 CHAPTER 45 While the shores of the Atlantic, from Nova Scotia to Georgia, were being claimed and peopled by the British, another and very different nation laid claim also to the mighty continent. Before Jamestown was founded, the French had already set foot upon the St. Lawrence. Long before the pilgrim fathers sailed from Plymouth, the flag of France was floating from the citadel of Quebec, and the French laid claim to the whole of Canada. But the French and the British claimed these new lands in very different ways. The Englishmen came seeking freedom and a new home. The Frenchmen came seeking adventure. The Englishmen painfully felled trees and cleared land, toiling by the sweat of his brow for the comfort of a home. The Frenchmen set up crosses on the edge of pathless forests, claiming unknown lands for God and his king. He came as missionary, trader, and adventurer, rather than as farmer. Just led on by zeal for religion or desire for adventure, he pushed his settlements far into the wilderness. So long years went by. All along the Atlantic coasts spread fertile fields and fair homesteads. The British were content to live on the lands which they had cleared and tilled, and no adventurer sought to know what lay beyond the Blue Mountain Range which shut him from the west. Far otherwise was it with the French. Priests and traders were both full of a desire for conquest and adventure. Many of them indeed were so driven by the roving spirit that they left the towns altogether, and lived alone among the forests, tracking the wild animals, and only coming to towns to sell the skins and get provisions. These trappers brought back with them many strange tales of the forests and unknown wilds. They spoke of the Mississippi, or Great Water, of which the Indians told marvellous tales. And at length it seemed to their hearers that this Great Water could be no other than the long sought passage to India and the East. Many people, fired by these tales, went in search of this Great Water. In 1673 two priests, named Marquette and Joliet, were the first to discover it. For many miles they floated down the Mississippi. On either side stretched endless forests and plains of waving grass, haunts of wild animals, and of the Indians, almost as wild. On they went, past the mouth of the Yellow Missouri, on still till they came to the river Arkansas. At last, sure that the Great River went southward, and not westward as they had supposed, they decided to return. It had been easy enough, floating down, but now they had to battle against the stream. And it was only after weeks of toil that they, at length, reached Canada again with their news. When he heard their story, another adventurer named Rene Robert Cavalier Sur de la Salle, became eager to make certain of their discovery, and follow the river all the way to its mouth. With great care and trouble he made his arrangements. He thought it would be impossible to compass so great a journey by canoes, so he built a little ship, which he called the Gryphon. It was the first ship which had been seen by the Indians round Lake Erie, and in amazement and fear they came to stare at it. In their ignorant terror they would have destroyed it, had not careful watch been kept. From the very beginning of his expedition La Salle found many difficulties, but at length they all seemed to be overcome, and he set out with his friend Henri de Tante, and about forty men. Tante was a man of courage, as bold and enterprising as La Salle himself. He was too much feared by the Indians who thought him a great medicine-man. For while fighting in Europe he had had one hand shot off, but he had replaced it with an iron hand which he always wore covered with a glove. The Indians did not know this, and once or twice when they had been troublesome he had brought them to order by knocking them down with this hand. Not knowing the secret of it they marveled greatly at his strength, and fearing him accordingly called him Iron Hand. One of La Salle's great difficulties was lack of money, so before leaving the Great Lakes he collected a quantity of furs. Then he sent back the griffin and half his men with orders to sell these furs and return with supplies for the expedition as quickly as possible. With the rest of his men La Salle journeyed on to the head of Lake Michigan in canoes. It was no easy journey, for storms swept the lake. The waves tossed their frail canoes hither and thither so that they were often in danger of drowning. They were harassed too by unfriendly Indians. At length, worn out by fatigue, starving with cold and hunger, they reached the appointed place to await the return of the griffin. But the griffin never came. In vain La Salle scanned the grey waters. Day after day passed, and no white sail fled the dreary expanse. The griffin was never heard of more. With a heavy heart La Salle at length gave up the weary watch, and decided to go on with such men and supplies as he had. But with every step fresh difficulties arose. La Salle had many enemies, and they did their best to hinder and hamper him. His own men were discontented and mutinous. They had no love for their leader, no enthusiasm for the expedition, and the hardships and dangers of the way made them sullen. They were half-starved and worn out with fatigue. All they wanted was to get back to a comfortable life. They were sick of the wilderness and its hardships. Added to this the Indians told them blood-curdling tales of the terrors of the Father of Waters. It was a raging torrent of whirl-pools, they said, full of poisonous serpents and loathly monsters. Those who ventured on it would never return. This was more than the men could face. They chose rather the possibility of death among the Indians and the wilderness to its certainty among such horrors, and some of them ran away. Depressed by this desertion, La Salle resolved to camp for the rest of the winter. So on the banks of the River Illinois he built a fort, which he called Crevcure, or Heartbreak. But La Salle's brave heart was not yet broken, and here he began to build a new ship in which to sail down the Mississippi. There was wood in plenty around, and the work was begun. But many things, such as sails and rigging which were necessary for the ship, the wilderness could not supply. And seeing no other way, La Salle resolved to go back to Fort Frontenac to get them, leaving Taunty meanwhile to look after the building of the ship. It was March when La Salle set out on his tremendous walk of a thousand miles. With him he took a faithful Indian guide and four Frenchmen, and seldom have men endured a journey more terrible. The spring sun was just beginning to thaw the ice and snow of winter, so that the prairies were turned to marshes into which the travellers sank knee-deep. The forests were pathless thickets through which they had to force away with axe and hatchet. As a pathway the rivers were useless to them, for the ice was so thin that it would not bear their weight. And later when it thawed and broke up they still could not use their canoes, lest they should be shattered by the floating masses of ice. All day long they toiled knee-deep in mud and half-melted snow, laden with baggage, guns, and ammunition. At night they lay down without shelter of any kind. They were often hungry. They suffered constantly both from cold and heat. For at noon the sun beat down upon them fiercely, and at night the frost was so bitter that the blankets in which they lay wrapped were frozen stiff. The hardships of that journey were so tremendous that the marvel is that anyone lived to tell of them. Indeed, one by one the men fell ill, and when at length after three months of pain and peril they arrived at their journey's end, only La Salle had strength or courage left. Here more bad news greeted La Salle, for he now heard that a ship sent out from France laden with supplies for him had been wrecked. But even this cruel stroke of fortune could not break his spirit. Once more he set about gathering supplies, and made ready to return to Fort Heartbreak. But worse was yet to come. La Salle was about to start when he received a letter from Tanti. From this he learned that soon after he had left nearly all his men had mutinied. They had rifled the stores and demolished the fort, then, throwing into the river everything they could not carry, had made off. Only three or four had remained faithful. With these Tanti was now alone in the wilderness. This staggering news only made La Salle more eager to set out, for he could not leave his brave friend thus helpless. So once more the toilsome journey was begun. But when Heartbreak was reached La Salle found no friend to welcome him. All around there was nothing but silence and desolation, and ghastly, ashtroon ruins. The unfinished ship, like some vast skeleton, huge and gaunt, alone bore witness that white men had once been there. Still La Salle would not despair. He spent the winter making friends with the Indians and searching earnestly for some trace of Tanti. The winter was unusually severe, the whole land was covered with snow, and both La Salle and some of his men became snow-blind for days. But at last, with the melting of the snows, light and joy came to him. The blindness passed. Tanti was found. Once again the friends met. Each had a tale to tell, a tale of bitter disappointments and defeats. Yet in spite of all the blows of fortune, La Salle would not give in. Once more he set about making preparations for the expedition, but now he gave up the idea of building a ship, and decided to trust two canoes alone. It was midwinter when all was ready. The rivers were frozen hard, so, placing their canoes on sledges, the men dragged them over the ice. As they went southward and spring came on, the ice melted and would no longer bear them. The stream was soon filled with floating masses of broken ice, so they were obliged to land and wait until it had melted. Then once more they set out. Every day now they drifted farther and farther into the heat of summer. The sun shone softly through the overhanging trees, the riverbanks were gay with flowers, and bright plumaged birds flashed through the sunlight. After the torches of the past winters, this green and fertile land seemed a very paradise. So on the adventurers passed, where never white man had passed before, and at length they reached the mouth of the mighty river, and stood upon the shore of the Gulf of Mexico. And here, in 1682, while wondering savages looked on, this mere handful of white men claimed all the land through which they had passed, for their king. The long silence of the wilderness was awakened for the first time by the sound of Latin chants. Guns were fired, and to the shouts of God save the king, a pillar was set up. King William's War and Queen Anne's War At this time in Europe, France and Britain were at war. When King William came to take possession of Britain, James II ran away to France. The King of France received him kindly, and soon declared war upon William. The war was fought not only in Europe, but in America also, and it is known in America as King William's War, because William was King of Great Britain at the time. It was the beginning of a fierce struggle between British and French for possession of the vast continent of America, a struggle which was to last for seventy years, a struggle in which not only the white people, but the Indians also took part, some fighting for the British, some for the French. King William's War 1690 to 1697 At this time Frontenac was governor of Canada. He was one of the greatest nobles of France, and lived surrounded with state and splendor. Proud and haughty and of a fiery temper, with white men he quarreled often, but he knew better than any other how to manage the Indians, and they feared him as they feared no white ruler who came before or after him. He would not allow the chiefs to call him brother, as other governors had done. They were his children. To them he was the great father. Yet if need be he would paint his face, dress himself in Indian clothes, and, tomahawk in his hand, lead the war dance, yelling and leaping with the best of them. King Louis now gave Frontenac orders to seize New York, so that the French might have access to the Hudson River, and a port open all the year round, and not frozen up for months at a time like Quebec. So Frontenac made ready his forces. He gathered three armies, and sent them by different ways to attack the British. But few of these forces were regular soldiers. Many of them were Indians. Still more were couriers de Bois, wild bush rangers, who dressed and lived more like Indians than white men, and were as fearless and lawless, and learned in the secrets of the forest, as the Indians. These armies set out in the depth of winter. French and Indian alike were smeared with war paint, and decked with feathers. Shod with snowshoes they sped over the snow, dragging light sledges behind them laden with food. For twenty-two days they journeyed over plains, through forest, across rivers, but at length one of the armies reached the village of Schenectady, the very farthest outpost of New York. The people had been warned of their danger, but they paid no heed. They did not believe that the danger was real. So secure indeed did they feel that the gates were left wide open, and on either side, for sentinels, stood two snowmen. In all the village there was no sound, no light. Everyone was sleeping peacefully. Then suddenly, through the stillness, there rang the awful Indian war-whoop. In terror the villagers leaped from their beds, but before they could seize their weapons they were struck down. Neither man, woman, nor child was spared, and before the sun was high Schenectady was a smoking, blood-stained ruin. The other parties which Frontenac had sent out also caused terrible havoc. They surprised and burned many villages and farms, slaughtering and carrying prisoner the inhabitants. Thus all New England was filled with bloodshed and terror. But these horrors, instead of making the British give in, made them determined to attack Canada. New York and the colonies of New England joined together, and decided to make an attack by land and by sea. But what with mismanagement, sickness, and bickering among the various colonies the land attack came to nothing. It was left for the fleet to conquer Canada. The little New England fleet was commanded by Sir William Phipps, a bluff, short-tempered sailor. He sailed up the St. Lawrence and anchored a little below Quebec. Then the watching Frenchman saw a small boat put off, flying a white flag. As it neared the shore some canoes went out to meet it, and found that it was bringing a young British officer with a letter for Count Frontenac. The officer was allowed to land, but first his eyes were blindfolded. Then as he stepped on shore a sailor seized each arm, and thus he was led through the streets. Quebec is built on a height, and the streets are steep and narrow, sometimes being nothing more than flights of steps. And now, instead of being taken directly to the Governor, the young officer was dragged up and down these steep and stony streets. Now here, now there, he was led, stumbling blindly over stones and steps, and followed by a laughing jeering crowd who told him it was a game of blind man's bluff. At last, thoroughly bewildered and exhausted, he was led into the castle, and the bandage was suddenly taken from his eyes. Confused and dazzled by the bright light he stood for a moment gazing stupidly about him. Before him, haughty and defiant stood Frontenac, surrounded by his officers. Their splendid uniforms glittered with gold and silver lace, their wigs were curled and powdered, their hats were decked with feathers, as if for a ball rather than for war. For a moment the young Englishman stood abashed before them, then recovering himself he handed his commander's letters to Frontenac. The letter was written in English, but an interpreter read it aloud, translating it into French. In haughty language it demanded the surrender of Quebec, in the name of William and Mary, within an hour. When the reading was finished the officer pulled his watch out of his pocket, and held it towards Frontenac. I cannot see the time, said he. It is ten o'clock, replied the Englishman, by eleven I must have your answer. Frontenac's brow grew dark with anger. Hitherto he had held himself in check, but now his wrath burst forth. By heaven, he cried, I will not keep you waiting so long, tell your general that I do not acknowledge King William, the Prince of Orange, who calls himself so, is a usurper. I know of no King of England save King James. The Englishman was quite taken aback by Frontenac's vehemence. He felt he could not go back to his leader with such an answer. Will you give me your answer in writing, he said? No, thundered Frontenac, I will answer your general with the mouths of my cannon only, let him do his best, and I will do mine. And with this answer the Englishman was forced to be content. Once more his eyes were blindfolded, and again he was jostle and hustled through the streets, until he reached his boat. When Phipps received Frontenac's proud answer he prepared to attack, but he was no match for the fierce old lion of a Frenchman. The new Englanders were brave enough, but they had little discipline, and, worse still, they had no leader worthy of the name. They spent shot and shelled uselessly battering the solid rock upon which Quebec is built. Their aim was bad, and their guns so small that even when the balls hit the mark they did little damage. At length, having wasted most of their ammunition in a useless cannonade, the British sailed away. The men were dejected and gloomy at their failure. Many of their ships had been sorely disabled by the French guns, and on the way home several were wrecked. As the others struggled homeward with their tale of disaster, New England was filled with sadness and dismay. The attack on Canada had been an utter failure, yet, had Phipps but known it, Quebec was almost in his grasp, for although there were many enough within the fortress, there was little food. And even before he sailed away the pangs of hunger had made themselves felt. For seven years more the war lingered on, but now it chiefly consisted of border raids and skirmishes, and the New Englanders formed no more designs of conquering Canada. And at length, in 1697, with the Treaty of Rizwick, King William's War came to an end. In 1701 James, the exiled King of Britain, died, and Louis of France recognized his son James as the rightful King of Britain. This made King William angry. Louis also placed his grandson, the Duke of Anjou, on the throne of Spain. This made King William and the British people still more angry. For with a French king on the throne of Spain they thought it very likely that France and Spain might one day be joined together and become too powerful. So King William again declared war on France, but before the war began he died. Queen Mary's sister Anne now became queen. She carried on the war already declared. This war brought fighting in America as well as in Europe. In America it is called Queen Anne's War, and in Europe the War of the Spanish Succession. Queen Anne's War, 1702-1713. This war was carried on in much the same manner as the last. There were Indian massacres, sudden sallies, attacks by land and sea. But this time the British were more determined, and although another attack on Quebec failed, just as the attack made by Phipps had failed, one on Nova Scotia succeeded. In the south too the Spaniards were defeated at Charleston. Taken altogether the British had the best of the fighting, and when at length peace was made by the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and the Hudson Bay Territory were given up to the British. Thus both in west and north the British enclosed the French possessions. End of Chapter 46 Chapter 47 of This Country of Hours. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall. Chapter 47 The Mississippi Bubble Being thus encroached upon by the British, the French became more determined to shut them out from the south. Already twelve years after La Salle's death, another attempt had been made to found a town at the mouth of the Mississippi, and this time the attempt was successful. This time the expedition was led by Pierre Lemoine, Sir Diberville. In 1698, with two ships, he sailed out from France, and, after some trouble, found the mouth of the Mississippi. He did not, however, build his fort here, but on the coast of what is now the state of Mississippi. Then, leaving one of his officers and his brother in command, he sailed home again to France. While Diberville was away, his brother Bianville started on an expedition to explore the Mississippi. And soon he discovered that the French had taken possession none too soon, for not far from where New Orleans now stands he fell in with a British ship. On board were a lot of French Huguenot families who had come to found a settlement on the Mississippi. Bianville talked to the captain, who told him that this was one of three ships sent out from England by a company formed of Huguenots and Englishmen who intended to found a colony on the Mississippi. They were not sure, however, whether they were on the Mississippi or not. Bianville at once assured them that they were not, but were instead on a river which belonged to Louis of France, where already the French had several settlements. The British captain believed what he was told, and, much to the Frenchman's delight, turned back. Just at the spot where this took place the river makes a bed, and because of this it was given the name of English Bend, by which name it is known to this day. Diberville only stayed long enough in France to gather more colonists, and returned at once to Louisiana, where he founded two more towns along the coast. But the colonists sent out by Louis were of the lowest. Many of them were little more than rogues and vagabonds. The mere off-scourings of the towns, they were idle and extravagant, and the colony did not prosper. Instead of putting gold into Louis's pockets, as he had hoped, he had constantly to pour it out to maintain the colony. Of that Louis soon grew tired. Besides this he wanted all the money he could gather to carry on the war, Queen Anne's war, which was still raging. So, in 1712 he handed Louis Ziana over to a wealthy merchant, named Crozat, to make what he could out of it. Such great power was given to this merchant that he was little less than a king. He had every monopoly. Nobody in the colony could buy or sell the smallest thing without his permission, and everyone had to work for him, and not for themselves. But the people were by no means willing workers. They were, said one of their priests. Nearly all drunkards, gamblers, blasphemers, and others, nearly all drunkards, gamblers, blasphemers, and foes of everything that was good, and when they found that they are expected to work merely to put money into the proprietor's pocket, they would not work at all. So very soon Crozat found he could make nothing out of the colony. And after some vain efforts to make it pay, he gave up his charter, and Louis Ziana once more became a royal possession. Meanwhile France itself was in sore straits for money. Louis XIV, that magnificent and extravagant monarch, had died, and left his country beggard and in want. The Duke of Orleans now ruled as regent for little Louis XV. He was at his wit's end to know where to find money, when a clever Scots adventurer named John Law came to him with a new and splendid idea. This was to use paper money instead of gold and silver. The regent was greatly taken with the idea, and he gave Law leave to issue the paper money. It was quite a good idea had it been kept within bounds, but it was not kept within bounds. All France went mad with eagerness to get some of the paper money which was, they thought, going to make them rich for ever. Besides issuing paper money, Law started what was known as the Mississippi Scheme or Company of the Indies in 1717. Louis Ziana, which had been received back from Crozat, was handed over to John Law, who undertook to settle the country, and work the gold and silver mines which were supposed to be there. Law began at once to fill all France with stories of Louis Ziana and its delights. Gold and silver mines, he said, had been discovered there which were so rich that they could never be used up. Lumps of gold lay about everywhere, and one might have them for the picking up. As for silver, it was so common that it had little value, except to be used for paving the streets. In proof of these stories, lumps of gold, said to have come from Louis Ziana, were shown in the shops of Paris. As to the climate, it was the most perfect on earth. It was never too hot, and never too cold, but always warm and sunny. The soil was so fertile that one had but to scratch it to produce the finest crops. Delicious fruits grew everywhere, and might be gathered all the year round. The meadows were made beautiful, and the air scented with the loveliest of flowers. In fact, Louis Ziana was painted as an earthly paradise, where nothing the heart could desire was lacking. People believed these stories, and believing them, it was not wonderful that they desired to possess for themselves some of these delights. So rich and poor, high and low, rushed to buy shares in the company. The street in Paris where the offices of the company were was choked from end to end with a struggling crowd. The rich brought their hundreds, the poor their scanty savings. Great lords and ladies sold their lands and houses in order to have money to buy more shares. The poor went ragged and hungry in order to scrape together a few pens. Peers and merchants, soldiers, priests, fine ladies, servants, statesmen, laborers, all jostled together and fought to buy the magic paper which would make them rich and happy beyond belief. Fortunes were made and lost in a day. Some who had been rich found themselves penniless. Others who had always lived in poverty found themselves suddenly rolling in wealth, which they did not know how to use. And John Law was the wizard whose magic wand had created all these riches. He was flattered and courted by everyone. The greatest princes in the land came to beg favours of him. They came to him to beg, and he treated them haughtily as beggars, and bade them wait. Day by day and month by month the madness increased, and the gigantic bubble grew larger and larger. Bienville, meanwhile, who had been deprived of his governorship, was once more made governor of Louisiana. With a company of settlers, he returned again to the colony in 1718, and he at once set about building a capital, which, in honour of the Regent, he called New Orleans. The place he chose for a capital was covered with forest, so before any building could be done, fifty men were set to fell the trees and clear a space. And then the first foundations of the new great city of New Orleans were laid. But still the colony did not prosper, for the colonists were, for the most part, rogues and vagabonds, sent there by force, and kept there equally by force. They looked upon Louisiana as a prison, and tried constantly to escape from it. Meanwhile no ships laden with gold and gems reached France, for no gold mines had ever been discovered. Then people began to grow tired of waiting. Some of them began to suspect that all the stories of the splendours of Louisiana were not true, and they tried to sell their paper money and paper shares and get back the gold which they had given for them. Soon everyone wanted to sell, and no one wanted to buy. The value of the paper money fell and fell until it was worth less than nothing. People who had thought themselves millionaires found themselves beggars. Law, who had been flattered and courted, was now hated and cursed. And in terror of his life he fled from France in 1790 to die miserably in Italy a few years later. As to Louisiana a new set of stories were told of it. Now it was no longer described as a sort of earthly paradise, but as a place of horror and misery. It was a land of noisome marsh and gloomy forest where prowled every imaginable evil beast. As certain times of the year the river flooded the whole land so that the people were obliged to take refuge in the trees. There they lived more like monkeys than men, springing from tree to tree in search of food. The sun was so hot that it could strike a man dead as if with a pistol. This was called sunstroke. Luscious fruits indeed grew around, but they were all poisonous, and those who ate of them died in agonies. In fact, Louisiana was now pictured as a place to be shunned as a place of punishment. Be good, or I will send you to the Mississippi—was a threat terrible enough to make the naughtiest child obedient. The Mississippi bubble burst, but still France clung to Louisiana. Once again it became a royal province, and at length, after long years of struggle, it began to prosper. The French had thus two great centers of power in America, one at Quebec, amid the pine trees and snows of the north, and one at New Orleans, amid the palm trees and sunshine of the south. And between the two, fort after fort was built, until gradually north and south were united. Thus LaSalle's dream came true. It was during the time of peace, after the end of Queen Anne's War, that the French had thus strengthened their hold on America, and joined Canada and Louisiana. They had also built a strong fortress on the island of Cape Breton, which commanded the mouth of the St. Lawrence. This fortress was called Louisburg, in honor of King Louis, and it was the strongest and best fortified in the whole of New France. The walls were solid and high, and bristled with more than a hundred cannon. The moat was both wide and deep. Indeed the French believed that this fort was so strong that no power on earth could take it. But the days of peace sped fast. Soon once more Europe was ablaze with war, France and Britain again taking opposite sides. In Europe this war is called the War of the Austrian Succession, because it was brought on by a quarrel among the nations of Europe, as to who should succeed to the throne of Austria. In America it is called King George's War, as King George II was King of Britain at the time. Like the other wars before it, it was fought in America as well as in Europe. The chief event in America was the capture of Louisburg in 1745. That redoubtable fortress, which it was thought would hold off any attack, yielded after six weeks to an army chiefly composed of New England farmers and fishermen, and led by a main merchant who had no knowledge of war. When the news that Louisburg was taken reached New England, the people rejoiced. Bells were rung, cannons were fired, and bonfires blazed in all the chief towns. In England itself the news was received with surprise and delight, and Peperelle, the merchant soldier, was made a baronet, and could henceforth call himself Sir William Peperelle. But when the French heard that they had lost their splendid American fortress, they were filled with dismay. One after another three expeditions were sent to recapture it, but one after another they miscarried. And when at length in 1748, peace was agreed upon, Louisburg was still in the hands of the New Englanders. The peace which was now signed is called the Peace of Ixlachapel. By it it was agreed that each side should give back all its conquests, so that after all the terrible loss and bloodshed, neither side was one whit the better. The New Englanders had been greatly delighted at their conquest of Louisburg. The French, on the other hand, were greatly grieved, and when terms of peace were discussed, Louis XV insisted that Louisburg should be restored. That cannot be, said King George. It is not mine to give, for it was taken by the people of Boston. The French, however, were firm, so King George gave way, and Louisburg was restored to France, and Madras, in India, which the French had taken, was in exchange restored to Britain. When the New Englanders heard of it they were very angry. Madras was nothing to them. It was but a petty factory on the other side of the globe, while Louisburg was at their very doors, and of vast importance to their security. They had to obey and give it back, but they did so with bitterness in their hearts, against a king who cared so little for their welfare. End of Chapter 47. Read by Kara Schellenberg in February 2010. Chapter 48 of This Country of Hours. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall. Chapter 48. How a terrible disaster befell the British army. We have now seen something of the great struggle between French and British for the continent of America. War after war broke out, peace after peace was signed. But each peace was no more than a truce, and even when the noise of cannons ceased there was nearly always war with the Red Man, for he took sides and fought for French or British. And as years went past the struggle grew ever more and more bitter. If the French had their way, the British would have been hemmed in between the Alleghenies and the Sea. If the British had had their way, the French would have been confined to a little strip of land north of the St. Lawrence. It became plain at length to everyone that in all the wide continent there was no room for both. One must go. But which? The peace at Aix-la-Chapelle was not a year old before the last great struggle began. Both French and British had now cast their eyes on the Valley of the Ohio, and the spot where Pittsburgh now stands became known as the Gateway of the West. The British determined to possess that gateway, but the French were just as determined to prevent them ever getting through it. So the French began to build a line of forts from Lake Erie southward to the Gate of the West. Now Virginia claimed all this land, and when two French forts had been built the Governor of Virginia began to be both alarmed and angry. He decided therefore to send a messenger to the French to tell them that they were on British ground and to bid them to be gone. It was not an easy task, and one which had to be done with courtesy and firmness. Therefore Din Whitty resolved to send a person of distinction. So as his messenger he chose a young man named George Washington. He was a straightforward, tall young man, well used to a woodland life, but with all a gentleman, the descendant of one of the old royalist families who had come to Virginia in the time of Cromwell, and just the very man for the Governor's purpose. It was a long and toilsome journey through pathless forest, over hills, deep snows, and frozen rivers, a journey which none but one skilled in forest lore could endure. But at length after weeks of weary marching Washington arrived at Fort Lebeuf. The French men greeted him cardiously, and entertained him in the most friendly fashion during the three days which the Commander took to make up his answer. The answer was not very satisfactory. The Commander promised to send Din Whitty's letter to the Governor of Canada. But meanwhile, he added, my men and I will stay where we are. I have been commanded to take possession of the country, and I mean to do it to the best of my ability. With this answer Washington set out again, and after many adventures and dangers, arrived safely once more at Williamsburg. In the spring the French men marched south to the Gateway of the West. Here they found a party of British who had begun to build a fort. The French, who were in far greater numbers, surrounded them and bade them surrender. This the British did, being utterly unable to defend themselves. The French then seized the fort, leveled it to the ground, and began to build one of their own, which they called Fort Duquesne. Upon this Din Whitty resolved to dislodge the French, and he sent a small force, and when its leader died he took command. But he was not able to dislodge the French, so after some fighting he was obliged to make terms with the enemy, and march home, discomfited. Up to this time the war was purely an American one. France and Britain were at peace, and neither country sent soldiers to help their colonies. It was the settlers, the farmers, fishermen and fur traders of New England and New France, who fought each other. And in this the French had one great advantage over the British. The French were united, the British were not. New France was like one great colony, in which every man was ready to answer the call to battle. The British were divided into thirteen colonies. Each one of the thirteen colonies was jealous of all the others, each was selfishly concerned with its own welfare, and quite careless of the welfare of the others. But already the feelings of patriotism had been borne. Among the many who cared nothing for Union there were a few who did. There were some who were neither Virginians nor New Englanders, neither Georgians nor Carolinians, but Americans. These now felt that if they were not to become the vassals of France they must stand shoulder to shoulder. A Congress of all the northern colonies was now called at Albany to discuss some means of defence. And at this Congress Benjamin Franklin proposed a plan of union, but the colonies would have nothing to say to it. Some took no notice of it at all, others treated it with scorn, or said it put too much power into the hands of the king. As to the king, when he heard of it he rejected it also, for, said he, it gave too much power to the colonies. So for the time being nothing came of it. Meanwhile the governors of the various colonies wrote home to England, and, seeing how serious the matter was becoming, the British government sent out two regiments of soldiers to help the colonies. They were about a thousand men in all, and were under the leadership of Major General Edward Braddock. As soon as the French heard this they too sent soldiers to Canada. It was just like a game of catch who catch can. For as soon as the British knew that French troops were sailing to America they sent a squadron to stop them, but the French had got a start, and most of them got away. The British ships, however, overtook some which had lagged behind the others. As soon as they were within hailing distance a red flag was suddenly run up to the masthead of the British flagship. Is this peace or war? shouted the French captain. I don't know, answered the British, but you had better prepare for war. He, however, gave the Frenchman little time to prepare, for the words were hardly out of his mouth before the thunder of cannon was heard. The Frenchmen fought pluckily, but they were far outnumbered, and were soon forced to surrender. Thus both on land and sea fighting had begun. Yet war had not been declared, and King George and King Louis were still calling each other dear cousin, or dear brother, and making believe that there was no thought of war. But the little success on sea was followed up by a bitter disaster on land. General Braddock now commanded the whole army, both home and colonial. He was a brave and honest man, but obstinate, fiery tempered, and narrow. He had a tremendous idea of what his own soldiers could do, and he was very scornful of the colonials. He was still more scornful of the Indians. These savages, he said to Franklin, may indeed be a formidable enemy to your raw American militia, but upon the King's regular and disciplined troops, sir, it is impossible that they should make any impression. The haughty savages were quick to see that he looked down upon them. He looks upon us as dogs, they said, and drawing their ragged blankets about them, they stalked off deeply offended. With the same narrow pride, Braddock turned away another useful ally. This was Captain Jack, the black hunter. He was a white man, but he roamed the woods dressed like an Indian, followed by a band of men as reckless and lawless as himself. The black hunter, however, although he dressed like an Indian, was the white man's friend, the red man's deadly foe. He had been at one time, it was said, a peaceful settler living happily with his wife and children. But one day he returned from hunting to find his cottage in ashes and his wife and children dead among the ruins. In his grief and rage he vowed eternal vengeance on the Indians who had done the evil deed, robbing him forever of home and happiness. Henceforth he roamed the woods, a terror to the red men. For his aim was unerring he could steal through the forest as silently as swiftly as they, and was aslerned in all the woodland lore. His very name indeed struck terror to the hearts of all his foes. Black hunter now with his wild band of followers offered his help to Braddock. They were well armed. They cared neither for heat nor cold. They required no tents nor shelter for the night, nor did they ask for any pay. General Braddock looked at the gaunt, weather-beaten man of the woods, clad in hunting shirt and moccasins, painted and bedecked with feathers like an Indian. Truly a strange ally, he thought. I have experienced troops, he said, on whom I can depend. And finding that he could get no other answer, black hunter and his men drew off and disappeared into the woods, once they had come. On the other hand Braddock had much to put up with. The whole success of the expedition depended on swiftness. The British must strike a blow before the French had time to arm. But when Braddock landed nothing was ready. There were no stores, no horses, no wagons. And it seemed impossible to gather them. Nobody seemed to care greatly whether the expedition set out or not. So goaded to fury Braddock stamped and swore and declared that nearly everyone he had to do with was stupid or dishonest. But at length the preparations were complete and in June the expedition set out. From the first things went wrong. Had Braddock gone through Pennsylvania he would have found a great part of his road cleared for him. But he went through Virginia and had to hew his way through pathless forest. In front of the army went three hundred axmen to cut down trees and clear a passage. Behind them the long baggage train jolted slowly onwards, now floundering axle deep through mud, now rocking perilously over stumps or stones. On either side threading in and out among the trees marched the soldiers. So day after day the many-coloured cavalcade wound along, bugle call and sound of drum awakening the forest silences. The march was toilsome, and many of the men, unused to the hardships of the wilderness, fell ill and the slow progress became slower still. At length Braddock decided to divide his force and leaving the sick men and the heaviest baggage behind, press on more rapidly with the others. It was George Washington who went with him as an aide-de-camp who advised this. So the sick and all baggage that could be done without were left behind with Colonel Dunbar, but even after this the progress was very slow. Meanwhile news of the coming of the British army had been carried to the French at Fort Duquesne, and when they heard how great the force was they were much alarmed. But a gallant Frenchman named Bougot offered to go out and meet the British, lie and wait for them, and take them unawares. But to do this he had need of Indian help. So council fires were lit, and Bougot flung down the war-hatchet, but the Indians refused it, for they were afraid of the great British force. "'Do you want to die, our father?' they asked, and sacrifice us also.' "'I am determined to go,' said Bougot.' "'What? Will you let your father go alone? I know we shall win.' Seeing him so confident the Indians forgot their fears, and the war-dance was danced. Then smeared with paint and led by Bougot himself dressed like a savage, they marched to meet the British. There were about six hundred Indians and half as many Frenchmen. Stealthily they crept through the forest, flitting like shadows from tree to tree, closing ever nearer and nearer upon the British. They, meanwhile, had reached the river Monongahila. They crossed it gaily, for they knew now that Fort Duquesne was near, there Toilsome March was at an end, and victory was sure. It was a glorious summer morning. The bands played, the men laughed, and shouted joyously. The long lines swept onward, a glittering pageant of scarlet and blue, of shining steel, and fluttering banners. Then suddenly out of the forest darted a man dressed like an Indian. When he saw the advancing column he stopped. Then turning he waved to someone behind him. It was Bougot, and at his signal the air was rent with the terrible Indian war cry, and a hail of bullets swept the British ranks. Shouting, God save the king, the British returned to fire, but it availed little, for they could not see the enemy. From the shelter of the forest, hidden behind trees, the French and Indians fired upon the British. They were an easy mark, for they stood solidly shoulder to shoulder, their scarlet coats showing clearly against the green background. Still the British stood their ground, firing volley after volley. It was quite useless, for they could see no enemy. The puffs of smoke were their only guides. To aim at the points where the smoke came from was all they could do, but for the most part their bullets crashed through the branches, or were buried in tree trunks, while the pitiless rain of lead mowed down the red coats. The American soldiers fared better. For as soon as they were attacked they scattered, and from behind the shelter of trees fought the Indians in their own fashion. Some of the British tried to do the same, but Braddock had no knowledge of savage warfare. To fight in such a manner seemed to him shocking. It was unsolderly, it was cowardly. So he swore savagely at his men, calling them cowards, and beat them back into line with the flat of his sword. And thus huddled together they stood a brilliant living target for the bullets of the savages. Braddock himself fought with fury. He dashed here and there, swearing, commanding, threatening. Four horses were shot under him, and at last he himself fell wounded to death. Washington too fought with fearless bravery, trying to carry out Braddock's frenzied orders. And although he escaped unhurt his clothes were riddled with holes, and twice his horse was shot under him. For nearly three hours the terrible carnage lasted, then flesh and blood could stand no more, and the men broke rank and fled. All night they fled in utter rout, bearing with them their wounded leader. At length they reached Dunbar's camp, but even then they did not pause, for the news of the disaster had thrown the whole camp into confusion. Frantic orders were given, and obeyed with frenzied haste. Wagon loads of stores were burned, barrels of gunpowder were staved in, and the contents poured into the river, shells and bullets were buried. Then, the work of destruction complete, the whole army moved on again in utter rout. And now Braddock's dark last hour had come. Brooding and silent he lay in his litter. This awful defeat was something he could not grasp. Who would have thought it, he murmured. Who would have thought it? But his stubborn spirit was yet unbroken. We will know better how to do it another time, he sighed. A few minutes later he died. His men buried him in the middle of the road, Washington reading over him the prayers for the dead. Then, lest the Indians should find and desecrate his last resting place, the whole army passed over his grave. End of Chapter 48 Read by Kara Schallenberg, www.kray.org, in February 2010. Chapter 49 of This Country of Hours This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall, Chapter 49 The End of French Rule in America Braddock's campaign was a complete disaster. The French had triumphed, and even those Indians, who up till now had been willing to side with the British, were anxious to make friends with the French. For were they not the stronger? Surely it seemed to them the White Father of the St. Lawrence was more powerful than the White Father of the Hudson. If the English will not suffer the branches of the great tree of peace to hide us from the French, they said, we will go farther off. We will lie down and warm ourselves by the warfires of the French. We love to hear the sound of the war-hoop. We delight in the war-yell. It flies from hill to hill, from heart to heart. It makes the old heart young. It makes the young heart dance. Our young braves run to battle with the swiftness of the fawn. If you will not fight, the French will drive us from our hunting grounds. The English king does not aid us. We must join the strong. Who is strong? Who is strong? The French. The English have become weak. War was now really declared between France and Britain, and fighting took place in Europe as well as in America. And in America things went ill for the British. Defeats and disasters followed each other. Things were muddled and went wrong continually. For truth to tell, the British had no great leader either in England or in America, while the French had the Marquesse Moncombe, one of the best soldiers in the French Army, as their commander-in-chief. At length, however, a great man came to power in England. This was William Pitt, known as the Great Commoner. He was, it has been said, the first Englishmen of his time, and he made England the first country in the world. He was a great judge of men, and he had a happy way of choosing the right man for the right place. So now, instead of defeats, came victories, not only in America, but all over the world. We are forced to ask every morning, said a witty man of the time, what victory there has been for fear of missing one. In America, Louis Berg fell once more into the hands of the British. Fort Duquesne, too, was taken, and the misery of Braddock's disaster was wiped out. Then, in honour of the great statesman, the name of the fort was changed to Pittsburgh. It is still called by that name, and is now one of the world's greatest manufacturing cities, and where Braddock fought and fell stretches a network of streets. But although the British had many successes, the key of Canada defied all efforts to take it. Quebec still frowned upon her rock, invulnerable as in the days of old lion-hearted frontenac. Among the men Pitt had chosen to lead the armies in America was Major General James Wolfe. He was a long-legged red-haired Englishman. There was nothing of the hero about his appearance, except his bright and flashing eyes. It was this man who was sent to capture Quebec. Many people were astonished at Pitt's choice. He is mad, said one stupid old man. Mad is he, said King George, then I wish he would bite some others of my generals. Led by a daring old sea-captain, the British warships passed safely up the St. Lawrence, and anchored off the Isle of Orleans, a little below Quebec. Once more British guns thundered against the high rock fortress. The town was laid in ruins, the country round was but a barren waste. Yet the fortress of Quebec was no nearer being taken than before. Weeks and months went past, the fleet rocked idly at anchor, the troops lay almost as idle in their tents. Only the gunners had work to do, and although they shattered the walls of Quebec, the Frenchmen were undaunted. You may ruin the town, they said, but you will never get inside. I will have Quebec if I stay here till the end of November, replied Wolfe. But Montcom smiled grimly. Winter, he knew, would be his ally. For then the St. Lawrence would be frozen from bank to bank, and before that the British must sail away, or be caught fast in its icy jaws. Wolfe, who was frail and sickly by nature, now broke down beneath the strain and the constant disappointments. Helpless and in agony he lay on his sick bed, his mind still busy with plans of how to take Quebec. Doctor, he said, I know you can't cure me, but patch me up till I see this business through. Soon he was about again, and making plans for his last desperate attempt to take Quebec. Seeking to find a means of reaching the fortress, he had himself examined all the north shores of the St. Lawrence, and just a little above the town he had found one spot where a narrow pathway led up the steep cliffs. It was so steep and narrow that the French never dreamed of anyone making an attack that way, and it was carelessly guarded. But dangerous though it was, it seemed to Wolfe the only way, and he determined to attempt it. Soon his preparations were made, and one dark moonless night in September, a long procession of boats floated silently down the river. In one of the boats sat Wolfe, and as they drifted slowly along in the starlight, in a low voice he repeated Gray's poem called, An Elegy in a Country Churchyard. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, and all that beauty, all that wealth-air gave, awaits alike the inevitable hour, the paths of glory lead but to the grave. Gentlemen, said Wolfe, when he finished, I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec. In dead silence now the boats drifted on, then suddenly out of the darkness rang a sharp challenge. Who goes there? was asked in French. France replied a Highland officer who spoke good French. What regiment shouted the sentry? The Queens answered the officer glibly, for luckily he had learned from French prisoners that boats with provisions were expected by the enemy, and that very likely the Queen's regiment would convoy them. The sentry was satisfied and let the boats pass, but they were not safe yet. A little further on they were challenged again. The same officer replied. Speak louder! cried the sentry. Hush! replied the Highlander. Provision boats, I say, do not make a noise, the British will hear us. The sentry was quite deceived. He let the boats pass, and very soon the men were safely landed. Then the climb began. Like wild mountain cats the men dashed at it. They swung themselves up by branches of trees, gripping, projecting stones and roots with hand and knee. It was hot, breathless work, but soon they were near the top. But they had been heard. Once more the challenge rang out. Who goes there? France panted a voice from below. But this time the sentry was not deceived. He could see nothing, but he fired at a venture down into the darkness. It was too late. The first men had reached the top, and the guard was overpowered. So hour by hour up the steep cliff the red coats swarmed unhindered. When morning dawned, four thousand British stood upon the plains of Abraham. This is a very serious business, said Montcolum when he heard of it. But it can only be a small party. Soon, however, more news was brought to him. It was no small party. Then we must crush them, he said, and with pale set face he rode forth to battle. It was ten o'clock when the fight began. The French attacked first. The British awaited them calmly as they dashed on over the plain. On they came, nearer and nearer. Then suddenly the order was given, and, cheering wildly, the British charged. A shot struck Wolf in the wrist. Without pausing he tied a handkerchief about it. Again he was hit. Still he went on. Then a third shot struck his breast and he fell. Hastily he was carried to the rear and laid upon the ground. It is all over with me, he sighed. Then he lay still, in a sort of stupor. Suddenly one of the officers beside him cried out, They run, they run! Who runs, said Wolf, rousing himself? The enemy, sir, answered the officer. They give way everywhere. Now God be praised, murmured Wolf, I die happy. Then, turning on his side, he died. Everywhere the French fled, and in their mad rush they carried along with them their gallant leader, Montcalm. He was sorely wounded, but still sat his horse as he rode within the gates of Quebec. Here an excited, eager crowd was gathered waiting for news, and when they saw Montcalm's well-known figure on his black horse, they were seized with dismay, for his face was white and drawn, and blood flowed from his breast. Alas, alas! cried a woman in a piercing voice of despair. The Marquis is killed. It is nothing, it is nothing, good friends, he replied. Do not trouble about me. So, saying, he fell from his horse into the arms of one of his officers. That night he died. He was glad to go. It is better for me, he said, for I shall not live to see Quebec surrender. With him died the last hope of New France. The story of New France was done. The story of Canada was about to begin, as well as that of her mighty neighbour, for as a great English historian has said, with the triumph of Wolf on the heights of Abraham, began the history of the United States. Meanwhile, however, the war still dragged on for another year. Then the following summer Montreal surrendered to the British, and French rule in America was completely at an end. Fighting in America was over, but the war still went on in other parts of the world. Spain had also joined in the struggle, and from them the British took Cuba and the Philippine islands. But at length in 1763 peace was made by the Treaty of Paris. By this treaty Britain was confirmed in her claim to nearly the whole of French possessions in America. So that from the Atlantic to the Mississippi, and from the Gulf of Mexico to Hudson Bay, was now declared British, except the peninsula forming Florida. That the Spaniards claimed. So in exchange for it the British gave back Cuba and the Philippines. And to make up to Spain for the loss of Florida, France gave them New Orleans, and resigned to Spain all claims to the land which La Salle had called Louisiana. Thus nothing remained to France of all her great possessions in America, and the vast continent was divided between Spain and Britain. Never in all known history had a single treaty transferred such enormous tracts of land from one nation to another. End of Chapter 49 Read by Kara Schellenberg in February 2010 Chapter 50 of This Country of Hours This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. This Country of Hours by H. E. Marshall Chapter 50 The Rebellion of Pontiac Do you not know the difference between the king of France and the king of Britain? A Frenchman once asked an Indian, Go look at the forts which our king has built. You will see that you can still hunt under their very walls. They have been built for your good in the places where you go. The British, on the other hand, are no sooner in possession of a place than they drive the game away. The trees fall before them. The earth is laid bare, so that you can scarcely find a few branches with which to make a shelter for the night. The Frenchman spoke truth. The British settlers were, for the most part, grave and earnest men who had come to seek new homes. They felled trees and built their houses, and plowed the land, turning wilderness into cornfields and meadow. The Frenchmen came for the sake of religion or for adventure. They set up crosses and claimed the land for God and the king. They scattered churches and hamlets far in the wilderness, but left the wilderness and the forest still the red man's hunting ground. The Frenchmen treated the Indians with an easy, careless sort of friendliness, while most of the British looked down upon them as savages. So, very soon after the British took possession of Canada, the Indians became very discontented. For now they got no more presence, they were no longer treated as brothers, and they were hurt both in their pockets and their pride. The English mean to make slaves of us, they said, in haughty indignation, and soon a plot to murder all the British was formed. The French, who still lived in Canada, encouraged the Indians in their discontent, telling them that the English meant thoroughly to root them out. Then a great medicine man arose among them who preached war. The great spirit himself appeared unto me, he said, thus he spake, I am the Lord of life, it is I who made all men. I work for their safety, therefore I give you warning. Suffer not the English to dwell in your midst, lest their poisons and their sickness destroy you utterly. When they heard the medicine man speak thus, the Indians were greatly stirred. The Lord of life himself, they said, moves our hearts to war. They became ever more and more eager to fight. They only wanted a leader, and found one in Pontiac, chief of the Ottawa's. He was subtle and fierce, haughty and ambitious, and by far the most clever and powerful chief who ever took up arms against the white man. Now he sent messengers to all the Indian villages both far and near. With them these messengers carried a hatchet, stained with blood, and a war-belt of scarlet wampum. When they came to a village they called the braves together, then in their midst their spokesmen flung down the blood-stained hatchet, and holding the belt in his hand he made a passionate speech, reminding the red men of their wrongs, and calling upon them to be avenged upon their foes. And wherever the messengers went the blood-stained hatchet was seized, and the war-dance danced. At length all was arranged, and upon a certain day in May the Indians were to rise in a body, and slay the British to a man. Only the French were to be spared. Pontiac himself was to attack Fort Detroit, and so quietly and secretly were the preparations made that no one had the slightest suspicion of what was going forward. But the day before the attack a farmer's wife rode across the river, and went to the Indian village to buy some maple sugar. While she was there she was much astonished to see some of the Indian braves filing off the barrels of their guns. The sight made her uneasy. I wonder what they are up to, she said. When she got home she told her friends what she had seen. I believe they are up to some mischief, she repeated. I think so too, said a blacksmith, they have been asking me to lend them files and saws. As the settlers talked the matter over they became at length so uneasy that they sent to tell Major Gladwin, the commander of the fort, of what they had seen. He, however, thought nothing of it. But later in the day a young Indian girl came to see him, to bring him a pair of moccasins which he had asked her to make. She seemed very sad and downcast, and after she had given the Major the moccasins she still loitered about. What's the matter? asked a young officer. The Indian girl did not answer, she only looked at him gravely, with sorrowful brown eyes. Still she lingered about. It was nearly dark, time almost, to close the gates. At last the young officer watching her became certain that something was the matter, and he urged his commander to see the girl again. Major Gladwin at once called the girl to him. What is the matter? he asked. Why are you so sad? Still she would not speak. Then the Major talked to her kindly, promising that whatever her secret was it would be safe with him, and that he would never betray her. So at length the Indian girl spoke. The Indians mean to kill you all, she whispered. The Braves have filed off the ends of their gun barrels so that the guns can be hidden beneath their blankets. Tomorrow Pontiac will come with many warriors, and will ask to hold a council within the fort. He will make a speech, and offer you a peace-belt of Wampum. At the end of the speech he will turn the belt around. That will be the signal. The Chiefs will then spring up, draw the guns from their hiding-places, and kill you all. Indians outside will kill all your soldiers. Not one of you will escape. So saying the girl went sadly away. Gladwin at once called his officers and told them what he had heard. They were convinced now that evil was afoot, and all night they kept watch, lest the Indians should change their minds, and make their attack during the night. But the night passed peacefully. When morning came a great many Indians were seen to be gathered about the fort, and at ten o'clock Pontiac, followed by his Chiefs, entered the gateway. They stalked in proudly, garbed in all the glory of savage splendours. They were cloaked in bright-coloured blankets, and hung about with beads and hawk-bells. Their heads were decorated with eagle-feathers, and their faces hideously painted. Pontiac came first, and as he passed beneath the gateway he started, and drew a sharp deep breath. For both sides of the narrow street were lined with soldiers gun in hand. He had been betrayed. Yet the haughty Chiefs made no sign. In silence they stalked on, not a muscle of their faces moving. Here and there as they passed on, they saw traders standing about in groups. Every man fully armed. Not a woman or child was to be seen. At length the Indians reached the council-hall. Here they found the commander seated, awaiting them, surrounded by his officers. They, too, were armed, for every man of them wore a sword by his side, and a brace of pistols in his belt. Ill at ease now the Indians gazed at each other in doubt what to do. Then Pontiac spoke. Why, he asked, do I see so many of my father's braves standing in the street with their guns? Because I exercise my soldiers, replied Gladwin calmly, for the good of their health, and also to keep discipline. This answer made the Indians still more uneasy, but after some hesitation they all sat down on the floor. Then with due ceremony Pontiac rose, and holding the belt of peace in his hand began to speak. His words were fair. They had come, he said, to tell of their love for the English, to smoke the pipe of peace and make the bonds of friendship closer. As he spoke his false and cunning words, the officers kept a watchful eye upon him. Would he give the signal or not, they asked themselves. He raised the belt. At that moment Gladwin made a quick, slight signal, immediately after that, he raised the belt. At that moment Gladwin made a quick, slight signal, immediately from the passage without came the sound of grounding arms and the raptact of a drum. Pontiac stood rigid as one turned to stone. Then after a moment's deathly silence he sat down. In the silence Gladwin sat, looking steadily and fearlessly at the Indians. Then he replied shortly to Pontiac's fine speech. The friendship of the British should be there, he said, so long as they deserved it. The council was at an end. The gates of the fort which had been closed were now thrown open again, and the savages, balked in their treachery, stalked back to their wigwams. But Pontiac was not yet beaten, and again he tried to master the fort by treachery. When he found the gates of the fort shut against him his rage was terrible. Then seeing they could not win fort Detroit by treachery the Indians attacked it in force. But in spite of all his horrid of warriors, in spite of all his wiles Pontiac could not take the fort, although he besieged it for a whole year. Meanwhile the savages overran the whole country and every other fort, save Fort Pitt and Fort Niagara, fell into their hands. More often than not they won their way into the forts by treachery, and having entered they slew without mercy men, women, and children. At Mitchell and Mackenac the Redskins invited the officers and soldiers to watch a game of ball. The invitation was accepted, and nearly all the soldiers stood about watching while the Indians with piercing yells dashed madly hither and thither after the ball. Crowds of Indians also looked on, among them many squaws wrapped in coloured blankets. The game was played just outside the fort, the gates stood open, and most of the soldiers had strolled out without their weapons to watch. Suddenly the ball flew through the air and landed close to the gate of the fort. There was a mad rush after it. As they ran the Indians snatched the hatchets and knives which till now the squaws had hidden beneath their blankets. Screams of delight were changed to war cries. The two officers who stood by the gate were seized and carried away prisoner while the rabble stormed into the fort, slaying and robbing at will. Every one of the British was either killed or taken prisoner, but the French were left alone. Thus all the land was filled with bloodshed and horror. There was no safety anywhere. In every bush an Indian might lurk, and night was made terrible with blood-curdling war cries. For nearly three years the war lasted, but by degrees Pontiac saw that his cause was lost. The French did not help him as he had expected they would. Some of his followers deserted, and other tribes refused to join him, and at last he saw himself forced to make peace. So there were flowery speeches, and the exchange of wampum belts, and peace was made. Then Pontiac's army melted away like snow in summer, and the great chief himself retired to the forest to live among his children and his squaws. A few years later he was traitorously slain by one of his own people.