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THE CONSPIRACY OF PONTIAC V2
Chapter 18

1763.

FRONTIER FORTS AND SETTLEMENTS.

We have followed the war to its farthest confines, and watched it in its remotest operations; not because there is any thing especially worthy to be chronicled in the capture of a backwoods fort, and the slaughter of a few soldiers, but because these acts exhibit some of the characteristic traits of the actors.  It was along the line of the British frontier that the war raged with its most destructive violence.  To destroy the garrisons, and then turn upon the settlements, had been the original plan of the Indians; and while Pontiac was pushing the siege of Detroit, and the smaller interior posts were treacherously assailed, the tempest was gathering which was soon to burst along the whole frontier.

In 1763, the British settlements did not extend beyond the Alleghanies.  In the province of New York, they reached no farther than the German Flats, on the Mohawk.  In Pennsylvania, the town of Bedford might be regarded as the extreme verge of the frontier, while the settlements of Virginia extended to a corresponding distance.  Through the adjacent wilderness ran various lines of military posts, to make good the communication from point to point.  One of the most important among these passed through the country of the Six Nations, and guarded the route between the northern colonies and Lake Ontario.  This communication was formed by the Hudson, the Mohawk, Wood Creek, the Oneida Lake, and the River Oswego.  It was defended by Forts Stanwix, Brewerton, Oswego, and two or three smaller posts.  Near the western extremity of Lake Ontario stood Fort Niagara, at the mouth of the river whence it derived its name.  It was a strong and extensive work, guarding the access to the whole interior country, both by way of the Oswego communication just mentioned, and by that of Canada and the Saint Lawrence.  From Fort Niagara the route lay by a portage beside the great falls to Presqu’ Isle, on Lake Erie, where the town of Erie now stands.  Thence the traveller could pass, by a short overland passage, to Fort Le Bœuf, on a branch of the Alleghany; thence, by water, to Venango; and thence, down the Alleghany, to Fort Pitt.  This last-mentioned post stood on the present site of Pittsburg—the point of land formed by the confluence of the Alleghany and the Monongahela.  Its position was as captivating to the eye of an artist as it was commanding in a military point of view.  On the left, the Monongahela descended through a woody valley of singular beauty; on the right, flowed the Alleghany, beneath steep and lofty banks; and both united, in front, to form the broad Ohio, which, flanked by picturesque hills and declivities, began at this point its progress towards the Mississippi.  The place already had its historic associations, though, as yet, their roughness was unmellowed by the lapse of time.  It was here that the French had erected Fort du Quesne.  Within a few miles, Braddock encountered his disastrous overthrow; and on the hill behind the fort, Grant’s Highlanders and Lewis’s Virginians had been surrounded and captured, though not without a stout resistance on the part of the latter.

Fort Pitt was built by General Stanwix, in the year 1759, upon the ruins of Fort du Quesne, destroyed by General Forbes.  It was a strong fortification, with ramparts of earth, faced with brick on the side looking down the Ohio.  Its walls have long since been levelled to the ground, and over their ruins have risen warehouses, and forges with countless chimneys, rolling up their black volumes of smoke.  Where once the bark canoe lay on the strand, a throng of steamers now lie moored along the crowded levee.

Fort Pitt stood far aloof in the forest, and one might journey eastward full two hundred miles, before the English settlements began to thicken.  Behind it lay a broken and woody tract; then succeeded the great barrier of the Alleghanies, traversing the country in successive ridges; and beyond these lay vast woods, extending to the Susquehanna.  Eastward of this river, cabins of settlers became more numerous, until, in the neighborhood of Lancaster, the country assumed an appearance of prosperity and cultivation.  Two roads led from Fort Pitt to the settlements, one of which was cut by General Braddock in his disastrous march across the mountains, from Cumberland, in the year 1755.  The other, which was the more frequented, passed by Carlisle and Bedford, and was made by General Forbes, in 1758.  Leaving the fort by this latter route, the traveller would find himself, after a journey of fifty-six miles, at the little post of Ligonier, whence he would soon reach Fort Bedford, about a hundred miles from Fort Pitt.  It was nestled among mountains, and surrounded by clearings and log cabins.  Passing several small posts and settlements, he would arrive at Carlisle, nearly a hundred miles farther east, a place resembling Bedford in its general aspect, although of greater extent.  After leaving Fort Bedford, numerous houses of settlers were scattered here and there among the valleys, on each side of the road from Fort Pitt, so that the number of families beyond the Susquehanna amounted to several hundreds, thinly distributed over a great space.  From Carlisle to Harris’s Ferry, now Harrisburg, on the Susquehanna, was but a short distance; and from thence, the road led directly into the heart of the settlements.  The frontiers of Virginia bore a general resemblance to those of Pennsylvania.  It is not necessary at present to indicate minutely the position of their scattered settlements, and the small posts intended to protect them.  Along these borders all had remained quiet, and nothing occurred to excite alarm or uneasiness.  Captain Simeon Ecuyer, a brave Swiss officer, who commanded at Fort Pitt, had indeed received warnings of danger.  On the fourth of May, he wrote to Colonel Bouquet at Philadelphia: “Major Gladwyn writes to tell me that I am surrounded by rascals.  He complains a great deal of the Delawares and Shawanoes.  It is this canaille who stir up the rest to mischief.” At length, on the twenty-seventh, at about dusk in the evening, a party of Indians was seen descending the banks of the Alleghany, with laden pack-horses.  They built fires, and encamped on the shore till daybreak, when they all crossed over to the fort, bringing with them a great quantity of valuable furs.  These they sold to the traders, demanding, in exchange, bullets, hatchets, and gunpowder; but their conduct was so peculiar as to excite the just suspicion that they came either as spies or with some other insidious design.  Hardly were they gone, when tidings came in that Colonel Clapham, with several persons, both men and women, had been murdered and scalped near the fort; and it was soon after discovered that the inhabitants of an Indian town, a few miles up the Alleghany, had totally abandoned their cabins, as if bent on some plan of mischief.  On the next day, two soldiers were shot within a mile of the fort.  An express was hastily sent to Venango, to warn the little garrison of danger; but he returned almost immediately, having been twice fired at, and severely wounded.  A trader named Calhoun now came in from the Indian village of Tuscaroras, with intelligence of a yet more startling kind.  At eleven o’clock on the night of the twenty-seventh, a chief named Shingas, with several of the principal warriors in the place, had come to Calhoun’s cabin, and earnestly begged him to depart, declaring that they did not wish to see him killed before their eyes.  The Ottawas and Ojibwas, they said, had taken up the hatchet, and captured Detroit, Sandusky, and all the forts of the interior.  The Delawares and Shawanoes of the Ohio were following their example, and were murdering all the traders among them.  Calhoun and the thirteen men in his employ lost no time in taking their departure.  The Indians forced them to leave their guns behind, promising that they would give them three warriors to guide them in safety to Fort Pitt; but the whole proved a piece of characteristic dissimulation and treachery.  The three guides led them into an ambuscade at the mouth of Beaver Creek.  A volley of balls showered upon them; eleven were killed on the spot, and Calhoun and two others alone made their escape.  “I see,” writes Ecuyer to his colonel, “that the affair is general.  I tremble for our outposts.  I believe, from what I hear, that I am surrounded by Indians.  I neglect nothing to give them a good reception; and I expect to be attacked to-morrow morning.  Please God I may be.  I am passably well prepared.  Everybody is at work, and I do not sleep; but I tremble lest my messenger should be cut off.”

The intelligence concerning the fate of the traders in the Indian villages proved but too true.  They were slaughtered everywhere, without mercy, and often under circumstances of the foulest barbarity.  A boy named M’Cullough, captured during the French war, and at this time a prisoner among the Indians, relates, in his published narrative, that he, with a party of Indian children, went out, one evening, to gaze with awe and wonder at the body of a trader, which lay by the side of the path, mangled with tomahawks, and stuck full of arrows.  It was stated in the journals of the day, that more than a hundred traders fell victims, and that the property taken from them, or seized at the capture of the interior posts, amounted to an incredible sum.

The Moravian Loskiel relates that in the villages of the Hurons or Wyandots, meaning probably those of Sandusky, the traders were so numerous that the Indians were afraid to attack them openly, and had recourse to the following stratagem: They told their unsuspecting victims that the surrounding tribes had risen in arms, and were soon coming that way, bent on killing every Englishman they could find.  The Wyandots averred that they would gladly protect their friends, the white men; but that it would be impossible to do so, unless the latter would consent, for the sake of appearances, to become their prisoners.  In this case, they said, the hostile Indians would refrain from injuring them, and they should be set at liberty as soon as the danger was past.  The traders fell into the snare.  They gave up their arms, and, the better to carry out the deception, even consented to be bound; but no sooner was this accomplished, than their treacherous counsellors murdered them all in cold blood.

A curious incident, relating to this period, is given by the missionary Heckewelder.  Strange as the story may appear, it is in strict accordance with Indian character and usage, and perhaps need not be rejected as wholly void of truth.  The name of the person, to whom it relates, several times occurs in the manuscript journals and correspondence of officers in the Indian country.  A trader named Chapman was made prisoner by the Indians near Detroit.  For some time, he was protected by the humane interference of a Frenchman; but at length his captors resolved to burn him alive.  He was tied to the stake, and the fire was kindled.  As the heat grew intolerable, one of the Indians handed to him a bowl filled with broth.  The wretched man, scorching with fiery thirst, eagerly snatched the vessel, and applied it to his lips; but the liquid was purposely made scalding hot.  With a sudden burst of rage, he flung back the bowl and its contents into the face of the Indian.  “He is mad! he is mad!” shouted the crowd; and though, the moment before, they had been keenly anticipating the delight of seeing him burn, they hastily put out the fire, released him from the stake, and set him at liberty.  Such is the superstitious respect which the Indians entertain for every form of insanity.

While the alarming incidents just mentioned were occurring at Fort Pitt, the garrison of Fort Ligonier received yet more unequivocal tokens of hostility; for one morning a volley of bullets was sent among them, with no other effect, however, than killing a few horses.  In the vicinity of Fort Bedford, several men were killed; on which the inhabitants were mustered and organized, and the garrison kept constantly on the alert.  A few of the best woodsmen were formed into a company, dressed and painted like Indians.  A party of the enemy suddenly appeared, whooping and brandishing their tomahawks, at the skirts of the forest; on which these counterfeit savages dashed upon them at full gallop, routing them in an instant, and driving them far through the woods.

At Fort Pitt every preparation was made for an attack.  The houses and cabins outside the rampart were levelled to the ground, and every morning, at an hour before dawn, the drum beat, and the troops were ordered to their alarm posts.  The garrison consisted of three hundred and thirty soldiers, traders, and backwoodsmen; and there were also in the fort about one hundred women, and a still greater number of children, most of them belonging to the families of settlers who were preparing to build their cabins in the neighborhood.  “We are so crowded in the fort,” writes Ecuyer to Colonel Bouquet, “that I fear disease; for, in spite of every care, I cannot keep the place as clean as I should like.  Besides, the small-pox is among us; and I have therefore caused a hospital to be built under the drawbridge, out of range of musket-shot....  I am determined to hold my post, spare my men, and never expose them without necessity.  This, I think, is what you require of me.” The desultory outrages with which the war began, and which only served to put the garrison on their guard, prove that among the neighboring Indians there was no chief of sufficient power to curb their wayward temper, and force them to conform to any preconcerted plan.  The authors of the mischief were unruly young warriors, fevered with eagerness to win the first scalp, and setting at defiance the authority of their elders.  These petty annoyances, far from abating, continued for many successive days, and kept the garrison in a state of restless alarm.  It was dangerous to venture outside the walls, and a few who attempted it were shot and scalped by lurking Indians.  “They have the impudence,” writes an officer, “to fire all night at our sentinels;” nor were these attacks confined to the night, for even during the day no man willingly exposed his head above the rampart.  The surrounding woods were known to be full of prowling Indians, whose number seemed daily increasing, though as yet they had made no attempt at a general attack.  At length, on the afternoon of the twenty-second of June, a party of them appeared at the farthest extremity of the cleared lands behind the fort, driving off the horses which were grazing there, and killing the cattle.  No sooner was this accomplished than a general fire was opened upon the fort from every side at once, though at so great a distance that only two men were killed.  The garrison replied by a discharge of howitzers, the shells of which, bursting in the midst of the Indians, greatly amazed and disconcerted them.  As it grew dark, their fire slackened, though, throughout the night, the flash of guns was seen at frequent intervals, followed by the whooping of the invisible assailants.

At nine o’clock on the following morning, several Indians approached the fort with the utmost confidence, and took their stand at the outer edge of the ditch, where one of them, a Delaware, named the Turtle’s Heart, addressed the garrison as follows:—

“My Brothers, we that stand here are your friends; but we have bad news to tell you.  Six great nations of Indians have taken up the hatchet, and cut off all the English garrisons, excepting yours.  They are now on their way to destroy you also.

“My Brothers, we are your friends, and we wish to save your lives.  What we desire you to do is this: You must leave this fort, with all your women and children, and go down to the English settlements, where you will be safe.  There are many bad Indians already here; but we will protect you from them.  You must go at once, because if you wait till the six great nations arrive here, you will all be killed, and we can do nothing to protect you.”

To this proposal, by which the Indians hoped to gain a safe and easy possession of the fort, Captain Ecuyer made the following reply.  The vein of humor perceptible in it may serve to indicate that he was under no great apprehension for the safety of his garrison:—

“My Brothers, we are very grateful for your kindness, though we are convinced that you must be mistaken in what you have told us about the forts being captured.  As for ourselves, we have plenty of provisions, and are able to keep the fort against all the nations of Indians that may dare to attack it.  We are very well off in this place, and we mean to stay here.

“My Brothers, as you have shown yourselves such true friends, we feel bound in gratitude to inform you that an army of six thousand English will shortly arrive here, and that another army of three thousand is gone up the lakes, to punish the Ottawas and Ojibwas.  A third has gone to the frontiers of Virginia, where they will be joined by your enemies, the Cherokees and Catawbas, who are coming here to destroy you.  Therefore take pity on your women and children, and get out of the way as soon as possible.  We have told you this in confidence, out of our great solicitude lest any of you should be hurt; and we hope that you will not tell the other Indians, lest they should escape from our vengeance.”
 
This politic invention of the three armies had an excellent effect, and so startled the Indians, that, on the next day, most of them withdrew from the neighborhood, and went to meet a great body of warriors, who were advancing from the westward to attack the fort.  On the afternoon of the twenty-sixth, a soldier named Gray, belonging to the garrison of Presqu’ Isle, came in with the report that, more than a week before, that little post had been furiously attacked by upwards of two hundred Indians from Detroit, that they had assailed it for three days, repeatedly setting it on fire, and had at length undermined it so completely, that the garrison was forced to capitulate, on condition of being allowed to retire in safety to Fort Pitt.  No sooner, however, had they left their shelter, than the Indians fell upon them, and, as Gray declared, butchered them all, except himself and one other man, who darted into the woods, and escaped amid the confusion, hearing behind them, as they fled, the screams of their murdered comrades.  This account proved erroneous, as the garrison were carried by their captors in safety to Detroit.  Some time after this event, Captain Dalzell’s detachment, on their way to Detroit, stopped at the place, and found, close to the ruined fort, the hair of several of the men, which had been shorn off, as a preliminary step in the process of painting and bedecking them like Indian warriors.  From this it appears that some of the unfortunate soldiers were adopted on the spot into the tribes of their conquerors.  In a previous chapter, a detailed account has been given of the defence of Presqu’ Isle, and its capture.

Gray informed Captain Ecuyer that, a few days before the attack on the garrison, they had seen a schooner on the lake, approaching from the westward.  She had sent a boat to shore with the tidings that Detroit had been beleaguered, for more than six weeks, by many hundred Indians, and that a detachment of ninety-six men had been attacked near that place, of whom only about thirty had escaped, the rest being either killed on the spot or put to death by slow torture.  The panic-stricken soldier, in his flight from Presqu’ Isle, had passed the spots where lately had stood the little forts of Le Bœuf and Venango.  Both were burnt to the ground, and he surmised that the whole of their wretched garrisons had fallen victims.  The disaster proved less fatal than his fears led him to suspect; for, on the same day on which he arrived, Ensign Price, the officer commanding at Le Bœuf, was seen approaching along the bank of the Alleghany, followed by seven haggard and half-famished soldiers.  He and his men told the following story:--

The available defences of Fort Le Bœuf consisted, at the time, of a single ill-constructed blockhouse, occupied by the ensign, with two corporals and eleven privates.  They had only about twenty rounds of ammunition each; and the powder, moreover, was in a damaged condition.  At nine or ten o’clock, on the morning of the eighteenth of June, a soldier told Price that he saw Indians approaching from the direction of Presqu’ Isle.  Price ran to the door, and, looking out, saw one of his men, apparently much frightened, shaking hands with five Indians.  He held open the door till the man had entered, the five Indians following close, after having, in obedience to a sign from Price, left their weapons behind.  They declared that they were going to fight the Cherokees, and begged for powder and ball.  This being refused, they asked leave to sleep on the ground before the blockhouse.  Price assented, on which one of them went off, but very soon returned with thirty more, who crowded before the window of the blockhouse, and begged for a kettle to cook their food.  Price tried to give them one through the window, but the aperture proved too narrow, and they grew clamorous that he should open the door again.  This he refused.  They then went to a neighboring storehouse, pulled out some of the foundation stones, and got into the cellar; whence, by knocking away one or two planks immediately above the sill of the building, they could fire on the garrison in perfect safety, being below the range of shot from the loopholes of the blockhouse, which was not ten yards distant.  Here they remained some hours, making their preparations, while the garrison waited in suspense, cooped up in their wooden citadel.  Towards evening, they opened fire, and shot such a number of burning arrows against the side and roof of the blockhouse, that three times it was in flames.  But the men worked desperately, and each time the fire was extinguished.  A fourth time the alarm was given; and now the men on the roof came down in despair, crying out that they could not extinguish it, and calling on their officer for God’s sake to let them leave the building, or they should all be burnt alive.  Price behaved with great spirit.  “We must fight as long as we can, and then die together,” was his answer to the entreaties of his disheartened men.  But he could not revive their drooping courage, and meanwhile the fire spread beyond all hope of mastering it.  They implored him to let them go, and at length the brave young officer told them to save themselves if they could.  It was time, for they were suffocating in their burning prison.  There was a narrow window in the back of the blockhouse, through which, with the help of axes, they all got out; and, favored by the darkness,—for night had closed in,—escaped to the neighboring pine-swamp, while the Indians, to make assurance doubly sure, were still showering fire-arrows against the front of the blazing building.  As the fugitives groped their way, in pitchy darkness, through the tangled intricacies of the swamp, they saw the sky behind them lurid with flames, and heard the reports of the Indians’ guns, as these painted demons were leaping and yelling in front of the flaming blockhouse, firing into the loopholes, and exulting in the thought that their enemies were suffering the agonies of death within.

Presqu’ Isle was but fifteen miles distant; but, from the direction in which his assailants had come, Price rightly judged that it had been captured, and therefore resolved to make his way, if possible, to Venango, and reinforce Lieutenant Gordon, who commanded there.  A soldier named John Dortinger, who had been sixteen months at Le Bœuf, thought that he could guide the party, but lost the way in the darkness; so that, after struggling all night through swamps and forests, they found themselves at daybreak only two miles from their point of departure.  Just before dawn, several of the men became separated from the rest.  Price and those with him waited for some time, whistling, coughing, and making such other signals as they dared, to attract their attention, but without success, and they were forced to proceed without them.  Their only provisions were three biscuits to a man.  They pushed on all day, and reached Venango at one o’clock of the following night.  Nothing remained but piles of smouldering embers, among which lay the half-burned bodies of its hapless garrison.  They now continued their journey down the Alleghany.  On the third night their last biscuit was consumed, and they were half dead with hunger and exhaustion before their eyes were gladdened at length by the friendly walls of Fort Pitt.  Of those who had straggled from the party, all eventually appeared but two, who, spent with starvation, had been left behind, and no doubt perished.

Not a man remained alive to tell the fate of Venango.  An Indian, who was present at its destruction, long afterwards described the scene to Sir William Johnson.  A large body of Senecas gained entrance under pretence of friendship, then closed the gates, fell upon the garrison, and butchered them all except the commanding officer, Lieutenant Gordon, whom they forced to write, from their dictation, a statement of the grievances which had driven them to arms, and then tortured over a slow fire for several successive nights, till he expired.  This done, they burned the place to the ground, and departed.

While Le Bœuf and Venango were thus assailed, Fort Ligonier was also attacked by a large body of Indians, who fired upon it with great fury and pertinacity, but were beaten off after a hard day’s fighting.  Fort Augusta, on the Susquehanna, was at the same time menaced; but the garrison being strengthened by a timely re-enforcement, the Indians abandoned their purpose.  Carlisle, Bedford, and the small intermediate posts, all experienced some effects of savage hostility; while among the settlers, whose houses were scattered throughout the adjacent valleys, outrages were perpetrated, and sufferings endured, which defy all attempt at description.

At Fort Pitt, every preparation was made to repel the attack which was hourly expected.  A part of the rampart, undermined by the spring floods, had fallen into the ditch; but, by dint of great labor, this injury was repaired.  A line of palisades was erected along the ramparts; the barracks were made shot-proof, to protect the women and children; and, as the interior buildings were all of wood, a rude fire-engine was constructed, to extinguish any flames which might be kindled by the burning arrows of the Indians.  Several weeks, however, elapsed without any determined attack from the enemy, who were engaged in their bloody work among the settlements and smaller posts.  From the beginning of July until towards its close, nothing occurred except a series of petty and futile attacks, by which the Indians abundantly exhibited their malicious intentions, without doing harm to the garrison.  During the whole of this time, the communication with the settlements was completely cut off, so that no letters were written from the fort, or, at all events, none reached their destination; and we are therefore left to depend upon a few meagre official reports, as our only sources of information.

On the twenty-sixth of July, a small party of Indians was seen approaching the gate, displaying a flag, which one of them had some time before received as a present from the English commander.  On the strength of this token, they were admitted, and proved to be chiefs of distinction; among whom were Shingas, Turtle’s Heart, and others, who had hitherto maintained an appearance of friendship.  Being admitted to a council, one of them addressed Captain Ecuyer and his officers to the following effect:—

“Brothers, what we are about to say comes from our hearts, and not from our lips.

“Brothers, we wish to hold fast the chain of friendship—that ancient chain which our forefathers held with their brethren the English.  You have let your end of the chain fall to the ground, but ours is still fast within our hands.  Why do you complain that our young men have fired at your soldiers, and killed your cattle and your horses? You yourselves are the cause of this.  You marched your armies into our country, and built forts here, though we told you, again and again, that we wished you to remove.  My Brothers, this land is ours, and not yours.

“My Brothers, two days ago we received a great belt of wampum from the Ottawas of Detroit, and the message they sent us was in these words:—

“‘Grandfathers the Delawares, by this belt we inform you that in a short time we intend to pass, in a very great body, through your country, on our way to strike the English at the forks of the Ohio.  Grandfathers, you know us to be a headstrong people.  We are determined to stop at nothing; and as we expect to be very hungry, we will seize and eat up every thing that comes in our way.’

“Brothers, you have heard the words of the Ottawas.  If you leave this place immediately, and go home to your wives and children, no harm will come of it; but if you stay, you must blame yourselves alone for what may happen.  Therefore we desire you to remove.”

To the not wholly unreasonable statement of wrongs contained in this speech, Captain Ecuyer replied, by urging the shallow pretence that the forts were built for the purpose of supplying the Indians with clothes and ammunition.  He then absolutely refused to leave the place.  “I have,” he said, “warriors, provisions, and ammunition, to defend it three years against all the Indians in the woods; and we shall never abandon it as long as a white man lives in America.  I despise the Ottawas, and am very much surprised at our brothers the Delawares, for proposing to us to leave this place and go home.  This is our home.  You have attacked us without reason or provocation; you have murdered and plundered our warriors and traders; you have taken our horses and cattle; and at the same time you tell us your hearts are good towards your brethren the English.  How can I have faith in you? Therefore, now, Brothers, I will advise you to go home to your towns, and take care of your wives and children.  Moreover, I tell you that if any of you appear again about this fort, I will throw bombshells, which will burst and blow you to atoms, and fire cannon among you, loaded with a whole bag full of bullets.  Therefore take care, for I don’t want to hurt you.”
 
The chiefs departed, much displeased with their reception.  Though nobody in his senses could blame the course pursued by Captain Ecuyer, and though the building of forts in the Indian country could not be charged as a crime, except by the most overstrained casuistry, yet we cannot refrain from sympathizing with the intolerable hardship to which the progress of civilization subjected the unfortunate tenants of the wilderness, and which goes far to extenuate the perfidy and cruelty that marked their conduct throughout the whole course of the war.

Disappointed of gaining a bloodless possession of the fort, the Indians now, for the first time, began a general attack.  On the night succeeding the conference, they approached in great numbers, under cover of the darkness, and completely surrounded it; many of them crawling under the banks of the two rivers, and, with incredible perseverance, digging, with their knives, holes in which they were completely sheltered from the fire of the fort.  On one side, the whole bank was lined with these burrows, from each of which a bullet or an arrow was shot out whenever a soldier chanced to expose his head.  At daybreak, a general fire was opened from every side, and continued without intermission until night, and through several succeeding days.  No great harm was done, however.  The soldiers lay close behind their parapet of logs, watching the movements of their subtle enemies, and paying back their shot with interest.  The red uniforms of the Royal Americans mingled with the gray homespun of the border riflemen, or the fringed hunting-frocks of old Indian-fighters, wary and adroit as the red-skinned warriors themselves.  They liked the sport, and were eager to sally from behind their defences, and bring their assailants to close quarters; but Ecuyer was too wise to consent.  He was among them, as well pleased as they, directing, encouraging, and applauding them in his broken English.  An arrow flew over the rampart and wounded him in the leg; but, it seems, with no other result than to extort a passing execration.  The Indians shot fire-arrows, too, from their burrows, but not one of them took effect.  The yelling at times was terrific, and the women and children in the crowded barracks clung to each other in terror; but there was more noise than execution, and the assailants suffered more than the assailed.  Three or four days after, Ecuyer wrote in French to his colonel, “They were all well under cover, and so were we.  They did us no harm: nobody killed; seven wounded, and I myself slightly.  Their attack lasted five days and five nights.  We are certain of having killed and wounded twenty of them, without reckoning those we could not see.  I let nobody fire till he had marked his man; and not an Indian could show his nose without being pricked with a bullet, for I have some good shots here....  Our men are doing admirably, regulars and the rest.  All that they ask is to go out and fight.  I am fortunate to have the honor of commanding such brave men.  I only wish the Indians had ventured an assault.  They would have remembered it to the thousandth generation!...  I forgot to tell you that they threw fire-arrows to burn our works, but they could not reach the buildings, nor even the rampart.  Only two arrows came into the fort, one of which had the insolence to make free with my left leg.”

This letter was written on the second of August.  On the day before the Indians had all decamped.  An event, soon to be described, had put an end to the attack, and relieved the tired garrison of their presence.