CHAPTER 16
1641-1644.
ISAAC JOGUES.
THE IROQUOIS WAR. JOGUES. HIS CAPTURE. HIS JOURNEY TO THE MOHAWKS.  LAKE GEORGE. THE MOHAWK TOWNS. THE MISSIONARY TORTURED.  DEATH OF GOUPIL. MISERY OF JOGUES. THE MOHAWK "BABYLON."  FORT ORANGE. ESCAPE OF JOGUES. MANHATTAN. THE VOYAGE TO FRANCE.  JOGUES AMONG HIS BRETHREN. HE RETURNS TO CANADA.
The waters of the Saint  Lawrence rolled through a virgin wilderness, where, in the vastness of the lonely woodlands, civilized man found a precarious harborage at three points only, at Quebec, at Montreal, and at Three Rivers.  Here and in the scattered missions was the whole of New France, a population of some three hundred souls in all.  And now, over these miserable settlements, rose a war-cloud of frightful portent.

It was thirty-two years since Champlain had first attacked the Iroquois.  They had nursed their wrath for more than a generation, and at length their hour was come.  The Dutch traders at Fort Orange, now Albany, had supplied them with fire-arms.  The Mohawks, the most easterly of the Iroquois nations, had, among their seven or eight hundred warriors, no less than three hundred armed with the arquebuse, a weapon somewhat like the modern carbine.  They were masters of the thunderbolts which, in the hands of Champlain, had struck terror into their hearts.

We have surveyed in the introductory chapter the character and organization of this ferocious people; their confederacy of five nations, bound together by a peculiar tie of clanship; their chiefs, half hereditary, half elective; their government, an oligarchy in form and a democracy in spirit; their minds, thoroughly savage, yet marked here and there with traits of a vigorous development.  The war which they had long waged with the Hurons was carried on by the Senecas and the other Western nations of their league; while the conduct of hostilities against the French and their Indian allies in Lower Canada was left to the Mohawks.  In parties of from ten to a hundred or more, they would leave their towns on the River Mohawk, descend Lake Champlain and the River Richelieu, lie in ambush on the banks of the Saint  Lawrence, and attack the passing boats or canoes.  Sometimes they hovered about the fortifications of Quebec and Three Rivers, killing stragglers, or luring armed parties into ambuscades.  They followed like hounds on the trail of travellers and hunters; broke in upon unguarded camps at midnight; and lay in wait, for days and weeks, to intercept the Huron traders on their yearly descent to Quebec.  Had they joined to their ferocious courage the discipline and the military knowledge that belong to civilization, they could easily have blotted out New France from the map, and made the banks of the Saint  Lawrence once more a solitude; but, though the most formidable of savages, they were savages only.

In the early morning of the second of August, 1642, twelve Huron canoes were moving slowly along the northern shore of the expansion of the Saint  Lawrence known as the Lake of Saint  Peter.  There were on board about forty persons, including four Frenchmen, one of them being the Jesuit, Isaac Jogues, whom we have already followed on his missionary journey to the towns of the Tobacco Nation.  In the interval he had not been idle.  During the last autumn, (1641,) he, with Father Charles Raymbault, had passed along the shore of Lake Huron northward, entered the strait through which Lake Superior discharges itself, pushed on as far as the Sault Sainte Marie, and preached the Faith to two thousand Ojibwas, and other Algonquins there assembled.  He was now on his return from a far more perilous errand.  The Huron mission was in a state of destitution.  There was need of clothing for the priests, of vessels for the altars, of bread and wine for the eucharist, of writing materials, in short, of everything; and, early in the summer of the present year, Jogues had descended to Three Rivers and Quebec with the Huron traders, to procure the necessary supplies.  He had accomplished his task, and was on his way back to the mission.  With him were a few Huron converts, and among them a noted Christian chief, Eustache Ahatsistari.  Others of the party were in course of instruction for baptism; but the greater part were heathen, whose canoes were deeply laden with the proceeds of their bargains with the French fur-traders.

Jogues sat in one of the leading canoes.  He was born at Orleans in 1607, and was thirty-five years of age.  His oval face and the delicate mould of his features indicated a modest, thoughtful, and refined nature.  He was constitutionally timid, with a sensitive conscience and great religious susceptibilities.  He was a finished scholar, and might have gained a literary reputation; but he had chosen another career, and one for which he seemed but ill fitted.  Physically, however, he was well matched with his work; for, though his frame was slight, he was so active, that none of the Indians could surpass him in running.

With him were two young men, René Goupil and Guillaume Couture, donnés of the mission, that is to say, laymen who, from a religious motive and without pay, had attached themselves to the service of the Jesuits.  Goupil had formerly entered upon the Jesuit novitiate at Paris, but failing health had obliged him to leave it.  As soon as he was able, he came to Canada, offered his services to the Superior of the mission, was employed for a time in the humblest offices, and afterwards became an attendant at the hospital.  At length, to his delight, he received permission to go up to the Hurons, where the surgical skill which he had acquired was greatly needed; and he was now on his way thither.  His companion, Couture, was a man of intelligence and vigor, and of a character equally disinterested.  Both were, like Jogues, in the foremost canoes; while the fourth Frenchman was with the unconverted Hurons, in the rear.

The twelve canoes had reached the western end of the Lake of Saint  Peter, where it is filled with innumerable islands.  The forest was close on their right, they kept near the shore to avoid the current, and the shallow water before them was covered with a dense growth of tall bulrushes.  Suddenly the silence was frightfully broken.  The war-whoop rose from among the rushes, mingled with the reports of guns and the whistling of bullets; and several Iroquois canoes, filled with warriors, pushed out from their concealment, and bore down upon Jogues and his companions.  The Hurons in the rear were seized with a shameful panic.  They leaped ashore; left canoes, baggage, and weapons; and fled into the woods.  The French and the Christian Hurons made fight for a time; but when they saw another fleet of canoes approaching from the opposite shores or islands, they lost heart, and those escaped who could.  Goupil was seized amid triumphant yells, as were also several of the Huron converts.  Jogues sprang into the bulrushes, and might have escaped; but when he saw Goupil and the neophytes in the clutches of the Iroquois, he had no heart to abandon them, but came out from his hiding-place, and gave himself up to the astonished victors.  A few of them had remained to guard the prisoners; the rest were chasing the fugitives.  Jogues mastered his agony, and began to baptize those of the captive converts who needed baptism.

Couture had eluded pursuit; but when he thought of Jogues and of what perhaps awaited him, he resolved to share his fate, and, turning, retraced his steps.  As he approached, five Iroquois ran forward to meet him; and one of them snapped his gun at his breast, but it missed fire.  In his confusion and excitement, Couture fired his own piece, and laid the savage dead.  The remaining four sprang upon him, stripped off all his clothing, tore away his finger-nails with their teeth, gnawed his fingers with the fury of famished dogs, and thrust a sword through one of his hands.  Jogues broke from his guards, and, rushing to his friend, threw his arms about his neck.  The Iroquois dragged him away, beat him with their fists and war-clubs till he was senseless, and, when he revived, lacerated his fingers with their teeth, as they had done those of Couture.  Then they turned upon Goupil, and treated him with the same ferocity.  The Huron prisoners were left for the present unharmed.  More of them were brought in every moment, till at length the number of captives amounted in all to twenty-two, while three Hurons had been killed in the fight and pursuit.  The Iroquois, about seventy in number, now embarked with their prey; but not until they had knocked on the head an old Huron, whom Jogues, with his mangled hands, had just baptized, and who refused to leave the place.  Then, under a burning sun, they crossed to the spot on which the town of Sorel now stands at the mouth of the river Richelieu, where they encamped.

Their course was southward, up the River Richelieu and Lake Champlain; thence, by way of Lake George, to the Mohawk towns.  The pain and fever of their wounds, and the clouds of mosquitoes, which they could not drive off, left the prisoners no peace by day nor sleep by night.  On the eighth day, they learned that a large Iroquois war-party, on their way to Canada, were near at hand; and they soon approached their camp, on a small island near the southern end of Lake Champlain.  The warriors, two hundred in number, saluted their victorious countrymen with volleys from their guns; then, armed with clubs and thorny sticks, ranged themselves in two lines, between which the captives were compelled to pass up the side of a rocky hill.  On the way, they were beaten with such fury, that Jogues, who was last in the line, fell powerless, drenched in blood and half dead.  As the chief man among the French captives, he fared the worst.  His hands were again mangled, and fire applied to his body; while the Huron chief, Eustache, was subjected to tortures even more atrocious.  When, at night, the exhausted sufferers tried to rest, the young warriors came to lacerate their wounds and pull out their hair and beards.

In the morning they resumed their journey.  And now the lake narrowed to the semblance of a tranquil river.  Before them was a woody mountain, close on their right a rocky promontory, and between these flowed a stream, the outlet of Lake George.  On those rocks, more than a hundred years after, rose the ramparts of Ticonderoga.  They landed, shouldered their canoes and baggage, took their way through the woods, passed the spot where the fierce Highlanders and the dauntless regiments of England breasted in vain the storm of lead and fire, and soon reached the shore where Abercrombie landed and Lord Howe fell.  First of white men, Jogues and his companions gazed on the romantic lake that bears the name, not of its gentle discoverer, but of the dull Hanoverian king.  Like a fair Naiad of the wilderness, it slumbered between the guardian mountains that breathe from crag and forest the stern poetry of war.  But all then was solitude; and the clang of trumpets, the roar of cannon, and the deadly crack of the rifle had never as yet awakened their angry echoes.

Again the canoes were launched, and the wild flotilla glided on its way, now in the shadow of the heights, now on the broad expanse, now among the devious channels of the narrows, beset with woody islets, where the hot air was redolent of the pine, the spruce, and the cedar, till they neared that tragic shore, where, in the following century, New-England rustics baffled the soldiers of Dieskau, where Montcalm planted his batteries, where the red cross waved so long amid the smoke, and where at length the summer night was hideous with carnage, and an honored name was stained with a memory of blood.

The Iroquois landed at or near the future site of Fort William Henry, left their canoes, and, with their prisoners, began their march for the nearest Mohawk town.  Each bore his share of the plunder.  Even Jogues, though his lacerated hands were in a frightful condition and his body covered with bruises, was forced to stagger on with the rest under a heavy load.  He with his fellow-prisoners, and indeed the whole party, were half starved, subsisting chiefly on wild berries.  They crossed the upper Hudson, and, in thirteen days after leaving the Saint  Lawrence, neared the wretched goal of their pilgrimage, a palisaded town, standing on a hill by the banks of the River Mohawk.

The whoops of the victors announced their approach, and the savage hive sent forth its swarms.  They thronged the side of the hill, the old and the young, each with a stick, or a slender iron rod, bought from the Dutchmen on the Hudson.  They ranged themselves in a double line, reaching upward to the entrance of the town; and through this "narrow road of Paradise," as Jogues calls it, the captives were led in single file, Couture in front, after him a half-score of Hurons, then Goupil, then the remaining Hurons, and at last Jogues.  As they passed, they were saluted with yells, screeches, and a tempest of blows.  One, heavier than the others, knocked Jogues's breath from his body, and stretched him on the ground; but it was death to lie there, and, regaining his feet, he staggered on with the rest.  When they reached the town, the blows ceased, and they were all placed on a scaffold, or high platform, in the middle of the place.  The three Frenchmen had fared the worst, and were frightfully disfigured.  Goupil, especially, was streaming with blood, and livid with bruises from head to foot.

They were allowed a few minutes to recover their breath, undisturbed, except by the hootings and gibes of the mob below.  Then a chief called out, "Come, let us caress these Frenchmen!" and the crowd, knife in hand, began to mount the scaffold.  They ordered a Christian Algonquin woman, a prisoner among them, to cut off Jogues's left thumb, which she did; and a thumb of Goupil was also severed, a clam-shell being used as the instrument, in order to increase the pain.  It is needless to specify further the tortures to which they were subjected, all designed to cause the greatest possible suffering without endangering life.  At night, they were removed from the scaffold, and placed in one of the houses, each stretched on his back, with his limbs extended, and his ankles and wrists bound fast to stakes driven into the earthen floor.  The children now profited by the examples of their parents, and amused themselves by placing live coals and red-hot ashes on the naked bodies of the prisoners, who, bound fast, and covered with wounds and bruises which made every movement a torture, were sometimes unable to shake them off.

In the morning, they were again placed on the scaffold, where, during this and the two following days, they remained exposed to the taunts of the crowd.  Then they were led in triumph to the second Mohawk town, and afterwards to the third,  suffering at each a repetition of cruelties, the detail of which would be as monotonous as revolting.

In a house in the town of Teonontogen, Jogues was hung by the wrists between two of the upright poles which supported the structure, in such a manner that his feet could not touch the ground; and thus he remained for some fifteen minutes, in extreme torture, until, as he was on the point of swooning, an Indian, with an impulse of pity, cut the cords and released him.  While they were in this town, four fresh Huron prisoners, just taken, were brought in, and placed on the scaffold with the rest.  Jogues, in the midst of his pain and exhaustion, took the opportunity to convert them.  An ear of green corn was thrown to him for food, and he discovered a few rain-drops clinging to the husks.  With these he baptized two of the Hurons.  The remaining two received baptism soon after from a brook which the prisoners crossed on the way to another town.

Couture, though he had incensed the Indians by killing one of their warriors, had gained their admiration by his bravery; and, after torturing him most savagely, they adopted him into one of their families, in place of a dead relative.  Thenceforth he was comparatively safe.  Jogues and Goupil were less fortunate.  Three of the Hurons had been burned to death, and they expected to share their fate.  A council was held to pronounce their doom; but dissensions arose, and no result was reached.  They were led back to the first village, where they remained, racked with suspense and half dead with exhaustion.  Jogues, however, lost no opportunity to baptize dying infants, while Goupil taught children to make the sign of the cross.  On one occasion, he made the sign on the forehead of a child, grandson of an Indian in whose lodge they lived.  The superstition of the old savage was aroused.  Some Dutchmen had told him that the sign of the cross came from the Devil, and would cause mischief.  He thought that Goupil was bewitching the child; and, resolving to rid himself of so dangerous a guest, applied for aid to two young braves.  Jogues and Goupil, clad in their squalid garb of tattered skins, were soon after walking together in the forest that adjoined the town, consoling themselves with prayer, and mutually exhorting each other to suffer patiently for the sake of Christ and the Virgin, when, as they were returning, reciting their rosaries, they met the two young Indians, and read in their sullen visages an augury of ill.  The Indians joined them, and accompanied them to the entrance of the town, where one of the two, suddenly drawing a hatchet from beneath his blanket, struck it into the head of Goupil, who fell, murmuring the name of Christ.  Jogues dropped on his knees, and, bowing his head in prayer, awaited the blow, when the murderer ordered him to get up and go home.  He obeyed but not until he had given absolution to his still breathing friend, and presently saw the lifeless body dragged through the town amid hootings and rejoicings.

Jogues passed a night of anguish and desolation, and in the morning, reckless of life, set forth in search of Goupil's remains.  "Where are you going so fast?" demanded the old Indian, his master.  "Do you not see those fierce young braves, who are watching to kill you?" Jogues persisted, and the old man asked another Indian to go with him as a protector.  The corpse had been flung into a neighboring ravine, at the bottom of which ran a torrent; and here, with the Indian's help, Jogues found it, stripped naked, and gnawed by dogs.  He dragged it into the water, and covered it with stones to save it from further mutilation, resolving to return alone on the following day and secretly bury it.  But with the night there came a storm; and when, in the gray of the morning, Jogues descended to the brink of the stream, he found it a rolling, turbid flood, and the body was nowhere to be seen.  Had the Indians or the torrent borne it away? Jogues waded into the cold current; it was the first of October; he sounded it with his feet and with his stick; he searched the rocks, the thicket, the forest; but all in vain.  Then, crouched by the pitiless stream, he mingled his tears with its waters, and, in a voice broken with groans, chanted the service of the dead

The Indians, it proved, and not the flood, had robbed him of the remains of his friend.  Early in the spring, when the snows were melting in the woods, he was told by Mohawk children that the body was lying, where it had been flung, in a lonely spot lower down the stream.  He went to seek it; found the scattered bones, stripped by the foxes and the birds; and, tenderly gathering them up, hid them in a hollow tree, hoping that a day might come when he could give them a Christian burial in consecrated ground.

After the murder of Goupil, Jogues's life hung by a hair.  He lived in hourly expectation of the tomahawk, and would have welcomed it as a boon.  By signs and words, he was warned that his hour was near; but, as he never shunned his fate, it fled from him, and each day, with renewed astonishment, he found himself still among the living.

Late in the autumn, a party of the Indians set forth on their yearly deer-hunt, and Jogues was ordered to go with them.  Shivering and half famished, he followed them through the chill November forest, and shared their wild bivouac in the depths of the wintry desolation.  The game they took was devoted to Areskoui, their god, and eaten in his honor.  Jogues would not taste the meat offered to a demon; and thus he starved in the midst of plenty.  At night, when the kettle was slung, and the savage crew made merry around their fire, he crouched in a corner of the hut, gnawed by hunger, and pierced to the bone with cold.  They thought his presence unpropitious to their hunting, and the women especially hated him.  His demeanor at once astonished and incensed his masters.  He brought them fire-wood, like a squaw; he did their bidding without a murmur, and patiently bore their abuse; but when they mocked at his God, and laughed at his devotions, their slave assumed an air and tone of authority, and sternly rebuked them.  

He would sometimes escape from "this Babylon," as he calls the hut, and wander in the forest, telling his beads and repeating passages of Scripture.  In a remote and lonely spot, he cut the bark in the form of a cross from the trunk of a great tree; and here he made his prayers.  This living martyr, half clad in shaggy furs, kneeling on the snow among the icicled rocks and beneath the gloomy pines, bowing in adoration before the emblem of the faith in which was his only consolation and his only hope, is alike a theme for the pen and a subject for the pencil.

The Indians at last grew tired of him, and sent him back to the village.  Here he remained till the middle of March, baptizing infants and trying to convert adults.  He told them of the sun, moon, planets, and stars.  They listened with interest; but when from astronomy he passed to theology, he spent his breath in vain.  In March, the old man with whom he lived set forth for his spring fishing, taking with him his squaw, and several children.  Jogues also was of the party.  They repaired to a lake, perhaps Lake Saratoga, four days distant.  Here they subsisted for some time on frogs, the entrails of fish, and other garbage.  Jogues passed his days in the forest, repeating his prayers, and carving the name of Jesus on trees, as a terror to the demons of the wilderness.  A messenger at length arrived from the town; and on the following day, under the pretence that signs of an enemy had been seen, the party broke up their camp, and returned home in hot haste.  The messenger had brought tidings that a war-party, which had gone out against the French, had been defeated and destroyed, and that the whole population were clamoring to appease their grief by torturing Jogues to death.  This was the true cause of the sudden and mysterious return; but when they reached the town, other tidings had arrived.  The missing warriors were safe, and on their way home in triumph with a large number of prisoners.  Again Jogues's life was spared; but he was forced to witness the torture and butchery of the converts and allies of the French.  Existence became unendurable to him, and he longed to die.  War-parties were continually going out.  Should they be defeated and cut off, he would pay the forfeit at the stake; and if they came back, as they usually did, with booty and prisoners, he was doomed to see his countrymen and their Indian friends mangled, burned, and devoured.

Jogues had shown no disposition to escape, and great liberty was therefore allowed him.  He went from town to town, giving absolution to the Christian captives, and converting and baptizing the heathen.  On one occasion, he baptized a woman in the midst of the fire, under pretence of lifting a cup of water to her parched lips.  There was no lack of objects for his zeal.  A single war-party returned from the Huron country with nearly a hundred prisoners, who were distributed among the Iroquois towns, and the greater part burned.  Of the children of the Mohawks and their neighbors, he had baptized, before August, about seventy; insomuch that he began to regard his captivity as a Providential interposition for the saving of souls.

At the end of July, he went with a party of Indians to a fishing-place on the Hudson, about twenty miles below Fort Orange.  While here, he learned that another war-party had lately returned with prisoners, two of whom had been burned to death at Osseruenon.  On this, his conscience smote him that he had not remained in the town to give the sufferers absolution or baptism; and he begged leave of the old woman who had him in charge to return at the first opportunity.  A canoe soon after went up the river with some of the Iroquois, and he was allowed to go in it.  When they reached Rensselaerswyck, the Indians landed to trade with the Dutch, and took Jogues with them.

The centre of this rude little settlement was Fort Orange, a miserable structure of logs, standing on a spot now within the limits of the city of Albany.  It contained several houses and other buildings; and behind it was a small church, recently erected, and serving as the abode of the pastor, Dominie Megapolensis, known in our day as the writer of an interesting, though short, account of the Mohawks.  Some twenty-five or thirty houses, roughly built of boards and roofed with thatch, were scattered at intervals on or near the borders of the Hudson, above and below the fort.  Their inhabitants, about a hundred in number, were for the most part rude Dutch farmers, tenants of Van Rensselaer, the patroon, or lord of the manor.  They raised wheat, of which they made beer, and oats, with which they fed their numerous horses.  They traded, too, with the Indians, who profited greatly by the competition among them, receiving guns, knives, axes, kettles, cloth, and beads, at moderate rates, in exchange for their furs.  The Dutch were on excellent terms with their red neighbors, met them in the forest without the least fear, and sometimes intermarried with them.  They had known of Jogues's captivity, and, to their great honor, had made efforts for his release, offering for that purpose goods to a considerable value, but without effect.  

At Fort Orange Jogues heard startling news.  The Indians of the village where he lived were, he was told, enraged against him, and determined to burn him.  About the first of July, a war-party had set out for Canada, and one of the warriors had offered to Jogues to be the bearer of a letter from him to the French commander at Three Rivers, thinking probably to gain some advantage under cover of a parley.  Jogues knew that the French would be on their guard; and he felt it his duty to lose no opportunity of informing them as to the state of affairs among the Iroquois.  A Dutchman gave him a piece of paper; and he wrote a letter, in a jargon of Latin, French, and Huron, warning his countrymen to be on their guard, as war-parties were constantly going out, and they could hope for no respite from attack until late in the autumn.  When the Iroquois reached the mouth of the River Richelieu, where a small fort had been built by the French the preceding summer, the messenger asked for a parley, and gave Jogues's letter to the commander of the post, who, after reading it, turned his cannon on the savages.  They fled in dismay, leaving behind them their baggage and some of their guns; and, returning home in a fury, charged Jogues with having caused their discomfiture.  Jogues had expected this result, and was prepared to meet it; but several of the principal Dutch settlers, and among them Van Curler, who had made the previous attempt to rescue him, urged that his death was certain, if he returned to the Indian town, and advised him to make his escape.  In the Hudson, opposite the settlement, lay a small Dutch vessel nearly ready to sail.  Van Curler offered him a passage in her to Bordeaux or Rochelle, representing that the opportunity was too good to be lost, and making light of the prisoner's objection, that a connivance in his escape on the part of the Dutch would excite the resentment of the Indians against them.  Jogues thanked him warmly; but, to his amazement, asked for a night to consider the matter, and take counsel of God in prayer.

He spent the night in great agitation, tossed by doubt, and full of anxiety lest his self-love should beguile him from his duty.  Was it not possible that the Indians might spare his life, and that, by a timely drop of water, he might still rescue souls from torturing devils, and eternal fires of perdition? On the other hand, would he not, by remaining to meet a fate almost inevitable, incur the guilt of suicide? And even should he escape torture and death, could he hope that the Indians would again permit him to instruct and baptize their prisoners? Of his French companions, one, Goupil, was dead; while Couture had urged Jogues to flight, saying that he would then follow his example, but that, so long as the Father remained a prisoner, he, Couture, would share his fate.  Before morning, Jogues had made his decision.  God, he thought, would be better pleased should he embrace the opportunity given him.  He went to find his Dutch friends, and, with a profusion of thanks, accepted their offer.  They told him that a boat should be left for him on the shore, and that he must watch his time, and escape in it to the vessel, where he would be safe.

He and his Indian masters were lodged together in a large building, like a barn, belonging to a Dutch farmer.  It was a hundred feet long, and had no partition of any kind.  At one end the farmer kept his cattle; at the other he slept with his wife, a Mohawk squaw, and his children, while his Indian guests lay on the floor in the middle.  

In the evening, Jogues, in such a manner as not to excite the suspicion of the Indians, went out to reconnoitre.  There was a fence around the house, and, as he was passing it, a large dog belonging to the farmer flew at him, and bit him very severely in the leg.  The Dutchman, hearing the noise, came out with a light, led Jogues back into the building, and bandaged his wound.  He seemed to have some suspicion of the prisoner's design; for, fearful perhaps that his escape might exasperate the Indians, he made fast the door in such a manner that it could not readily be opened.  Jogues now lay down among the Indians, who, rolled in their blankets, were stretched around him.  He was fevered with excitement; and the agitation of his mind, joined to the pain of his wound, kept him awake all night.  About dawn, while the Indians were still asleep, a laborer in the employ of the farmer came in with a lantern, and Jogues, who spoke no Dutch, gave him to understand by signs that he needed his help and guidance.  The man was disposed to aid him, silently led the way out, quieted the dogs, and showed him the path to the river.  It was more than half a mile distant, and the way was rough and broken.  Jogues was greatly exhausted, and his wounded limb gave him such pain that he walked with the utmost difficulty.  When he reached the shore, the day was breaking, and he found, to his dismay, that the ebb of the tide had left the boat high and dry.  He shouted to the vessel, but no one heard him.  His desperation gave him strength; and, by working the boat to and fro, he pushed it at length, little by little, into the water, entered it, and rowed to the vessel.  The Dutch sailors received him kindly, and hid him in the bottom of the hold, placing a large box over the hatchway.

He remained two days, half stifled, in this foul lurking-place, while the Indians, furious at his escape, ransacked the settlement in vain to find him.  They came off to the vessel, and so terrified the officers, that Jogues was sent on shore at night, and led to the fort.  Here he was hidden in the garret of a house occupied by a miserly old man, to whose charge he was consigned.  Food was sent to him; but, as his host appropriated the larger part to himself, Jogues was nearly starved.  There was a compartment of his garret, separated from the rest by a partition of boards.  Here the old Dutchman, who, like many others of the settlers, carried on a trade with the Mohawks, kept a quantity of goods for that purpose; and hither he often brought his customers.  The boards of the partition had shrunk, leaving wide crevices; and Jogues could plainly see the Indians, as they passed between him and the light.  They, on their part, might as easily have seen him, if he had not, when he heard them entering the house, hidden himself behind some barrels in the corner, where he would sometimes remain crouched for hours, in a constrained and painful posture, half suffocated with heat, and afraid to move a limb.  His wounded leg began to show dangerous symptoms; but he was relieved by the care of a Dutch surgeon of the fort.  The minister, Megapolensis, also visited him, and did all in his power for the comfort of his Catholic brother, with whom he seems to have been well pleased, and whom he calls "a very learned scholar." 

When Jogues had remained for six weeks in this hiding-place, his Dutch friends succeeded in satisfying his Indian masters by the payment of a large ransom.  A vessel from Manhattan, now New York, soon after brought up an order from the Director-General, Kieft, that he should be sent to him.  Accordingly he was placed in a small vessel, which carried him down the Hudson.  The Dutch on board treated him with great kindness; and, to do him honor, named after him one of the islands in the river.  At Manhattan he found a dilapidated fort, garrisoned by sixty soldiers, and containing a stone church and the Director-General's house, together with storehouses and barracks.  Near it were ranges of small houses, occupied chiefly by mechanics and laborers; while the dwellings of the remaining colonists, numbering in all four or five hundred, were scattered here and there on the island and the neighboring shores.  The settlers were of different sects and nations, but chiefly Dutch Calvinists.  Kieft told his guest that eighteen different languages were spoken at Manhattan The colonists were in the midst of a bloody Indian war, brought on by their own besotted cruelty; and while Jogues was at the fort, some forty of the Dutchmen were killed on the neighboring farms, and many barns and houses burned.  

The Director-General, with a humanity that was far from usual with him, exchanged Jogues's squalid and savage dress for a suit of Dutch cloth, and gave him passage in a small vessel which was then about to sail.  The voyage was rough and tedious; and the passenger slept on deck or on a coil of ropes, suffering greatly from cold, and often drenched by the waves that broke over the vessel's side.  At length she reached Falmouth, on the southern coast of England, when all the crew went ashore for a carouse, leaving Jogues alone on board.  A boat presently came alongside with a gang of desperadoes, who boarded her, and rifled her of everything valuable, threatened Jogues with a pistol, and robbed him of his hat and coat.  He obtained some assistance from the crew of a French ship in the harbor, and, on the day before Christmas, took passage in a small coal vessel for the neighboring coast of Brittany.  In the following afternoon he was set on shore a little to the north of Brest, and, seeing a peasant's cottage not far off, he approached it, and asked the way to the nearest church.  The peasant and his wife, as the narrative gravely tells us, mistook him, by reason of his modest deportment, for some poor, but pious Irishman, and asked him to share their supper, after finishing his devotions, an invitation which Jogues, half famished as he was, gladly accepted.  He reached the church in time for the evening mass, and with an unutterable joy knelt before the altar, and renewed the communion of which he had been deprived so long.  When he returned to the cottage, the attention of his hosts was at once attracted to his mutilated and distorted hands.  They asked with amazement how he could have received such injuries; and when they heard the story of his tortures, their surprise and veneration knew no bounds.  Two young girls, their daughters, begged him to accept all they had to give, a handful of sous; while the peasant made known the character of his new guest to his neighbors.  A trader from Rennes brought a horse to the door, and offered the use of it to Jogues, to carry him to the Jesuit college in that town.  He gratefully accepted it; and, on the morning of the fifth of January, 1644, reached his destination.

He dismounted, and knocked at the door of the college.  The porter opened it, and saw a man wearing on his head an old woollen nightcap, and in an attire little better than that of a beggar.  Jogues asked to see the Rector; but the porter answered, coldly, that the Rector was busied in the Sacristy.  Jogues begged him to say that a man was at the door with news from Canada.  The missions of Canada were at this time an object of primal interest to the Jesuits, and above all to the Jesuits of France.  A letter from Jogues, written during his captivity, had already reached France, as had also the Jesuit Relation of 1643, which contained a long account of his capture; and he had no doubt been an engrossing theme of conversation in every house of the French Jesuits.  The Father Rector was putting on his vestments to say mass; but when he heard that a poor man from Canada had asked for him at the door, he postponed the service, and went to meet him.  Jogues, without discovering himself, gave him a letter from the Dutch Director-General attesting his character.  The Rector, without reading it, began to question him as to the affairs of Canada, and at length asked him if he knew Father Jogues.

"I knew him very well," was the reply.

"The Iroquois have taken him," pursued the Rector.  "Is he dead? Have they murdered him?"

"No," answered Jogues; "he is alive and at liberty, and I am he."
And he fell on his knees to ask his Superior's blessing.

That night was a night of jubilation and thanksgiving in the college of
Rennes.  

Jogues became a centre of curiosity and reverence.  He was summoned to Paris.  The Queen, Anne of Austria, wished to see him; and when the persecuted slave of the Mohawks was conducted into her presence, she kissed his mutilated hands, while the ladies of the Court thronged around to do him homage.  We are told, and no doubt with truth, that these honors were unwelcome to the modest and single-hearted missionary, who thought only of returning to his work of converting the Indians.  A priest with any deformity of body is debarred from saying mass .  The teeth and knives of the Iroquois had inflicted an injury worse than the torturers imagined, for they had robbed Jogues of the privilege which was the chief consolation of his life; but the Pope, by a special dispensation, restored it to him, and with the opening spring he sailed again for Canada.