Chapter 11

1763.

TREACHERY OF PONTIAC.
The night passed without alarm.  The sun rose upon fresh fields and newly budding woods, and scarcely had the morning mists dissolved, when the garrison could see a fleet of birch canoes crossing the river from the eastern shore, within range of cannon shot above the fort.  Only two or three warriors appeared in each, but all moved slowly, and seemed deeply laden.  In truth, they were full of savages, lying flat on their faces, that their numbers might not excite the suspicion of the English.

At an early hour the open common behind the fort was thronged with squaws, children, and warriors, some naked, and others fantastically arrayed in their barbarous finery.  All seemed restless and uneasy, moving hither and thither, in apparent preparation for a general game of ball.  Many tall warriors, wrapped in their blankets, were seen stalking towards the fort, and casting malignant furtive glances upward at the palisades.  Then, with an air of assumed indifference, they would move towards the gate.  They were all admitted; for Gladwyn, who, in this instance at least, showed some knowledge of Indian character, chose to convince his crafty foe that, though their plot was detected, their hostility was despised.

The whole garrison was ordered under arms.  Sterling, and the other English fur-traders, closed their storehouses and armed their men, and all in cool confidence stood waiting the result.

Meanwhile, Pontiac, who had crossed with the canoes from the eastern shore, was approaching along the river road, at the head of his sixty chiefs, all gravely marching in Indian file.  A Canadian settler, named Beaufait, had been that morning to the fort.  He was now returning homewards, and as he reached the bridge which led over the stream then called Parent’s Creek, he saw the chiefs in the act of crossing from the farther bank.  He stood aside to give them room.  As the last Indian passed, Beaufait recognized him as an old friend and associate.  The savage greeted him with the usual ejaculation, opened for an instant the folds of his blanket, disclosed the hidden gun, and, with an emphatic gesture towards the fort, indicated the purpose to which he meant to apply it.

At ten o’clock, the great war-chief, with his treacherous followers, reached the fort, and the gateway was thronged with their savage faces.  All were wrapped to the throat in colored blankets.  Some were crested with hawk, eagle, or raven plumes; others had shaved their heads, leaving only the fluttering scalp-lock on the crown; while others, again, wore their long, black hair flowing loosely at their backs, or wildly hanging about their brows like a lion’s mane.  Their bold yet crafty features, their cheeks besmeared with ochre and vermilion, white lead and soot, their keen, deep-set eyes gleaming in their sockets, like those of rattlesnakes, gave them an aspect grim, uncouth, and horrible.  For the most part, they were tall, strong men, and all had a gait and bearing of peculiar stateliness.

As Pontiac entered, it is said that he started, and that a deep ejaculation half escaped from his breast.  Well might his stoicism fail, for at a glance he read the ruin of his plot.  On either hand, within the gateway, stood ranks of soldiers and hedges of glittering steel.  The swarthy engagés of the fur-traders, armed to the teeth, stood in groups at the street corners, and the measured tap of a drum fell ominously on the ear.  Soon regaining his composure, Pontiac strode forward into the narrow street; and his chiefs filed after him in silence, while the scared faces of women and children looked out from the windows as they passed.  Their rigid muscles betrayed no sign of emotion; yet, looking closely, one might have seen their small eyes glance from side to side with restless scrutiny.
Traversing the entire width of the little town, they reached  the door of the council-house, a large building standing near the margin of the river.  On entering, they saw Gladwyn, with several of his officers, seated in readiness to receive them, and the observant chiefs did not fail to remark that every Englishman wore a sword at his side, and a pair of pistols in his belt.  The conspirators eyed each other with uneasy glances.  “Why,” demanded Pontiac, “do I see so many of my father’s young men standing in the street with their guns?” Gladwyn replied through his interpreter, La Butte, that he had ordered the soldiers under arms for the sake of exercise and discipline.  With much delay and many signs of distrust, the chiefs at length sat down on the mats prepared for them; and, after the customary pause, Pontiac rose to speak.  Holding in his hand the wampum belt which was to have given the fatal signal, he addressed the commandant, professing strong attachment to the English, and declaring, in Indian phrase, that he had come to smoke the pipe of peace, and brighten the chain of friendship.  The officers watched him keenly as he uttered these hollow words, fearing lest, though conscious that his designs were suspected, he might still attempt to accomplish them.  And once, it is said, he raised the wampum belt as if about to give the signal of attack.  But at that instant Gladwyn signed slightly with his hand.  The sudden clash of arms sounded from the passage without, and a drum rolling the charge filled the council-room with its stunning din.  At this, Pontiac stood like one confounded.  Some writers will have it, that Gladwyn, rising from his seat, drew the chief’s blanket aside, exposed the hidden gun, and sternly rebuked him for his treachery.  But the commandant wished only to prevent the consummation of the plot, without bringing on an open rupture.  His own letters affirm that he and his officers remained seated as before.  Pontiac, seeing his unruffled brow and his calm eye fixed steadfastly upon him, knew not what to think, and soon sat down in amazement and perplexity.  Another pause ensued, and Gladwyn commenced a brief reply.  He assured the chiefs that friendship and protection should be extended towards them as long as they continued to deserve it, but threatened ample vengeance for the first act of aggression.  

The council then broke up; but, before leaving the room, Pontiac told the officers that he would return in a few days, with his squaws and children, for he wished that they should all shake hands with their fathers the English.  To this new piece of treachery Gladwyn deigned no reply.  The gates of the fort, which had been closed during the conference, were again flung open, and the baffled savages were suffered to depart, rejoiced, no doubt, to breathe once more the free air of the open fields.

Gladwyn has been censured, and perhaps with justice, for not detaining the chiefs as hostages for the good conduct of their followers.  An entrapped wolf meets no quarter from the huntsman; and a savage, caught in his treachery, has no claim to forbearance.  Perhaps the commandant feared lest, should he arrest the chiefs when gathered at a public council, and guiltless as yet of open violence, the act might be interpreted as cowardly and dishonorable.  He was ignorant, moreover, of the true nature of the plot.  In his view, the whole affair was one of those impulsive outbreaks so common among Indians; and he trusted that, could an immediate rupture be averted, the threatening clouds would soon blow over.

Here, and elsewhere, the conduct of Pontiac is marked with the blackest treachery; and one cannot but lament that a commanding  and magnanimous nature should be stained with the odious vice of cowards and traitors.  He could govern, with almost despotic sway, a race unruly as the winds.  In generous thought and deed, he rivalled the heroes of ancient story; and craft and cunning might well seem alien to a mind like his.  Yet Pontiac was a thorough savage, and in him stand forth, in strongest light and shadow, the native faults and virtues of the Indian race.  All children, says Sir Walter Scott, are naturally liars; and truth and honor are developments of later education.  Barbarism is to civilization what childhood is to maturity; and all savages, whatever may be their country, their color, or their lineage, are prone to treachery and deceit.  The barbarous ancestors of our own frank and manly race are no less obnoxious to the charge than those of the cat-like Bengalee; for in this childhood of society brave men and cowards are treacherous alike.
The Indian differs widely from the European in his notion of military virtue.  In his view, artifice is wisdom; and he honors the skill that can circumvent, no less than the valor that can subdue, an adversary.  The object of war, he argues, is to destroy the enemy.  To accomplish this end, all means are honorable; and it is folly, not bravery, to incur a needless risk.  Had Pontiac ordered his followers to storm the palisades of Detroit, not one of them would have obeyed him.  They might, indeed, after their strange superstition, have reverenced him as a madman; but, from that hour, his fame as a war-chief would have sunk forever.

Balked in his treachery, the great chief withdrew to his village, enraged and mortified, yet still resolved to persevere.  That Gladwyn had suffered him to escape, was to his mind an ample proof either of cowardice or ignorance.  The latter supposition seemed the more probable; and he resolved to visit the English once more, and convince them, if possible, that their suspicions against him were unfounded.  Early on the following morning, he repaired to the fort with three of his chiefs, bearing in his hand the sacred calumet, or pipe of peace, its bowl carved in stone, and its stem adorned with feathers.  Offering it to the commandant, he addressed him and his officers to the following effect: “My fathers, evil birds  have sung lies in your ear.  We that stand before you are friends of the English.  We love them as our brothers; and, to prove our love, we have come this day to smoke the pipe of peace.” At his departure, he gave the pipe to Captain Campbell, second in command, as a farther pledge of his sincerity.

That afternoon, the better to cover his designs, Pontiac called the young men of all the tribes to a game of ball, which took place, with great noise and shouting, on the neighboring fields.  At nightfall, the garrison were startled by a burst of loud, shrill yells.  The drums beat to arms, and the troops were ordered to their posts; but the alarm was caused only by the victors in the ball-play, who were announcing their success by these discordant outcries.  Meanwhile, Pontiac was in the Pottawattamie village, consulting with the chiefs of that tribe, and with the Wyandots, by what means they might compass the ruin of the English.

Early on the following morning, Monday, the ninth of May, the French inhabitants went in procession to the principal church of the settlement, which stood near the river bank, about half a mile above the fort.  Having heard mass, they all returned before eleven o’clock, without discovering any signs that the Indians meditated an immediate act of hostility.  Scarcely, however, had they done so, when the common behind the fort was once more thronged with Indians of all the four tribes; and Pontiac, advancing from among the multitude, approached the gate.  It was closed and barred against him.  He shouted to the sentinels, and demanded why he was refused admittance.  Gladwyn himself replied, that the great chief might enter, if he chose, but that the crowd he had brought with him must remain outside.  Pontiac rejoined, that he wished all his warriors to enjoy the fragrance of the friendly calumet.  Gladwyn’s answer was more concise than courteous, and imported that he would have none of his rabble in the fort.  Thus repulsed, Pontiac threw off the mask which he had worn so long.  With a grin of hate and rage, he turned abruptly from the gate, and strode towards his followers, who, in great multitudes, lay flat upon the ground, just beyond reach of gunshot.  At his approach, they all leaped up  and ran off, “yelping,” in the words of an eye-witness, “like so many devils.”

Looking out from the loopholes, the garrison could see them running in a body towards the house of an old English woman, who lived, with her family, on a distant part of the common.  They beat down the doors, and rushed tumultuously in.  A moment more, and the mournful scalp-yell told the fate of the wretched inmates.  Another large body ran, yelling, to the river bank, and, leaping into their canoes, paddled with all speed to the Isle au Cochon, where dwelt an Englishman, named Fisher, formerly a sergeant of the regulars.

They soon dragged him from the hiding-place where he had sought refuge, murdered him on the spot, took his scalp, and made great rejoicings over this miserable trophy of brutal malice.  On the following day, several Canadians crossed over to the island to inter the body, which they accomplished, as they thought, very effectually.  Tradition, however, relates, as undoubted truth, that when, a few days after, some of the party returned to the spot, they beheld the pale hands of the dead man thrust above the ground, in an attitude of eager entreaty.  Having once more covered the refractory members with earth, they departed, in great wonder and awe; but what was their amazement, when, on returning a second time, they saw the hands protruding as before.  At this, they repaired in horror to the priest, who hastened to the spot, sprinkled the grave with holy water, and performed over it the neglected rites of burial.  Thenceforth, says the tradition, the corpse of the murdered soldier slept in peace.

Pontiac had borne no part in the wolfish deeds of his followers.  When he saw his plan defeated, he turned towards the shore; and no man durst approach him, for he was terrible in his rage.  Pushing a canoe from the bank, he urged it with vigorous strokes, against the current, towards the Ottawa village, on the farther side.  As he drew near, he shouted to the inmates.  None remained in the lodges but women, children, and old men, who all came flocking out at the sound of his  imperious voice.  Pointing across the water, he ordered that all should prepare to move the camp to the western shore, that the river might no longer interpose a barrier between his followers and the English.  The squaws labored with eager alacrity to obey him.  Provisions, utensils, weapons, and even the bark covering to the lodges, were carried to the shore; and before evening all was ready for embarkation.  Meantime, the warriors had come dropping in from their bloody work, until, at nightfall, nearly all had returned.  Then Pontiac, hideous in his war-paint, leaped into the central area of the village.  Brandishing his tomahawk, and stamping on the ground, he recounted his former exploits, and denounced vengeance on the English.  The Indians flocked about him.  Warrior after warrior caught the fierce contagion, and soon the ring was filled with dancers, circling round and round with frantic gesture, and startling the distant garrison with unearthly yells.

The war-dance over, the work of embarkation was commenced, and long before morning the transfer was complete.  The whole Ottawa population crossed the river, and pitched their wigwams on the western side, just above the mouth of the little stream then known as Parent’s Creek, but since named Bloody Run, from the scenes of terror which it witnessed.

During the evening, fresh tidings of disaster reached the fort.  A Canadian, named Desnoyers, came down the river in a birch canoe, and, landing at the water-gate, brought news that two English officers, Sir Robert Davers and Captain Robertson, had been waylaid and murdered by the Indians, above Lake St.  Clair.  The Canadian declared, moreover, that  Pontiac had just been joined by a formidable band of Ojibwas, from the Bay of Saginaw.  These were a peculiarly ferocious horde, and their wretched descendants still retain the character.

Every Englishman in the fort, whether trader or soldier, was now ordered under arms.  No man lay down to sleep, and Gladwyn himself walked the ramparts throughout the night.
All was quiet till the approach of dawn.  But as the first dim redness tinged the east, and fields and woods grew visible in the morning twilight, suddenly the war-whoop rose on every side at once.  As wolves assail the wounded bison, howling their gathering cries across the wintry prairie, so the fierce Indians, pealing their terrific yells, came bounding naked to the assault.  The men hastened to their posts.  And truly it was time; for not the Ottawas alone, but the whole barbarian swarm—Wyandots, Pottawattamies, and Ojibwas—were upon them, and bullets rapped hard and fast against the palisades.  The soldiers looked from the loopholes, thinking to see their assailants gathering for a rush against the feeble barrier.  But, though their clamors filled the air, and their guns blazed thick and hot, yet very few were visible.  Some were ensconced behind barns and fences, some skulked among bushes, and some lay flat in hollows of the ground; while those who could find no shelter were leaping about with the agility of monkeys, to dodge the shot of the fort.  Each had filled his mouth with bullets, for the convenience of loading, and each was charging and firing without suspending these agile gymnastics for a moment.  There was one low hill, at no great distance from the fort, behind which countless black heads of Indians alternately appeared and vanished; while, all along the ridge, their guns emitted incessant white puffs of smoke.  Every loophole was a target for their bullets; but the fire was returned with steadiness, and not without effect.  The Canadian engagés of the fur-traders retorted the Indian war-whoops with outcries not less discordant, while the British and provincials paid back the clamor of the enemy with musket and rifle balls.  Within half gunshot of the palisades was a cluster of outbuildings, behind which a host of Indians found shelter.  A cannon was brought to bear upon them, loaded with red-hot spikes.  They were soon wrapped in flames, upon which the disconcerted savages broke away in a body, and ran off yelping, followed by a shout of laughter from the soldiers.

For six hours, the attack was unabated; but as the day advanced, the assailants grew weary of their futile efforts.  Their fire slackened, their clamors died away, and the garrison was left once more in peace, though from time to time a solitary shot, or lonely whoop, still showed the presence of some lingering savage, loath to be balked of his revenge.  Among the garrison, only five men had been wounded, while the cautious enemy had suffered but trifling loss.

Gladwyn was still convinced that the whole affair was a sudden ebullition, which would soon subside; and being, moreover, in great want of provisions, he resolved to open negotiations with the Indians, under cover of which he might obtain the necessary supplies.  The interpreter, La Butte, who, like most of his countrymen, might be said to hold a neutral position between the English and the Indians, was despatched to the camp of Pontiac, to demand the reasons of his conduct, and declare that the commandant was ready to redress any real grievance of which he might complain.  Two old Canadians of Detroit, Chapeton and Godefroy, earnest to forward the negotiation, offered to accompany him.  The gates were opened for their departure, and many other inhabitants of the place took this opportunity of leaving it, alleging as their motive, that they did not wish to see the approaching slaughter of the English.

Reaching the Indian Camp, the three ambassadors were received by Pontiac with great apparent kindness.  La Butte delivered his message, and the two Canadians labored to dissuade the chief, for his own good and for theirs, from pursuing his hostile purposes.  Pontiac stood listening, armed with the true impenetrability of an Indian.  At every proposal, he uttered an ejaculation of assent, partly from a strange notion of courtesy peculiar to his race, and partly from the deep dissimulation which seems native to their blood.  Yet with all this seeming acquiescence, the heart of the savage was unmoved as a rock.  The Canadians were completely deceived.  Leaving Chapeton and Godefroy to continue the conference and push the fancied advantage, La Butte hastened back to the fort.  He reported the happy issue of his mission, and added that peace might readily be had by making the Indians a few presents, for which they are always rapaciously eager.  When, however, he returned to the Indian camp, he found, to his chagrin, that his companions had made no progress in the negotiation.  Though still professing a strong desire for peace, Pontiac had evaded every definite proposal.  At La Butte’s appearance, all the chiefs withdrew to consult among themselves.  They returned after a short debate, and Pontiac declared that, out of their earnest desire for firm and lasting peace, they wished to hold council with their English fathers themselves.  With this view, they were especially desirous that Captain Campbell, second in command, should visit their camp.  

This veteran officer, from his just, upright, and manly character, had gained the confidence of the Indians.  To the Canadians the proposal seemed a natural one, and returning to the fort, they laid it before the commandant.  Gladwyn suspected treachery, but Captain Campbell urgently asked permission to comply with the request of Pontiac.  He felt, he said, no fear of the Indians, with whom he had always maintained the most friendly terms.  Gladwyn, with some hesitation, acceded; and Campbell left the fort, accompanied by a junior officer, Lieutenant M’Dougal, and attended by La Butte and several other Canadians.

In the mean time, M.  Gouin, anxious to learn what was passing, had entered the Indian camp, and, moving from lodge to lodge, soon saw and heard enough to convince him that the two British officers were advancing into the lion’s jaws.  He hastened to despatch two messengers to warn them  of the peril.  The party had scarcely left the gate when they were met by these men, breathless with running; but the warning came too late.  Once embarked on the embassy, the officers would not be diverted from it; and passing up the river road, they approached the little wooden bridge that led over Parent’s Creek.  Crossing this bridge, and ascending a rising ground beyond, they saw before them the wide-spread camp of the Ottawas.  A dark multitude gathered along its outskirts, and no sooner did they recognize the red uniform of the officers, than they all raised at once a horrible outcry of whoops and howlings.  Indeed, they seemed disposed to give the ambassadors the reception usually accorded to captives taken in war; for the women seized sticks, stones, and clubs, and ran towards Campbell and his companion, as if to make them pass the cruel ordeal of running the gauntlet Pontiac came forward, and his voice allayed the tumult.  He shook the officers by the hand, and, turning, led the way through the camp.  It was a confused assemblage of huts, chiefly of a conical or half-spherical shape, and constructed of a slender framework covered with rush mats or sheets of birch-bark.  Many of the graceful birch canoes, used by the Indians of the upper lakes, were lying here and there among paddles, fish-spears, and blackened kettles slung above the embers of the fires.  The camp was full of lean, wolfish dogs, who, roused by the clamor of their owners, kept up a discordant baying as the strangers passed.  Pontiac paused before the entrance of a large lodge, and, entering, pointed to several mats placed on the ground, at the side opposite the opening.  Here, obedient to his signal, the two officers sat down.  Instantly the lodge was thronged with savages.  Some, and these were for the most part chiefs, or old men, seated themselves on the ground before the strangers; while the remaining space was filled by a dense crowd, crouching or standing erect, and peering over each other’s shoulders.  At their first entrance, Pontiac had spoken a few words.  A pause then ensued, broken at length by Campbell, who from his seat addressed the Indians in a short speech.  It was heard in perfect silence, and no reply was made.  For a full hour, the unfortunate officers saw before them the same concourse of dark, inscrutable faces, bending an unwavering gaze upon them.  Some were passing out, and others coming in to supply their places, and indulge their curiosity by a sight of the Englishmen.  At length, Captain Campbell, conscious, no doubt, of the danger in which he was placed, resolved fully to ascertain his true position, and, rising to his feet, declared his intention of returning to the fort.  Pontiac made a sign that he should resume his seat.  “My father,” he said, “will sleep to-night in the lodges of his red children.” The gray-haired soldier and his companion were betrayed into the hands of their enemies.
Many of the Indians were eager to kill the captives on the spot, but Pontiac would not carry his treachery so far.  He protected them from injury and insult, and conducted them to the house of M.  Meloche, near Parent’s Creek, where good quarters were assigned them, and as much liberty allowed as was consistent with safe custody.  The peril of their situation was diminished by the circumstance that two Indians, who, several days before, had been detained at the fort for some slight offence, still remained prisoners in the power of the commandant.

Late in the evening, La Butte, the interpreter, returned to the fort.  His face wore a sad and downcast look, which sufficiently expressed the melancholy tidings that he brought.  On hearing his account, some of the officers suspected, though probably without ground, that he was privy to the detention of the two ambassadors; and La Butte, feeling himself an object of distrust, lingered about the streets, sullen and silent, like the Indians among whom his rough life had been spent.