/> by the steady sweep of paddles wielded by naked and dusky

arms, shot to and fro. Near the shore a small shallop, on

whose deck stood a group of armed whites, had just cast

anchor, and was furling its sails. Upon the strip of open

land bordering the river, and in the woodland beyond, were

visible great numbers of savage warriors, their faces

hideously bedaubed with war-paint, their hands busy in

erecting the frail habitations of a temporary camp.



The scene was one of striking beauty, such as only the

virgin wilderness can display. The river ran between walls

of fresh green leafage, here narrowed, yonder widened into a

broad reach which was encircled by far sweeping forests. The

sun shone broadly on the animated scene, while the whites,

from the deck of their small craft, gazed with deep interest

on the strange picture before them, filled as it was with

dusky natives, some erecting their forest shelters, others

fishing in the stream, while still others were seeking the

forest depths in pursuit of game.



The scene is of interest to us for another reason. It was

the prelude to the first scene of Indian warfare which the

eyes of Europeans were to behold in the northern region of

the American continent. The Spaniards had been long

established in the south, but no English settlement had yet

been made on the shores of the New World, and the French had

but recently built a group of wooden edifices on that

precipitous height which is now crowned with the walls and

the spires of Quebec.



Not long had the whites been there before the native hunters

of the forests came to gaze with wondering eyes on those

pale-faced strangers, with their unusual attire and

surprising powers of architecture. And quickly they begged

their aid in an expedition against their powerful enemies,

the confederated nations of the Iroquois, who dwelt in a

wonderful lake-region to the south, and by their strength,

skill, and valor had made themselves the terror of the

tribes.



Samuel de Champlain, an adventurous Frenchman who had

already won himself reputation by an exploration of the

Spanish domain of the West Indies, was now in authority at

Quebec, and did not hesitate to promise his aid in the

coming foray, moved, perhaps, by that thirst for discovery

and warlike spirit which burned deeply in his breast. The

Indians had told him of great lakes and mighty rivers to the

south, and doubtless the ardent wish to be the first to

traverse these unknown waters was a moving impulse in his

ready assent.



With the opening season the warriors gathered, Hurons and

Algonquins, a numerous band. They paddled to Quebec; gazed

with surprise on the strange buildings, the story of which

had already been told in their distant wigwams, and on their

no less strange inmates; feasted, smoked, and debated; and

shrank in consternation from the piercing report of the

arquebuse and the cannon's frightful roar.



Their savage hearts were filled with exultation on learning

the powers of their new allies. Surely these wonderful

strangers would deal destruction on their terrible foes.

Burning with thirst for vengeance, they made their faces

frightful with the war-paint, danced with frenzied gestures

round the blaze of their camp-fires, filled the air with

ear-piercing war-whoops, and at the word of command hastened

to their canoes and swept in hasty phalanx up the mighty

stream, accompanied by Champlain and eleven other white

allies.



Two days the war-party remained encamped at the place where

we have seen them, hunting, fishing, fasting, and

quarrelling, the latter so effectually that numbers of them

took to their canoes and paddled angrily away, scarce a

fourth of the original array being left for the march upon

the dreaded enemy.



It was no easy task which now lay before them. The journey

was long, the way difficult. Onward again swept the

diminutive squadron, the shallop outsailing the canoes, and

making its way up the Richelieu, Champlain being too ardent

with the fever of discovery to await the slow work of the

paddles. He had not, however, sailed far up that

forest-enclosed stream before unwelcome sounds came to his

ears. The roar of rushing and tumbling waters sounded

through the still air. And now, through the screen of

leaves, came a vision of snowy foam and the flash of leaping

waves. The Indians had lied to him. They had promised him an

unobstructed route to the great lake ahead, and here already

were rapids in his path.



How far did the obstruction extend? That must be learned.

Leaving the shallop, he set out with part of his men to

explore the wilds. It was no easy journey. Tangled vines,

dense thickets, swampy recesses crossed the way. Here lay

half-decayed tree-trunks; there heaps of rocks lifted their

mossy tops in the path. And ever, as they went, the roar of

the rapids followed, while through the foliage could be seen

the hurrying waters, pouring over rocks, stealing amid

drift-logs, eddying in chasms, and shooting in white lines

of foam along every open space.



Was this the open river of which he had been told; this the

ready route to the great lake beyond? In anger and dismay,

Champlain retraced his steps, to find, when he reached the

shallop, that the canoes of the savages had come up, and now

filled the stream around it.



The disappointed adventurer did not hesitate to tell them

that they had lied to him; but he went on to say that though

they had broken their word he would keep his. In truth, the

vision of the mighty lake, with its chain of islands, its

fertile shores, and bordering forests, of which they had

told him, rose alluringly before his eyes, and with all the

ardor of the pioneer he was determined to push onward into

that realm of the unknown.



But their plans must be changed. Nine of the men were sent

back to Quebec with the shallop. Champlain, with two others,

determined to proceed in the Indian canoes. At his command

the warriors lifted their light boats from the water, and

bore them on their shoulders over the difficult portage past

the rapids, to the smooth stream above. Here, launching them

again, the paddles once more broke the placid surface of the

stream, and onward they went, still through the primeval

forest, which stretched away in an unbroken expanse of

green.



It was a virgin solitude, unmarked by habitation, destitute

of human inmate, abundant with game; for it was the

debatable land between warring tribes, traversed only by

hostile bands, the battle-ground of Iroquois and Algonquin

hordes. None could dwell here in safety; even

hunting-parties had to be constantly prepared for war.

Through this region of blood and terror the canoes made

their way, now reduced to twenty-four in number, manned by

sixty warriors and three white allies. The advance was made

with great caution, for danger was in the air. Scouts were

sent in advance through the forests; others were thrown out

on the flanks and rear, hunting for game as they went; for

the store of pounded and parched maize which the warriors

had brought with them was to be kept for food when the

vicinity of the foe should render hunting impossible.



The scene that night, as described by Champlain was one to

be remembered. The canoes were drawn up closely, side by

side. Active life pervaded the chosen camp. Here some

gathered dry wood for their fires; there others stripped off

sheets of bark, to cover their forest wigwams; yonder the

sound of axes was followed by the roar of falling trees. The

savages had steel axes, obtained from the French, and, with

their aid, in two hours a strong defensive work, constructed

of the felled trunks, was built, a half-circle in form, with

the river at its two ends. This was the extent of their

precautions. The returning scouts reported that the forest

in advance was empty of foes. The tawny host cast themselves

in full security on the grassy soil, setting no guards, and

were soon lost in slumber, with that blind trust in fortune

which has ever been one of the weak features of Indian

warfare.



They had not failed, however, to consult their oracles,

those spirits which the medicine-man was looked upon as an

adept at invoking, and whose counsel was ever diligently

sought by the superstitious natives. The conjurer crept

within his skin-covered lodge, where, crouched upon the

earth, he filled the air with inarticulate invocations to

the surrounding spirits; while outside, squatted on the

ground, the dusky auditors looked and listened with awe.

Suddenly the lodge began to rock violently, by the power of

the spirits, as the Indians deemed, though Champlain fancied

that the arm of the medicine-man was the only spirit at

work.



"Look on the peak of the lodge," whispered the awed savages.

"You will see fire and smoke rise into the air." Champlain

looked, but saw nothing.



The medicine-man by this time had worked himself into

convulsions. He called loudly upon the spirit in an unknown

language, and was answered in squeaking tones like those of

a young puppy. This powerful spirit was deemed to be present

in the form of a stone. When the conjurer reappeared his

body streamed with perspiration, while the story he had to

tell promised an auspicious termination of the enterprise.



This was not the only performance of the warriors. There was

another of a more rational character. Bundles of sticks were

collected by the leading chief, which he stuck in the earth

in a fixed order, calling each by the name of some warrior,

the taller ones representing the chiefs. The arrangement of

the sticks indicated the plan of battle. Each warrior was to

occupy the position indicated by his special stick. The

savages gathered closely round, intently studied the plan,

then formed their ranks in accordance therewith, broke them,

reformed them, and continued the process with a skill and

alacrity that surprised and pleased their civilized

observer.



With the early morning light they again advanced, following

the ever-widening stream, in whose midst islands leagues in

extent now appeared. Beyond came broad channels and extended

reaches of widening waters, and soon the delighted explorer

found that the river had ended and that the canoes were

moving over the broad bosom of that great lake of which the

Indians had told him, and which has ever since borne his

name. It was a charming scene which thus first met the eyes

of civilized man. Far in front spread the inland sea. On

either side distant forests, clad in the fresh leafage of

June, marked the borders of the lake. Far away, over their

leafy tops, appeared lofty heights; on the left the Green

Mountains lifted their forest-clad ridges, with patches of

snow still whitening their tops; on the right rose the

clustering hills of the Adirondacks, then the

hunting-grounds of the Iroquois, and destined to remain the

game-preserves of the whites long after the axe and plough

had subdued all the remainder of that forest-clad domain.






They had reached a region destined to play a prominent part

in the coming history of America. The savages told their

interested auditors of another lake, thickly studded with

islands, beyond that on which they now were; and still

beyond a rocky portage over which they hoped to carry their

canoes, and a great river which flowed far down to the

mighty waters of the sea. If they met not the foe sooner

they would press onward to this stream, and there perhaps

surprise some town of the Mohawks, whose settlements

approached its banks. This same liquid route in later days

was to be traversed by warlike hosts both in the French and

Indian and the Revolutionary Wars, and to be signalized by

the capture of Burgoyne and his invading host, one of the

most vital events in the American struggle for liberty.



The present expedition was not to go so far. Hostile bands

were to be met before they left the sheet of water over

which their canoes now glided. Onward they went, the route

becoming hourly more dangerous. At length they changed their

mode of progress, resting in the depths of the forest all

day long, taking to the waters at twilight, and paddling

cautiously onward till the crimsoning of the eastern sky

told them that day was near at hand. Then the canoes were

drawn up in sheltered coves, and the warriors, chatting,

smoking, and sleeping, spent on the leafy lake borders the

slow-moving hours of the day.



The journey was a long one. It was the 29th of July when

they reached a point far down the lake, near the present

site of Crown Point. They had paddled all night. They hid

here all day. Champlain fell asleep on a heap of spruce

boughs, and in his slumber dreamed that he had seen the

Iroquois drowning in the lake, and that when he tried to

rescue them he had been told by his Algonquin friends to

leave them alone, as they were not worth the trouble of

saving.



The Indians believed in the power of dreams. They had beset

Champlain daily to learn if he had had any visions. When now

he told them his dream they were filled with joy. Victory

had spoken into his slumbering ear. With gladness they

re-embarked when night came on, and continued their course

down the lake.



They had not far to go. At ten o'clock, through the shadows

of the night, they beheld a number of dark objects on the

lake before them. It was a fleet of Iroquois canoes, heavier

and slower craft than those of the Algonquins, for they were

made of oak-or elm-bark, instead of the light paper-birch

used by the latter.



Each party saw the other, and recognized that they were in

the presence of foes. War-cries sounded over the shadowy

waters. The Iroquois, who preferred to do their fighting on

land and who were nearer shore, hastened to the beach and

began at once to build a barricade of logs, filling the air

of the night with yells of defiance as they worked away like

beavers. The allies meanwhile remained on the lake, their

canoes lashed together with poles, dancing with a vigor that

imperilled their frail barks, and answering the taunts and

menaces of their foes with equally vociferous abuse.



It was agreed that the battle should be deferred till

daybreak. As day approached Champlain and his two followers

armed themselves, their armor consisting of cuirass, or

breast-plate, steel coverings for the thighs, and a plumed

helmet for the head. By the side of the leader hung his

sword, and in his hand was his arquebuse, which he had

loaded with four balls. The savages of these woods were now

first to learn the destructive power of that weapon, for

which in the years to come they would themselves discard the

antiquated bow.



The Iroquois much outnumbered their foes. There were some

two hundred of them in all, tall, powerful men, the boldest

warriors of America, whose steady march excited Champlain's

admiration as he saw them filing from their barricade and

advancing through the woods. As for himself and his two

companions, they had remained concealed in the canoes, and

not even when a landing was made did the Iroquois behold the

strangely-clad allies of their hereditary enemies.



Not until they stood face to face, ready for the battle-cry,

did the Algonquin ranks open, and the white men advance

before the astonished gaze of the Iroquois. Never before had

they set eyes on such an apparition, and they stood in mute

wonder while Champlain raised his arquebuse, took aim at a

chief, and fired. The chief fell dead. A warrior by his side

fell wounded in the bushes. As the report rang through the

air a frightful yell came from the allies, and in an instant

their arrows were whizzing thickly through the ranks of

their foes. For a moment the Iroquois stood their ground and

returned arrow for arrow. But when from the two flanks of

their adversaries came new reports, and other warriors bit

the dust, their courage gave way to panic terror, and they

turned and fled in wild haste through the forest, swiftly

pursued by the triumphant Algonquins.



Several of the Iroquois were killed. A number were captured.

At night the victors camped in triumph on the field of

battle, torturing one of their captives till Champlain

begged to put him out of pain, and sent a bullet through his

heart.



Thus ended the first battle between whites and Indians on

the soil of the northern United States, in a victory for

which the French were to pay dearly in future days, at the

hands of their now vanquished foes. With the dawn of the



next day the victors began their retreat. A few days of

rapid paddling brought them to the Richelieu. Here they

separated, the Hurons and Algonquins returning to their

homes by way of the Ottowa, the Montagnais, who dwelt in the

vicinity of Quebec, accompanying Champlain to his new-built

city.



The Iroquois, however, were not the men to be quelled by a

single defeat. In June of the ensuing year a war-party of

them advanced to the mouth of the Richelieu, and a second

fierce battle took place. As another vivid example of the

character of Indian warfare, the story of this conflict, may

be added to that already given.



On an island in the St. Lawrence near the mouth of the

Richelieu was gathered a horde of Montagnais Indians,

Champlain and others of the whites being with them. A

war-party of Algonquins was expected, and busy preparations

were being made for feast and dance, in order that they

might be received with due honor. In the midst of this

festal activity an event occurred that suddenly changed

thoughts of peace to those of war. At a distance on the

stream appeared a single canoe, approaching as rapidly as

strong arms could drive it through the water. On coming

near, its inmates called out loudly that the Algonquins were

in the forest, engaged in battle with a hundred Iroquois,

who, outnumbered, were fighting from behind a barricade of

trees which they had hastily erected.



In an instant the air was filled with deafening cries.

Tidings of battle were to the Indians like a fresh scent to

hounds of the chase: The Montagnais flew to their canoes,

and paddled with frantic haste to the opposite shore, loudly

calling on Champlain and his fellow-whites to follow. They

obeyed, crossing the stream in canoes. As the shore was

reached the warriors flung down their paddles, snatched up

their weapons, and darted into the woods with such speed

that the Frenchmen found it impossible to keep them in

sight. It was a hot and oppressive day; the air was filled

with mosquitoes,--"so thick," says Champlain, "that we could

hardly draw breath, and it was wonderful how cruelly they

persecuted us,"--their route lay through swampy soil, where

the water at places stood knee-deep; over fallen logs, wet

and slimy, and under entangling vines; their heavy armor

added to their discomfort; the air was close and heavy;

altogether it was a progress fit to make one sicken of

warfare in the wilderness. After struggling onward till

they were almost in despair, they saw two Indians in the

distance, and by vigorous shouts secured their aid as guides

to the field of battle.



An instinct seemed to guide the savages through that dense

and tangled forest. In a short time they led the laboring

whites to a point where the woodland grew thinner, and

within hearing of the wild war-whoops of the combatants.

Soon they emerged into a partial clearing, which had been

made by the axes of the Iroquois in preparing their

breastwork of defence. Champlain gazed upon the scene before

him with wondering eyes. In front was a circular barricade,

composed of trunks of trees, boughs, and matted twigs,

behind which the Iroquois stood like tigers at bay. In the

edge of the forest around were clustered their yelling foes,

screaming shrill defiance, yet afraid to attack, for they

had already been driven back with severe loss. Their hope

now lay in their white allies, and when they saw Champlain

and his men a yell arose that rent the air, and a cloud of

winged arrows was poured into the woodland fort. The

beleaguered Iroquois replied with as fierce a shout, and

with a better-aimed shower of arrows. At least Champlain had

reason to think so, for one of these stone-headed darts

split his ear, and tore a furrow through the muscles of his

neck. One of his men received a similar wound.



Furious with pain, Champlain, secure in his steel armor,

rushed to the woodland fort, followed by his men, and

discharged their arquebuses through its crevices upon the

dismayed savages within, who, wild with terror at this new

and deadly weapon, flung themselves flat upon the earth at

each report.



At each moment the scene of war grew more animated. The

assailing Indians, yelling in triumph, ran up under cover of

their large wooden shields, and began to tug at the trees of

the barricade, while other of them gathered thickly in the

bushes for the final onset. And now, from the forest depths,

came hurrying to the scene a new party of French allies,--a

boat's crew of fur-traders, who had heard the firing and

flown with warlike eagerness to take part in the fight.



The bullets of these new assailants added to the terror of

the Iroquois. They writhed and darted to and fro to escape

the leaden missiles that tore through their frail barricade.

At a signal from Champlain the allies rushed from their

leafy covert, flew to the breastwork, tore down or clambered

over the boughs, and precipitated themselves into the fort,

while the French ceased their firing and led a party of

Indians to the assault on the opposite side.



The howls of defiance, screams of pain, deafening

war-whoops, and dull sound of deadly blows were now

redoubled. Many of the Iroquois stood their ground, hewing

with tomahawks and war-clubs, and dying not unrevenged. Some

leaped the barrier and were killed by the crowd outside;

others sprang into the river and were drowned; of them all

not one escaped, and at the end of the conflict but fifteen

remained alive, prisoners in the hands of their deadly foes,

destined victims of torture and flame.



On the next day a large party of Hurons arrived, and heard

with envy the story of the fight, in which they were too

late to take part. The forest and river shore were crowded

with Indian huts. Hundreds of warriors assembled, who spent

the day in wild war-dances and songs, then loaded their

canoes and paddled away in triumph to their homes, without a

thought of following up their success and striking yet

heavier blows upon their dreaded enemy. Even Champlain, who

was versed in civilized warfare, made no attempt to lead

them to an invasion of the Iroquois realm. He did not dream

of the deadly reprisal which the now defeated race would

exact for this day of disaster.



Of the further doings of Champlain we shall relate but one

incident,--a thrilling adventure which he tells of his being

lost in the interminable woodland depths. Year after year he

continued his explorations; now voyaging far up the Ottawa;

now reaching the mighty inland sea of Lake Huron, voyaging

upon its waters, and visiting the Indian villages upon its

shores; now again battling with the Iroquois, who, this

time, drove their assailants in baffled confusion from their

fort; now joining an Indian hunting-party, and taking part

with them in their annual deer-hunt. For this they

constructed two lines of posts interlaced with boughs, each

more than half a mile long, and converging to a point where

a strong enclosure was built. The hunters drove the deer

before them into this enclosure, where others despatched

them with spears and arrows. It was during this expedition

that the incident referred to took place.



Champlain had gone into the forest with the hunters. Here he

saw a bird new to him, and whose brilliant hue and strange

shape struck him with surprise and admiration. It was, to

judge from his description, a red-headed woodpecker. Bent on

possessing this winged marvel, he pursued it, gun in hand.

From bough to bough, from tree to tree, the bird fitted

onward, leading the unthinking hunter step by step deeper

into the wilderness. Then, when he surely thought to capture

his prize, the luring wonder took wing and vanished in the

forest depths.



Disappointed, Champlain turned to seek his friends. But in

what direction should he go? The day was cloudy; he had left

his pocket-compass at the camp; the forest spread in endless

lines around him; he stood in helpless bewilderment and

dismay.



All day he wandered blindly, and at nightfall found himself

still in a hopeless solitude. Weary and hungry, he lay down

at the foot of a great tree, and passed the night in broken

slumbers. The next day he wandered onward in the same blind

helplessness, reaching, in late afternoon, the waters of a

forest pond, shadowed by thick pines, and with water-fowl on

its brink. One of these he shot, kindled a fire and cooked

it, and for the first time since his misadventure tasted

food. At night there came on a cold rain, drenched by which

the blanketless wanderer was forced to seek sleep in the

open wood.



Another day of fruitless wandering succeeded; another night

of unrefreshing slumber. Paths were found in the forest, but

they had been made by other feet than those of men, and if

followed would lead him deeper into the seemingly endless

wild. Roused by the new day from his chill couch, the lost

wanderer despairingly roamed on, now almost hopeless of

escape. Yet what sound was that which reached his ear? It

was the silvery tinkle of a woodland rill, which crept

onward unseen in the depths of a bushy glen. A ray of hope

shot into his breast. This descending rivulet might lead him

to the river where the hunters lay encamped. With renewed

energy he traced its course, making his way through thicket

and glen, led ever onwards by that musical sound, till he

found himself on the borders of a small lake, within which

the waters of his forest guide were lost.



This lake, he felt, must have an outlet. He circled round

it, clambering over fallen trees and forcing his way through

thorny vines, till he saw, amid roots of alder-bushes, a

streamlet flow from the lakeside. This he hopefully

followed. Not far had he gone before a dull roar met his

ears, breaking the sullen silence of the woods. It was the

sound of falling waters. He hastened forward. The wood grew

thinner. Light appeared before him. Pushing gladly onward,

he broke through the screening bushes and found himself on

the edge of an open meadow, wild animals its only tenants,

some browsing on the grass, others lurking in bushy coverts.

Yet a more gladsome sight to his eyes was the broad river,

which here rushed along in a turbulent rapid, whose roar it

was which had come to his ear in the forest glades.



He looked about him. On the rocky river-bank was a

portage-path made by Indian feet. The place seemed familiar.

A second sweeping gaze; yes, here were points he had seen

before. He was saved. Glad at heart, he camped upon the

river-brink, kindled a fire, cooked the remains of his game,

and passed that night, at least, in dreamless sleep. With

daybreak he rose, followed the river downwards, and soon saw

the smoke of the Indian camp-fires ascending in the morning

air. In a few moments he had joined his dusky friends,

greatly to their delight. They had sought him everywhere in

vain, and now chided him gently for his careless risk,

declaring that thenceforth they would never suffer him to go

into the forest alone.