as they
die?”
“Yes.”
“We believe it takes seven days, to go to the
country of good spirits, after that I expect to see
you and know you, if you should be alive, but I
can't make you see me, nor know me.”
Du Quesne was unable to reply.
Weshop seemed more inclined to talk than usual.
His notions were wild and fanciful, but his
manner was calm and serious: and particularly
was it affecting, to one who was likewise endeavoring
to prepare himself for the same awful trial.
In the course of the next day, Du Quesne was surprised
to see him produce his tomahawk, which he
had artfully contrived to secure to his arm, by a
fold of his blanket, so that it escaped the notice of
his enemies.
The Indians who held them prisoners, were only
a detachment of those who had surprised the hunting
party. Most of them, as it afterwards appeared,
had made directly for the garrison, where this
division was soon to join them. It was led by a
warrior named Tantidock, whose business it was
to execute or otherwise dispose of such as were
made captive, according to the sentence of the sagamores,
or elders. This Indian came into the cave
towards the evening of the second day. His appearance
showed he had been preparing for some
his features was made more ferocious, by stains
and streaks of different coloured paints with which
his face was disfigured or adorned according to
the taste of the beholder. His head was decked
with feathers, and his nose, ears, ancles, and wrists
with rings and shells, and strings of beads. He
told Weshop, with an appearance of great satisfaction,
that at midnight he would lead him out to
his tormentors. The warrior heard his sentence
with seeming indifference, and even reproached his
enemy with weakness and cowardice. Every sensation
of anguish was now felt by Du Quesne, in
the extreme. He had no consolation to bestow,
for he felt that he needed much, and he watched
over Weshop in bewildered silence. The “stoic
of the woods” lay stretched upon the straw, where
he slept till awakened by the approach of his midnight
visitor. Tantinock had a tomahawk in one
hand, and a pine knot burning in the other. He
stood over his prisoner as he rose, and making signs
for him to follow, led the way from the cavern.
The small cavity in the rock where they were,
communicated outward by a very narrow passage,
or cleft in the ledge, with room for but one person
to walk at once. Du Quesne cast a look upon the
departing hero, but it was not answered, and he
was about to turn his eyes, when just as Weshop
entered the passage, the broad glare of the torch
light showed the tomahawk in his hand. He struck
with his whole force a single blow, which needed
not repeating. The weapon sunk into the head of
the foremost Indian who fell instantly dead. Weshop
put his finger to his lip, as he returned to Du
Quesne, with a look that showed him to be, at that
instant, perfectly happy. “Turn to the right,”
said he, “as soon as we get out; don't be afraid,
where the canoes are. I must move a little towards
the fires with the torch.” Du Quesne instantly
obeyed. His ancle was now strong, and his agony
of mind for the last two nights had prepared him
to welcome any danger, and defy any hazard. He
turned round the corner of the ledge, jumped, and
sprang, and fell several times, rose, and exerted all
his might, reckless of danger, to reach the narrow
landing place, where he knew such was Weshop's
activity, that his friend, unless taken, would be
found.
Some of the ridges of the rock which fell towards
the river in different tiers, or strata, were so
high and difficult that he appeared to have fallen,
with occasional intermission, the whole way. Weshop
reached the spot nearly at the same moment.
The snow was falling very thick and fast, so that
an object could not be distinctly seen but a small
distance off. Weshop had left his torch in the cleft
of a tree burning, and now contrived himself to get
off with a canoe, and stave holes with his tomahawk
through the bottom of several others. Du Quesne
remembered his old posture, and dropped in the
bottom of the boat, which his active pilot soon conducted
to the middle of the stream. The river
was little less than a succession of rapids and falls,
which made their progress as dangerous as it was
speedy. The little barge of birch and splinters
held its onward way, like the charmed egg-shell of
the Lapland witches. The noise was now heard
of the Indians, now gathered on the bank of the
river, firing the few fire-arms that they had, and
raising their cries above the roar of the waters and
the storm; but the motion of the boat could not
be perceived, and the rushing of a frigate through
the waves would have been drowned by the violence
and the boat shot over the rapids with the boundless
velocity of an arrow from the string. There
was a desperate plunge soon to be taken over a
fall below. Du Quesne was directed to make himself
fast to the boat with a cord, that in any event
they might not be separated from their only hope.
The precaution was not in vain. The boat in the
dark plunged over the fall, and fell so swift as to
rob him of his breath. He fell down-right without
knowing where the descent would stop, till he found
himself plunged in the river and covered nearly
to drowning, by water, under which he felt himself
drawn by the rope. The boat had turned sideways
and had filled—so that the slightest weight
would have sunk it but for the current that pressed
it forward. Weshop told him to hold on, and both
clung to the canoe till they came to the edge of a
shelving shore where the water eddied round a point,
and the Indian touched the bottom with his feet.
Their united efforts drew the skiff on shore, emptied
it, and launched it again buoyant upon the
stream. The Indian kept it steady while Du
Quesne got in, and then sprung lightly over the stern,
and continued his course till he reached the peaceful
bosom of lake Champlain. They were now
far southward of the Chazy, and made no doubt
the garrison was so beleaguered that any attempt to
join it, would expose them to certain capture. Du
Quesne knew so as to describe to Weshop, nearly
the place where the New-England troops were to
rendezvous.
“We must cross the lake and find 'em,” said the
Indian, as he stood balancing in the stern.
“Van Tromp wants 'em. The enemy is around
him so that there's no coming out or going in. The
Oneidas and Mohawks will burn and murder every
but ashes, so let us push for the New-England
troops.”
Our adventurers accordingly continued their
course across the lake, where for the present we
must leave them; for the connexion of events require
that we should now shift our scenery to another,
and distant part of the country, and leave for
a space our northern friends, that we may bring
up to the same period, the fortunes of Dudley;—
who it will be remembered was in the league of
friendship at Saybrook college.
| Letters found in the ruins of Fort Braddock, including an interesting American tale | |