The war waged by King Philip had put an end to all further hindrance to the settlement of New England by the whites, and the hostile Indians had been wellnigh exterminated. But, as the restless settlers pressed westward, ever westward, to populate the untouched wilderness and to build hamlets and cultivate farms, it was only natural that the western Indians would view their advance with the same anger that had smouldered in the bosom of the chief Sachem of the Wampanoags. The French, in Canada, were more peaceably disposed towards the savages than were the English; they treated them with some consideration and kindness; sent their Jesuit Missionaries among them; and endeavored to teach them the ways of civilization. As the English pressed onward they were continually in altercations with the various tribes which lay in the path of their steady emigration, and they showed them little consideration, kindness, or toleration.

In 1755 war broke out between the French and English for the possession of America. Both were rival claimants for the soil of the New World, and the people of the northern English colonies had learned to regard their Canadian neighbors—the French—with the bitterest enmity. They hated them because they were of a different religious faith than their own, and they hated them because they were friends of the very Indians who made depredations upon their frontier settlements and slaughtered the peace-loving white settlers. The Indians were plyed with gifts and flattered by the French, so that, in the fierce struggle for the possession of America, the red warriors sided, for the most part, with those who held dominion over Canada and the Great Lakes. The English won the war, and thus the wilderness beyond the Allegheny mountains, over which France had claimed sovereignty, passed into the hands of her rival, who, with a force of but five or six hundred men, expected to keep it secure. Little apprehension was felt of an attack from the red inhabitants of the woods, and, as the French had signed a capitulation, the English considered themselves safe in the possession of this new-won territory. But they were far from being safe, and much fighting was still to be done before peace and tranquility were to come to the frontier.

The furthermost settlement of the English was at Detroit, between Lake Erie and Lake St. Clair, and upon the river of the same name. There were about twenty-five hundred inhabitants in this little community. Straggling huts were along the river banks, and in the centre was a fortified town, called the Fort, consisting of about a hundred houses surrounded by a palisade. A British garrison, consisting partly of regulars and partly of provincial rangers, was quartered in well-built barracks inside the town, or Fort. There were about one hundred and twenty soldiers, forty fur-traders, and a few half-breed scouts who could not be relied upon in case of a war with the redskins. Several light pieces of artillery were mounted upon the bastions, while two small armed schooners—the Beaver and the Gladwyn—lay anchored in the stream. The garrison was commanded by a splendid English officer, named Gladwyn, whose courage was that of a lion, and whose fighting qualities were far superior to most of the British officers who were engaged in the struggles upon the frontier. A large Indian village of the Pottawattamies was on the western shore of the river, a little below the fort; while, nearly opposite, on the eastern side, was a village of the Wyandots; and on the same side, five miles away, the Ottawas, under Chief Pontiac, had fixed their abode.

Although the Indians appeared to be on friendly terms with those in the town, the country had scarcely been transferred to the English—at the conclusion of the French and Indian war—when smothered murmurs of discontent began to be heard among all the Indian tribes of the interior. From the headwaters of the Potomac River to Lake Superior, and along the winding courses of the Mississippi, a deep-seated hatred of the English increased with great rapidity. When the French had held possession of Detroit and the forts upon the frontier, they had supplied the surrounding Indians with guns, ammunition and clothing, but the English would give them nothing. The French had been kind to the savages when they visited their forts, but the English received them with cold looks and harsh words, when, as was their custom, they would lounge about the fort and lazily stretch themselves out in the shadow of the walls. This was galling to their proud and haughty spirits. Then, too, the best lands of the red men were being invaded by white settlers and all remonstrances had been useless. The Delawares and Shawanoes, in particular, were highly exasperated at this, and their feelings were shared by all the surrounding tribes, in whose breasts slumbered a terrible hatred and distrust of the oncoming English, who had been their enemies in the late war and towards whom the Indians had the rancorous enmity that an Indian always feels against those to whom he has been opposed in battle.

Pontiac was principal chief of the Ottawas and head of a loose confederacy of the Ottawas, Ojibwas, and Pottawattamies. He was about fifty years of age: tall, sinewy, strong. Over those around him his authority was almost despotic, while his name was known and respected among all the savages who resided in the country, stretching from the Ohio River to the lowest waters of the Mississippi. He possessed great energy, craftiness, and oratorical prowess, while his courage in war was far-famed. It is said that he commanded the Ottawas in the defeat of General Braddock at Fort Du-Quesne—during the French and Indian war—and it is certain that he was treated with much honor by the French officers, for one of them had presented him with the regimentals of a soldier of that country, which he is only known to have worn upon one occasion. Not long before the beginning of the French and Indian war, he had saved the French garrison at Detroit from an attack from some discontented tribes of the North, who had marched to destroy it. For this he had been made much of by the French officers. "He puts on an air of majesty and princely grandeur," said Major Rogers, (one of his opponents), "and is greatly honored and revered by his subjects."

The various Indian tribes which lived along the Mississippi; in the country of the Ohio River and its many tributaries; and along the cold waters of the Ottawa to the north, were visited in 1762 by ambassadors from Pontiac. They carried with them a tomahawk stained red and a war-belt of wampum, and, as they went from camp to camp, they would fling down the tomahawk on the ground, hold the war-belt above their heads, and deliver a long speech, urging the warriors to join in the extermination of the English. Everywhere this appeal was heard with nods and gesticulations of approval, and all of the Algonquin nation—including the Wyandots, the Senecas, and several tribes of the lower Mississippi—pledged themselves to aid in this important movement. Of the powerful Iroquois nation of New York State only the Senecas would join, but the force against the whites was so overwhelming that it seemed hardly possible that the few scattered English garrisons could escape a terrible slaughter. Yet, confident in that supreme race confidence which has made the English the most all-powerful nation since the Roman legions held dominion over the greater part of Europe, the white garrisons of the wilderness kept their posts in fancied peace and seclusion.

The dreary winter drew to a close, and the Indians hid their intentions beneath calm and serious countenances. They still lounged about the forts, begged for tobacco, gunpowder, and whiskey, and gave no sign of intended wrong or violence. Yet they were busy sawing the muzzles of their guns in half so that they could conceal them underneath their blankets, were gathering a large supply of powder and ammunition from the French traders, and were holding war-dances in their far-distant habitation. Now and again intimations of their danger reached the garrisons and startled them from their fancied security. An English trader came into Detroit one day, and reported that he had heard a half-breed scoundrel boast that before next summer he would have English scalp-locks as a fringe to his hunting-shirt. The commander of the garrison laughed at the tale. Later on—in March 1763—the British commander Holmes, at Fort Miami, on the Maumee River (about one hundred and ninety miles southwest from Detroit) was told of Pontiac's conspiracy by a friendly Indian. "The warriors of the neighboring village," said he, "have received a war-belt and bloodstained hatchet, with a message urging them to destroy you and your soldiers. If you do not kill them first, they will do so." Holmes believed the tale, called the warriors together, and told them of his suspicions. The savages acted as many of them have done under similar circumstances—confessed that they had meditated an attack upon the garrison, said that a neighboring tribe had told them they must do it, under pain of death, and professed eternal love and good will towards the English. This allayed the suspicions of the commander of Fort Maumee, but he reported his discovery to Major Gladwyn, at Detroit, who, seeing the peaceful condition of the Indians in the three villages near his own fort, expressed the opinion that there was apparently some trouble among the Indians, but that it would soon blow over. He little suspected that Pontiac—the arch-conspirator—was in a village but a short distance away, and that his heart was burning with revenge and hate against him and his small garrison. He little believed that, as the savages came in from their winter hunting grounds, on the approach of spring, and did not come into the fort, as usual, they were fast making preparations for an assault upon him. In a few weeks he was to learn more of the Indians' character than he had ever suspected.

Pontiac had a small cabin of bark and rushes upon an island in Lake St. Clair, and here, with his squaws and children, he waited for the time to arrive when his braves would be ready to strike. His plan of operations was to make a sudden and simultaneous attack upon all the British forts on the Great Lakes and rivers of the Middle West—at St. Joseph, Ouiantinon, Green Bay, Michillimackinac, Detroit, the Maumee, and the Sandusky—and also upon the forts at Niagara, Presqu'-Isle, Le Boeuf, Venango, and Pittsburg. Most of these strongholds were badly protected; they were mere trading places, yet to the Indians they seemed to be great obstacles. It was evident to the mighty war Chief that the destruction of these posts and their garrisons would be a blow from which the hated English could never recover. And, as he lay upon his skins, looking out across the hazy waters of the Lake, his heart beat with the fierceness of his passions, and the hot blood surged tumultuously through his veins. All was going well with his plans; on all sides his allies were preparing for the great blow, and, viewing once more the supremacy of the French and of his own people, the fierce light of ambition glittered in the eye of Pontiac, the red Napoleon. Thus, as spring came to the wilderness, and the leafy forests were resounding with the chant of bright-colored birds, the wild death songs of the Indians sounded harshly discordant from the depths of the green wood.

On the afternoon of the fifth of May, a Canadian woman, called St. Aubin, who was the wife of one of the principal settlers, crossed over the Detroit River to obtain some maple sugar and venison from the Ottawa Indians. When she entered the village, she was surprised to find several of the warriors filing off the muzzles of their guns, so as to reduce them to the length of about a yard, and upon her return home she mentioned this to several of her neighbors. The blacksmith of the village remarked that many of the Indians had been to his shop within the past month, and had attempted to borrow files and saws for purposes which they could not tell him of. These revelations excited the suspicions of the older Canadians who had lived long among the Indians, so, going to the Fort, one of them—as spokesman—told Major Gladwyn to be upon his guard, for the Indians meditated treachery. The courteous commandant treated this advice with scorn, and scoffed at the news of an outbreak.

But, in a day or two, news came to him which changed his ideas very materially. In the Pottawattamie village was an Ojibwa girl, called Catherine, who was much attached to this gallant Major in charge of the British troops. On the day following the first announcement of trouble, she came to Gladwyn's quarters, bringing with her a pair of elkskin moccasins which he had requested her to make, and, showed by her downcast face and sad look that she had something unusual on her mind. Her demeanor was so peculiar that Gladwyn called her to him and requested that she tell him what weighed upon her spirits. "Promise me that you will not betray me," said the Indian girl, "and I will reveal my secret."

"I promise," answered the intrepid soldier.

"Then I will speak," continued the Ojibwa maiden. "Tomorrow Pontiac will come to the fort with sixty of his chiefs. Each will be armed with a gun cut short off and hidden beneath his blanket. Pontiac will demand a council, and, after he has delivered his speech, he will offer you a peace-belt of wampum, holding it in a reversed position. This will be the signal for an attack. The chiefs will spring up and fire upon the officers, and the Indians in the street will fall upon the garrison. Every Englishman will be killed, but not the scalp of a single Frenchman will be touched."

The English Major was now thoroughly aroused to his peril. He called together his officers and told them what he had heard. Immediately, every preparation was made to meet the expected attack, half the garrison was ordered under arms, and all the officers made ready to spend the night upon the ramparts, for, as the Indians nearly numbered from six hundred to two thousand, the commandant feared that they might learn that their plan had been discovered and would storm the fort before morning. The sentries were doubled, and, again and again, during the night, Gladwyn mounted the ramparts to look far out into the gloom of the soft, moist air. The shrill piping of frogs sounded from the still banks of the river, while, as the night wind swept across the clearing before the doomed defenses, the sullen booming of Indian drums, and the wild chorus of quavering yells came ominously to his startled ears. The savages were holding their war dances around their distant camp fires, and were preparing for their work of ruin and destruction upon the following day.

Next morning the sun rose brightly and soon dissolved the waving mist which hung over the river, disclosing to the eager eyes of the sentries a fleet of birch-bark canoes, crossing from the other shore. They seemed to be heavily laden and moved very slowly through the water, propelled by two or three warriors in each. But there were ten or fifteen warriors in every canoe, lying flat upon their faces, so that their number would not arouse the suspicions of the keen-eyed English troops. The frail boats reached the bank behind a cluster of trees, the warriors sprang out, unnoticed, upon the shore, and soon the common—behind the fort—was thronged with squaws, children, and braves, some naked, and others brilliantly painted white, vermilion, and pale blue. They moved restlessly to and fro, while many of the savages, wrapped in their blankets, and holding them close up to their faces, stalked up to the fort, scowling at the palisades and glowering evilly at the sentries.

Meanwhile the alarmed Major in command of Detroit had not been idle. The whole garrison was ordered under arms. Bayonets were placed in the end of the muskets, revolvers were strapped to waists, powder horns were filled to the brims. The English fur traders in the fort closed their storehouses and armed their men, who, with long flintlocks, scraggy beards, tawny hunting shirts, and weather-beaten faces, looked as if they could put up a very excellent fight. All were cool, confident, and ready for whatever might transpire.

It was not long before Pontiac, himself, approached at the head of sixty Indian chiefs, all marching in single file. They were wrapped to the throat in colored blankets and some had hawk, eagle, and raven plumes fluttering from their heads, while others had shaved their crowns, leaving only a scalp-lock hanging to one side. Their cheeks were smeared with white lead, soot, ochre, and vermilion, while their keen, beady eyes gleamed in their sockets vindictively, and gave them a grim and horrible aspect. As they crossed the bridge leading over a creek near by, a Canadian settler, named Beaufait, met them, and stepped to one side in order to allow them to pass. This they did, without glancing at him, but, as the last warrior approached, he recognized him as an old friend and associate. Uttering a vindictive "Ugh!" the warrior opened his blanket, disclosing the hidden gun, and, pointing with his arm to the fort, showed by a wave of his hand that he meant to use it with effect upon the English. The Canadian was too startled to move and stood looking after them, like a person suddenly paralyzed.

It was ten o'clock when the Chief of the Ottawas reached the fort, and, at his request to be admitted, the gateway was immediately thrown open to him. In an instant the cruel traitor was inside the palisade, but, as his keen eye gazed around him, he started back, and a deep ejaculation escaped from behind the folds of his gaudy blanket. The sight that met his eyes might well have terrified his crafty soul, for at a glance he saw that his long-meditated plot was ruined. Ranks of red-coated soldiers stood upon either side of the gateway, their guns at parade-rest, and their glittering bayonets flashing in the rays of the gleaming sun. He pressed on with his followers, but, as he passed the first house, he saw the motley collection of fur traders armed to the teeth, standing upon the corner of the street, and glowering at him and his warriors like fierce wolf-hounds on the leash. A drum beat, the soldiers closed the gate and formed a double line in the rear, but, regaining his composure, Pontiac strode forward into the narrow street, while his chiefs, glancing uncertainly from side to side, marched after their leader to the council chamber.

The council house was a large building near the river, and, as the Indians entered, they saw Gladwyn, with several of his officers, seated in readiness to receive them. The now cautious chiefs could not help seeing that every British officer had a sword at his side and a brace of pistols at his belt. Therefore, the red conspirators began to be afraid, and, eying each other with uneasy glances, they began to back away towards the doorway through which they had just entered. But Pontiac strode before the commandant and spoke with a loud voice. "Why do I see so many of my father's young men standing in the street with their guns?" said he. "Is it for warfare against the French that they are preparing?"

Gladwyn could not speak the Ottawa tongue, so replied through his interpreter La Butte.

"I have ordered my soldiers under arms for the sake of order and discipline," said he. "We are to hold a parade this afternoon."

Still gazing cautiously around them, the chiefs at length sat down upon some mats on the floor, and, after a long pause, in which the pipe of peace was passed cautiously around, Pontiac arose to address the assembly. In his right hand was the belt of wampum, and, as he addressed the officers, assuring them that he had come only to smoke the pipe of peace and promote their friendship, the British soldiers kept their eyes fastened upon it with looks of eager expectation. Suddenly, he raised the belt as if to give the signal for attack, and, as he did so, Major Gladwyn motioned slightly with his hand.

Immediately the roll of a drum sounded from beyond the doorway, the rattle of muskets and tramp of many feet reverberated through the silent hall, while the shrill blast of a bugle woke the echoes of the almost silent fortification. Pontiac stood as if confounded, and, as he saw the unruffled brow and keen eye of the British commandant fixed full upon him, he turned and sat upon the ground in stupid amazement.

Gladwyn now rose to speak, and, as he did so, his eye flashed fire and determination. "Friendship and protection shall be given you as long as you deserve it, O chiefs," said he, "but as soon as you show that you are not deserving of our friendship, then you will see our vengeance. We wish to be at peace with our red brethren, but, if you injure a single one of our Great Father's children, then our friendship shall be at an end, forever." At this he sat down and the council closed with a speech by Pontiac in which he said that he would return in a few days with his squaws and children, for he wanted them to shake hands with their fathers, the English. Gladwyn did not make reply to this. At his command, the gates of the fort were thrown aside, the cowering savages filed out into the open, and, with a sigh of relief, the British soldiers mounted the ramparts and watched their retreating forms as they disappeared in the distance. The great plot of the crafty Pontiac had been a complete failure.

Furious with rage and disappointment, the mighty chief of the Ottawas withdrew to his camp, bitterly cursing the turn of fortune, but resolved to visit the English once more, and to convince them if possible that their suspicions against him were unfounded. So, early the next day, he came to the fort with three of his chiefs, bearing in his right hand the sacred calumet or peace pipe. He was permitted to enter, and, offering it to Gladwyn and his officers, addressed them as follows: "My fathers, evil birds have sung lies into your ears. We that stand before you are friends of the English. We love them as our brothers, and, to prove our love, we have come this day to smoke the pipe of peace." At his departure, he presented the pipe to one of the British soldiers as a token of his regard, while in the afternoon the Indians engaged in a game of ball on the flat plain near the fort. Pontiac went to the Pottawattamie village and had a long consultation upon the best method of gaining an entrance to the fort, for he now saw that the white men had been keen enough to see through his evil designs.

Early next day the garrison saw the common behind the fort fairly swarming with Indians, and Pontiac, advancing from the black crowd of painted warriors, approached the gate. He walked up to it and attempted to open the door, but it was fast closed against him. "Open, open, to me," he shouted to the sentinels, "I would speak with Major Gladwyn." To this the Major himself replied, stating that he might enter, if he wished to, alone, but that the crowd he had brought with him must remain outside. Intense hatred and malice shone in the eyes of the Ottawa chief, as he saw that he could not pass the gates, and, with a fierce gesture of his arm, he turned abruptly from the palisade and walked off to his followers, who, in black multitudes, lay upon the ground just beyond reach of the guns of the bastions. It was time to throw off the mask of dissimulation.

As the soldiers of the garrison gazed after his retreating figure, they saw the Indians leap from their positions, "yelping like a lot of devils," and begin to run, in a body, towards the house of an old English woman who lived at a distant part of the common with her family. With fierce blows of their tomahawks and war clubs they soon beat down the doors, and, in a moment more, the long scalp-yell told only too plainly what had been the fate of the inmates. While this was occurring another large body ran, whooping and yelping, to the river bank, and, leaping into their birch-bark canoes, paddled with speed to an island in the river where lived an old English sergeant called Fisher. He was soon routed out of the cellar, where he had taken refuge, was dragged outside, and murdered. Every Englishman in the fort, whether officer, trader, or soldier, was now ordered under arms. Gladwyn, himself, walked the ramparts throughout the night. He expected an attack in the morning, and his expectations were fully realized.

When the sleepy sentinels on the ramparts saw the first red tinge of dawn tint the hazy east, next morn, a savage chorus of war whoops arose from every side of the fort. The men leaped to their posts on the bastion and behind the loopholes of the palisade, and, as they did so, a vast swarm of savage warriors—Wyandots, Pottawattamies, and Ojibwas—rushed furiously at the walls, discharging their guns incessantly, and screeching like so many wildcats. But, as they came near enough to be seen, suddenly they scampered behind barns and fences, skulked behind bushes, or lay flat upon their stomachs in hollows of the ground. Each—with a mouth filled with bullets—charged and fired recklessly, while uttering the most blood-curdling yells. They were naked, painted all colors of the rainbow, and with the agility of monkeys dodged the shot from the cannon of the fort. Every loophole was a target for their bullets, but they were poor shots and hardly ever hit the mark. The soldiers, on the other hand, took deliberate aim, and now and again a painted devil would leap high into the air with a fierce yell of pain, showing that some good, British lead had taken effect. A host of Indians found shelter behind a cluster of outbuildings, but a cannon, loaded with red-hot spikes, was aimed at the strategic point. The wooden houses were soon in flames, and the savages fled, howling dismally, while the soldiers peppered them with ball, as they decamped. Gladwyn walked continually among his men, encouraging them by word and gesture, while the stern features of Pontiac could be seen eagerly watching the turn of events from a hillock in the rear of his barbarous crew.

So the fight waged for six hours, but, as the sun grew hot overhead, the yelping masses of Indians became weary of their useless efforts. Gradually their rifle fire ceased, their war whoops died away, and their painted bodies began to disappear from the fence rails, bushes, and houses, which partly hid them from the eyes of the garrison. Few had been hit by bullets from the fort, for few had exposed themselves. Among the garrison only five men had been wounded and these not seriously. The first honor of the fight for the possession of Detroit had thus distinctly been with the British troops, and Major Gladwyn smiled with pleasure as he gazed out across the river at the clusters of Indian tepees which sheltered those who were thirsting for his lifeblood and for that of his men. Provisions were scarce, but the courage of his soldiers was not lacking, and he determined to fight to the last ditch rather than to capitulate to such an enemy.

Still under the impression that the whole affair was a sudden outbreak of no particular importance, and that the anger of the Indians would soon subside, Major Gladwyn, being in great want of provisions, opened negotiations with the savages, under cover of which he hoped to smuggle in necessary supplies from the French Canadians, whom the followers of Pontiac would not attack. Some of his officers advised him to embark the troops aboard the two sloops and depart for Niagara, but to this advice the gallant soldier would not listen. Three ambassadors were, therefore, sent to the Indian camp, among whom was a Major Campbell, a brave and hardy officer. Five or six of the French also went along.

Pontiac took the ambassadors by the hand and led them to his camp, where, after a long conference, Campbell appreciated his danger and asked to be allowed to retire. "My father," said the Ottawa chief to him, "you will sleep tonight in the lodges of your red children." Thus the gallant officer was betrayed into the hands of the enemy, nor did he ever live to again see the British garrison, as an Indian warrior murdered him shortly afterwards.

Word was then sent by Pontiac to the fort that the troops should immediately surrender, lay down their arms, as their fathers, the French, had been obliged to do, leave the cannon, magazines, and merchants' goods, and the two vessels, and be escorted in batteaux (long boats) by the Indians to Niagara. To this Major Gladwyn answered that his commanding officer had not sent him there to deliver up the fort to Indians or anybody else, and he would, therefore, defend it as long as a single man could stand at his side. So day after day the Indians continued their attacks until their shrill whoops and the rattle of their guns became familiar sounds. For weeks none of the soldiers lay down to sleep, except in their clothes, and their guns were always loaded and standing at their sides. The outbuildings, which gave shelter to the Indians, were burned down by volunteers from the palisades, while orchard trees and fences were leveled near the fort so that the savage enemy had no cover to shelter him. Still, worming themselves along in the grass, the savages would crawl close to the bastions, and shoot arrows, tipped with burning tow, upon the roofs of the houses. Tanks of water were everywhere provided for fire, and, although the thatched roofs were frequently alight, they were always extinguished before the blaze had any headway.

Pontiac was furious with anger at not reducing the fort, and begged the French inhabitants to teach him the foreign method of making ditches and trenches in order to approach a fortification, under cover. But the ignorant Canadians knew nothing of civilized warfare and could not aid him. One hundred and twenty Ojibwa warriors now joined the forces of Pontiac and assisted in the attack, while every man in the fort slept upon the ramparts, even in the stormiest of weather, and repelled every attempt of the savages to rush the defenses.

Pontiac had a friend, called Baby—a French Canadian—who lived near by, and, one evening, he entered his house, seated himself before the fire and looked steadily at the glowing embers for a long time. At length, raising his head, he said: "Friend, I have heard that the English have offered you a bushel of silver for my scalp. Is it true?" "The story is false," replied the Canadian. "I will never betray you, for an instant." The Chief of the Ottawas keenly studied the features of the white man for a number of minutes. "My brother has spoken the truth," he said, "and I will show that I believe him by spending the night at his house." So saying, he wrapped himself in his blanket, lay down upon a bench, and slept peacefully until the morning, with perfect confidence that no harm would be done him; which proves that, although cruel and vindictive, he had trust and confidence in his friends.

Another anecdote also shows that his trust in his friends was sincere and absolute. Shortly after the beginning of the siege a Captain Rogers came up to Detroit, with a detachment of troops, and on landing sent a bottle of brandy, by a friendly Indian, as a present to Pontiac—an old-time friend and acquaintance. The Ottawas were always suspicious that the English meant to poison them, and so those around the great chief endeavored to persuade him that the brandy was drugged. Pontiac quietly listened to what they had to say, and, as they ceased speaking, replied: "I have saved this man Rogers' life. No man whose life I have saved has the power to kill me, for when he and his men came, not many moons ago, to demand the surrender of Detroit from the French, I kept my Indians from attacking him. He knows this." So saying, he immediately drank the brandy, which, of course, was perfectly pure, and from which he suffered no evil effects.

Not long after his conversation with the Canadian, Pontiac discovered that a few of the young Wyandot braves were stealing his white friend's hogs and cattle, under cover of the darkness. He consequently decided to put an end to these depredations, and, arriving at the white man's home one evening, he walked to and fro, among the barns and enclosures, waiting for a sight of the marauders. Nothing occurred until late in the evening, when, looking keenly through the blackness, the great Sachem of the Ottawas saw the dark forms of the thieves stealing through the gloom. At this he walked up near to them, and thundered in fierce tones: "Go back to your village, you Wyandot dogs. If you tread again on this man's land you shall die!" The Wyandots trembled, and slunk away abashed, while, from then on, the Canadian's property was no longer molested. This well illustrates the power which Pontiac exercised over the minds of his followers.

While perils were thickening around the brave garrison at Detroit, the allied Indians had, meanwhile, not been idle. Late one afternoon the soldiers of the garrison were startled by seeing a naked line of warriors issuing from the woods near the fort, each painted black and with a scalp fluttering from the end of a pole. They dismally howled a death wail and shook their sticks at the fort, which made it only too clear that some new disaster had befallen the English. Such was the truth, for at nightfall a Canadian came to the gate with tidings that Fort Sandusky had been taken and that all the garrison there had either been slain or made captive.

It seems that—on the sixteenth of May—the commandant of the Fort (Ensign Paully) had been informed that seven Indians were at the gate to speak to him, and, as several of them were known to him, he ordered them to be admitted. Arriving at his quarters, two of the visitors seated themselves on either side of him, while the rest dispersed themselves around the room. Pipes were lighted, and the conversation began, when an Indian near the doorway suddenly made a signal with his head. In a moment Paully was captured and bound, while the entire garrison was shot down. The savages, conducting him to a canoe, soon set fire to the fort and burned it to the ground. Paully was adopted by a widow of the tribe, but subsequently made his escape and joined the defenders of Detroit.

The port of St. Josephs lay at the mouth of the river of that name near the head of Lake Michigan, and the fort, recently abandoned by the French, was garrisoned by Ensign Schlosser, with a command of fourteen men—a mere handful in the heart of a wilderness swarming with enemies. Thus, when a large force of Pottawattamies of Detroit came to have a friendly "talk," Schlosser was on his guard, for he feared treachery. But this did him no good. The sentinel at the gate was tomahawked, the Indians rushed into the fort, eleven Englishmen were killed, and the rest were made prisoners. They were conducted to Detroit, where Schlosser and three soldiers were exchanged for an equal number of Indian captives who had fallen into the hands of the garrison. This news was followed by the announcement that Fort Miami had also capitulated to the Indians, while painted warriors passing along the opposite bank in great numbers—a short time afterwards—announced by their yells that Presqu' Isle had also succumbed to their treachery. Le Boeuf, Venango, and Michillimackinac likewise capitulated, and only Detroit and Fort Pitt, in Pennsylvania, held out against the fury of Chief Pontiac and his confederacy.

The fate of Michillimackinac was particularly depressing, as the garrison there had been a good one of about thirty-five men, with their officers. The Commandant—Captain Etherington—had been told by a Canadian trader that the Indian had formed a design to destroy, not only his garrison, but all the English on the lakes, but to this he not only turned a deaf ear, but also threatened to send prisoner to Detroit the next person who should disturb him with such tidings. Therefore, the fate which awaited him could possibly have been averted had he not shown the same contempt for danger that lured many an Englishman upon the frontier to his doom.

The fourth of June was a warm and sultry day, and, as it was the birthday of King George of England, the discipline of the garrison was relaxed. Many of the soldiers were allowed to go outside the palisade, leaving just enough behind to act as sentinels and patrols in the fort. Encamped in the woods, not far distant, were a large number of Ojibwas and Sacs, who, early in the morning, informed the soldiers that they were to play a game of baggattaway, or lacrosse. The British were invited to come out and view the game, and, in consequence, the fort was soon deserted. Captain Etherington stood near the gate talking to some Indian chiefs. The soldiers stood—for the most part unarmed—in the shadow of the palisades, while a number of Indian squaws, wrapped in blankets, lounged near the entrance to the fort. Hundreds of lithe warriors rushed about the plain, with bats in their hands, endeavoring to catch the ball and hurl it through their adversaries' goal, while their whoops and yells were mingled with the cheers of the eager spectators.

Thus the game continued, when suddenly, from the midst of the multitude, the ball soared into the air, and, descending in a wide curve, fell near the doorway of the fort. Immediately the entire mass of whooping savages had followed it, and, as they dashed to the doorway, their shrill cries were turned to the death-bringing war whoop. This was not a hasty assault. It was a preconceived stratagem to surprise and destroy the unsuspecting British troops. And, as the ball-players ran by their women, they snatched the hatchets which the latter had concealed beneath their blankets. The startled English had no time to run and seize their muskets. They were struck down by the infuriated warriors, butchered upon the spot, and soon the quiet parade ground was red with the blood of the defenseless garrison. Thus the fate of Michillimackinac was similar to that of every other fortification upon the Great Lakes.

Meanwhile the garrison at Detroit was eagerly awaiting the arrival of reinforcements from Fort Niagara. The siege was being so vigorously pushed that soldiers, merchants, and servants were upon the ramparts every night, no one sleeping in a house, except the sick and wounded in the hospital. Naturally, then, they were much overjoyed when—on May 30th—the English sentinel on duty announced that a fleet of boats was coming around the point, at a place called the Huron Church. The garrison flocked to the bastions, and, for a moment, hope shone upon the haggard countenances of all. But, as the boats drew nearer, the Indian death-cry sounded from them, and they were seen to be full of painted warriors instead of white troops. Then the fact dawned upon the defenders of Detroit—the detachment had been captured by the followers of Pontiac.

This was the truth, for, their approach having been ascertained by the great leader, he had stationed a body of warriors to intercept the progress of the relieving party at Point PelÉe. Twenty small batteaux, manned with a considerable number of soldiers and laden with stores, landed here in the evening. The Indians watched their movements from the brush and fell upon them about daylight. One officer and thirty men escaped upon the lake, but the others were either killed or captured. The line of barges ascended the Detroit River near the opposite shore, escorted by the Indians on the bank and guarded by detachments in each boat, in full view of the garrison and of the French settlement near by.

In the foremost boat were four soldiers and only three savages, and, as the shallop came opposite the larger of the two sloops which lay anchored before the fort, the one who acted as steersman determined to escape. He called out in English to his companion, who was near one of the Indians, and told him to throw the Indian overboard. The soldier answered that he was not strong enough; whereupon the steersman directed him to change places with him, as if tired out from rowing, so that no suspicion would be excited in the minds of the guard. The soldier who had conceived the plot now slipped forward, as if to take his companion's oar, but, instead of doing so, he suddenly seized the Indian by the hair, and, gripping him by the waist with the other hand, lifted him from the seat and threw him into the river. As the savage shot out over the gunwale, he seized fast to the clothes of the soldier, and, drawing himself up out of the water, stabbed him again and again with his knife. This knocked the Englishman overboard, and, holding fast to the redskin, both went down the current, rising and sinking in the swift tide, and grappling in the embrace of death. Meanwhile the two other Indians had leaped out of the boat, while the soldiers turned about, and pulled for the neighboring vessel, crying aloud for assistance as they did so. But the Indians in the other canoes came after them in hot pursuit, while the followers of Pontiac on the bank kept up a rapid fire upon them with their muskets. It seemed as if they must be captured, for the bullets hissed about their heads and the birch-bark canoes gained upon them with every thrust of the paddle. Escape seemed impossible, when suddenly a cannon blazed from the side of the vessel, and a ball, flying past the boat, just escaped hitting the foremost canoe. This was enough for the Indians. They withdrew in fear and dismay; while a second ball, exploding among the warriors on the shore, made them take to the bushes. With a few lusty heaves the soldiers reached the side of the vessel where they were warmly greeted, as men coming from the jaws of death, and as a living monument to the old adage that "Fortune favors the brave." Lest the other prisoners might escape, they were immediately landed by the Indians, and were marched to a point well beyond the view of the garrison at Detroit. In the morning their scarred and mutilated bodies began to float by the fort, on the surface of the water, warning the soldiers what would be their fate, should they fail to hold out against the ferocious warriors of Pontiac's Confederacy.

During the month of June another attempt to relieve the garrison proved to be more successful than the last. One of the two vessels, anchored near the fort, had been sent to Niagara for men and for supplies. She had a safe passage, and, before long, arrived at the mouth of the river with about fifty soldiers on board, and a goodly supply of stores. The Indians saw her coming up the stream, realized that they must sink her if they could, and consequently surrounded her in their canoes and pumped lead at her sides, as if they hoped to scuttle her with bullet holes. But the vessel kept on, until it reached a very narrow part of the river where the wind died away, and so the anchor was dropped. Immediately above this place the Indians had made a breastwork of logs, carefully concealed in the bushes, and behind this they lay in force, waiting for the schooner to pass. This the crew were not aware of, but, from the moment the sun went down, they kept a keen watch upon the waters of the river.

Hours passed, the rapid current gurgled about the bow of the trim little vessel, and on either side frogs croaked from the black shores of the stream. Occasionally a night heron squawked in the marshy land near by, but nothing else disturbed the peace and quiet of the night. Suddenly the sentry started to his feet, for dark forms were seen moving upon the surface of the stream. "Indians! Indians!" he whispered, and, in a moment, the decks were crowded with soldiers, armed to the teeth. Meanwhile hundreds of canoes crept towards the vessel, and were within a few rods of their fancied prize, when a blow from a hammer sounded upon the foremast of the British boat. It was the signal to fire. Immediately a dull roar sounded through the still night, the sides of the vessel burst into a blaze of sheeted flame, and grape and musket shot tore into the clustering line of canoes. Fierce yells of pain and chagrin welled into the air as canoe after canoe sank before the fusillade, and, with fourteen of their number dead and dying, the remaining braves turned about and fled precipitously. But their friends opened a brisk fire from their log breastwork, so the vessel weighed anchor and dropped down stream with the current. When it again threw out the chain and swivel, not an Indian was to be seen.

For six days the vessel had to remain where she was, until a wind sprang up which was sufficiently strong to blow her up stream. So sails were hoisted and she tacked between the shores until the fort was reached. As she passed the Wyandot village the guns were brought to bear upon the wigwams, a shower of grapeshot was fired among them, and, before the yelling savages were fully aware of the nearness of the schooner, many of them had been struck down. The rest ran off, yelping like a band of those cur-dogs which follow every Indian encampment, and quickly scurried to the protection of the forest, while the welcome vessel furled her sails abreast of the fort and came peacefully to anchor. She brought much-needed ammunition and supplies, and the tidings that peace had, at last, been declared between France and England. This was heartily cheered by the brave defenders of Detroit, for now, with fresh supplies, more soldiers, and the renewed confidence which these could bring, they looked more cheerfully into the future. They were still in grave peril, and brave Major Gladwyn still counselled his men to use every care in watching the savages, both by night and by day, for their death chants sounded from the edge of the forest most ominously.

As Pontiac watched the frowning palisades which he could not subdue, his heart was black with anger. "You must destroy those boats of the English," said he to his followers. "When they are gone, we can starve the white men out; but we must sink or burn them." So the Ottawas speedily constructed a raft formed of two boats, secured together with a rope and filled with pitch pine, birch bark, and other easily lighted wood. This they set on fire, on the night of the tenth of July, and shoving it well out into the current with their canoes, watched it as it floated down upon the schooners, anchored before the fort. The soldiers saw the blazing peril as it journeyed slowly towards them and prepared themselves with boat hooks, oars, and buckets, to meet it, but a fortunate gust of wind blew the burning pile out into the stream, and it sailed by the two vessels, well beyond their bowsprits. A cheer went up from those upon the decks as the sputtering, gleaming mass floated slowly out of harm's way, lighting up the shores with an ominous and sinister glare, plainly revealing the white houses of the Canadian settlers on the banks. Far down the stream the fire was extinguished with a dull and sickening hiss.

But this was not the only attempt which the Indians made to put an end to the two schooners, for, upon the morning of July twelfth, the sentinel on duty saw a glowing spark of fire on the surface of the river, and soon another blazing raft bore down upon the vessels and their startled crews. The men watched the oncoming blaze with no particular terror, as they knew that they could push aside the burning logs with sticks and boat hooks, but they had no necessity to do this, as the raft was driven over towards the fort by the swift current, and glided swiftly by, lighting up the dark shores as it did so, disclosing the dusky forms of many naked spectators who stood there, expectantly awaiting the burning of the hated vessels. A gunner trained one of the cannon upon them in the bright light. Suddenly, with a deep boom, an iron ball crashed among the followers of Pontiac, who, with wild yells of defiance, dashed into the brush. The soldiers laughed derisively as their forms retreated into the gloom and burst into a song of jollification as the raft burned to the water's edge and the last gleaming spark was extinguished by the black waters of the rushing stream.

Soon after the failure of this affair, the savages were busily seen constructing another raft of larger dimensions. The gallant Major in charge of Detroit was now determined to protect his vessels from further harm, and so procured a number of boats which he moored across the stream with hawsers, at some distance above the schooners, so that if any rafts should drop down the river they would lodge against these before they struck the sides of the two vessels. When the followers of Pontiac saw this they were very angry and it is said that they stood upon the shores and shook their clenched fists vindictively at the soldiers, for they now saw that their attempts to burn the vessels would be fruitless. Pontiac, himself, was somewhat disheartened at the turn which affairs were taking, but his heart was cheered, a few days later, by the appearance of an Abenaki brave from lower Canada who told him that the King of France—the Indians' Great Father—was advancing up the St. Lawrence River with a large and formidable army. This untruth was believed by the leader of the uprising, and, when a body of Wyandot warriors came in, not long afterwards, with the news that every English fortification, save that of Fort Du Quesne, had fallen before the onslaughts of the savages, the heart of Pontiac was glad, and he bitterly upbraided his own followers for not having sufficient courage to subdue the handful of Englishmen and trappers in Detroit.

Really the Indians had done well, for they had persisted in the siege for two full months, which was an extraordinarily long time for savages to remain constant to anything. Their usual method was to make a quick attack and to then retreat, if unsuccessful. Yet here—under guidance of the Great Pontiac—they had steadily persevered in hemming in the doughty garrison for a long and tedious period of from between two to three months. The only way in which they could possibly subdue the English would be by scaling the palisades, and, although they twice attempted this feat, none had the courage to complete the task after the garrison began to pour hot volleys into the ranks of the attackers. Pontiac, himself, should have led the advance, but even he did not have sufficient nerve to mount the log breastworks of Detroit.

What the spirit of the doughty Gladwyn was on this occasion is easily seen from the following letter. On July the ninth he wrote to a friend in the East, and his missive was carried past the Indians by a trusty scout.

"You have long ago heard of our pleasant situation. Was it not very agreeable to hear every day of the savages cutting, carving, boiling, and eating our companions? To see every day dead bodies floating down the river, mangled and disfigured? But Britons, you know, never shrink; we always appeared gay, to spite the rascals. They boiled and ate Sir Robert Deras, and we are informed by Mr. Paully, who escaped the other day from one of the stations—surprised at the breaking out of the war, and commanded by himself—that he had seen an Indian have the skin of Captain Robertson's arm for a tobacco pouch.

"Three days ago, a party of us went to demolish a breastwork they had made. We finished our work and were returning home, but the fort espying a party of Indians coming up, as if they intended to fight, we were ordered back, made our dispositions, and advanced briskly. Our front was fired upon warmly and we returned the fire for about five minutes. In the meantime, Captain Hobkins, with about twenty men, filed off to the left, and about twenty French volunteers filed off to the right, and got between them and their fires. The villains immediately fled, and we returned, as was prudent; for a sentry I had placed behind me informed me that he saw a body of them coming down the woods, and our party, being about eighty, was not able to cope with their united bands. In short, we beat them handsomely, and yet did not much hurt to them, for they ran extremely well. We only killed their leader and wounded three others. One of them fired at me at the distance of fifteen or twenty paces, but I suppose my terrible visage made him tremble. I think I shot him."

Gladwyn says: "Britons, you know, never shrink," and, in this one phrase lies the secret of the white man's success against the redskins. For, with order, knowledge of firearms, the construction of fortifications, houses, and redoubts, and obedience to the commands of their officers, this mere handful of soldiers had been able to stand off the overwhelming masses of the enemy with apparent ease. Then, too, combined with a knowledge of fighting, they possessed the spirit which "never shrank." Their hearts were big with courage—that courage for which the Britons have always been noted: that bulldog courage which carried them up the sides of Bunker Hill right into the bullets of the American forces, although they could have easily conquered their opponents by an advance upon the right flank; that resolution which later on was to sacrifice numberless brave men at Modder River and Spion Kop in South Africa needlessly, and, to our way of thinking, unintelligently. For here, as at Bunker Hill, red-coated and tartaned British soldiers marched courageously and firmly, straight up to the breastworks of the enemy, there to be mown down by thousands, when a flanking movement could easily have dislodged the foe. One cannot fail to admire such bravery, for, like Burnsides' frontal attack at Fredericksburg during the Civil War in America, such courage is great and awe-inspiring, but ill-advised. We are thrilled by it, yet we cannot applaud.

While the siege progressed at Detroit, a force gathered at Niagara to relieve the garrison, and, in the meanwhile, the Indians made a violent and fierce attack upon the fortifications upon the New York and Pennsylvania frontier. Fort Le Boeuf and Fort Venango fell before the wiles of the savages and only their smouldering ruins marked where traders, soldiers, homesteaders, and red men had once congregated in apparent peace and good will. At Fort Pitt (formerly Fort Du Quesne), every preparation was made for an attack from the Indians.

This formidable stockade (where now is the city of Pittsburg) had three hundred and thirty soldiers, traders, and hardy backwoodsmen in the garrison, with numbers of women and children. In command was Captain Simeon Ecuyer, a brave Swiss officer who had enlisted with the British and who was as doughty a warrior as the stubborn Gladwyn,—and with an equal contempt for the red men. "I believe from what I hear that I am surrounded by Indians," he wrote to his commanding officer in the settlements, two hundred miles away. "I tremble for our outposts. I neglect nothing to give them a good reception, and I expect to be attacked tomorrow morning. Please God I may be, I am fairly well prepared. Everybody is at work, and I do not sleep; but I tremble lest my messenger should be cut off." Well might he tremble, for the Tuscaroras and the Delawares were gathering in force to attack the fort, burn it to the ground, and, if possible, to massacre the captured garrison. Rumors of terrible outrages upon the settlers came hourly to the ears of the startled soldiers. Men, women and children flocked to the protection of the walls of the fort, while it became dangerous to venture outside the palisades, as the few who did were shot and scalped by lurking Indians. All night the savages fired upon the sentinels, and soon during the day no one dared to put his head above the rampart, because of the hidden redskins on the edge of the forest. It was apparent that the surrounding woods were full of Indians, whose numbers daily increased, though they made no attempt at a general attack upon the frowning log walls of Fort Pitt, where, with courage, cheer, and resolution, those within waited for the onslaught which they knew to be at hand.

Finally, on a bright June day, numbers of painted warriors appeared in the cleared lands behind the fort, drove off the horses which were grazing there, killed a herd of cattle belonging to the soldiers, and then began a hot fire at the stockades, which soon broke with a dull roar from every thicket of the forest. In reply, the garrison turned some howitzers upon the woodland, touched them off, and, as the iron shells burst in the dense underbrush with a loud and ominous report, the frightened red men could be seen scurrying out of harm's way, in every direction. The day wore to a close, and, as darkness settled upon the forest, the flashes from the guns of the Indians grew less; gradually their weird war whoops melted away, and in their place sounded the shrill piping of frogs. As darkness came, occasionally the sharp crack of a rifle warned the sentinels on the ramparts that the savages were still upon the alert.

Next morning gallant Ecuyer was watching the woodland through a glass, when several painted warriors strode from the shade of the trees to the ditch beyond the palisades. One of them stepped forward, and, proclaiming that he was a great chief of the Delawares called Turtle's Heart, addressed the garrison with the following words:

"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 have 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 nations arrive here, you will all be killed, and we can do nothing to protect you."

Certainly this was a bold proposal to an old warhorse like Ecuyer, and, like a true English bulldog, he voiced a reply which made the Indians wince. He spoke in loud and eloquent tones, so that all could not fail to hear him.

"My brothers," said he, "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."

At the close of this speech the Indians withdrew, but it could be easily seen that the tale of the approach of the three armies had the desired effect, for the faces of some of the braves showed fear and consternation. Next day most of the savages moved away from the neighborhood and marched to meet a great body of warriors who were advancing from the westward to make an attack upon the fort, while the garrison labored with vim to make the palisades shot proof, to fill up a part of the palisades which had fallen into the ramparts, and to construct a fire engine, so that any flames which came from the burning arrows of the Indians could be extinguished with ease. But for several weeks no attacks came from the skulking foes, although they frequently appeared in the vicinity of the stockade and fired random shots at the sentinels. All communication was cut off with the settlements, and the soldiers nerved themselves for the coming affray which they knew would be a desperate affair.

Finally, on the twenty-sixth of July, a small party of Indians approached the gate bearing a flag of truce, and requesting that they be admitted. They were brought inside, and again—in a long and pompous address—requested the English to withdraw, or they would be overwhelmed by the attack of their own braves, assisted by Pontiac's Ottawas. But, although listening to them with respect, Ecuyer was not to be frightened by savage bravado. "I have warriors, ammunition, and provisions enough to defend this place for three years" he replied, "and against all the Indians on earth. We shall not abandon Fort Pitt as long as a white man lives in America. I despise the Ottawas of Pontiac, 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 that 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 to 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 I will fire a 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, glowering with anger and hatred, and bitterly disappointed in not gaining a bloodless possession of the fort, while the men of the garrison nerved themselves for the impending attack. On the night succeeding the conference it came. At dusk, dark forms could be seen stealing from the edge of the woodland. Hundreds of savages crawled as noiselessly as possible towards the log stockade, many of them dropping down behind the banks of the river and digging holes in the earth with their knives, so that they could be sheltered from the bullets from the fort. Silently and surely they made their line around the palisades, and, when the first flush of dawn reddened the East, a wild war whoop announced that the attack was to begin. Immediately a gruelling fire was opened upon the silent walls of Fort Pitt, bullets and arrows flew thick and fast into the palisades, but hiding behind the stout log breastwork, the garrison paid little heed to the rain of shot and other missiles. Occasionally a red man would expose his head from one of the holes in the bank, whereupon a dozen rifles would speak from the stockade, and as many bullets would whizz past the ears of the wily brave. Several were hit and died where they fell, and, although the Royal American troops had on the customary red uniforms which offered a bright mark to the Indians, not a single one was killed. Ecuyer ran among his men, exhorting them to do their best, and himself firing a rifle from the ramparts at the screeching savages. In broken English he was yelling defiance at the redskins, when an arrow hit him in the leg and pierced him through. Pulling it out immediately, he continued to direct the fire of his own men with as much spirit as before, and, when approached by the backwoodsmen with the request that they be allowed to make a sortie against the foe, called out with much spirit: "Allow you to go outside, my hearties? No, by Heaven, you are too valuable to me to permit me to risk even one of your necks in the open. Fight here, my boys, and we'll make good my boast to the redskins that I can hold this fort against all the Indians in the woods. Lie low, shoot straight, and when you see an Indian's head be sure that you hit it." As he ceased speaking a burning arrow flew into the stockade and ignited the roof of one of the houses, while the women and children—much terrified—rushed into the street with wails of distress. The savages fairly howled with joy when they saw the flames burst from the thatched roof, but water from the fire engine quickly put out the blaze, and, as several of the Indians exposed themselves in order to fire more arrows into the fort, they were killed by well-directed volleys of the Royal Americans. As darkness shut down upon the first day of fighting, there had been nothing accomplished by the besiegers.

For five days the redskins continued their screeching, howling, and desultory firing upon the palisades. As at Detroit, they did not have the heart to rush the stockade, and, as at Detroit, their irregular attack did little damage. The troops enjoyed the fun, shot carefully and did some damage. "The redskins were well under cover and so were we," wrote the gallant Ecuyer to Sir Geoffrey Amherst. "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 die. I let nobody fire until 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."

On the sixth day of the attack, suddenly the men of the garrison saw the Indians crawling out of their burrows in the river bank and running away to the woods. As they moved off they were peppered by the shots of the backwoodsmen and Royal Americans, who knocked over two half-clad braves as they leaped from the waters of the river. Heavy firing could be heard to the southwest, which lasted for a short time only. Then wild yells sounded from the forest which seemed deeper and more human than those of the redskins. Brave Ecuyer jumped to the top of the stockade with a glass in his hand and eagerly scanned the edge of the timber, and, as he did so, a loud cheer arose from the defenders of Fort Pitt, for, bursting into the open, came the red coats of British soldiers, the tartans and plaids of Highlanders, the fringed buckskin shirts of Virginia rangers, and a torn and battered rag of a flag, half shot away from the pole to which it was fastened. The doors of the fort were thrown wide open, the defenders made a rush for the oncoming army of deliverance, and, before very many moments the men of Colonel Bouquet's army—for such they were—were being clasped in the arms of the rough soldiers who had held the stockade at Fort Pitt. A mighty cheer welled into the clear air, women cried, children laughed, and the doughty Ecuyer was seen to dance a cantata on the walls of the stockade, for the garrison was saved, and the power of Pontiac in Pennsylvania was irrevocably broken.

This little force which had come to succor the beleaguered garrison on the Allegheny had just been through one of the stiffest fights in the annals of Indian warfare. Colonel Bouquet had marched from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, a town which was filled with refugees from the outlying districts, ravaged by the friends and allies of Pontiac. His total numbers did not exceed five hundred men, and they were unused to frontier warfare, although he himself had served for seven years on the border and knew how to fight a redskin and how to give him measure for measure. When they reached Fort Ligonier—forty-five miles from Fort Pitt—a crowd of Indians, who were besieging the place, vanished into the depths of the wood, and the small garrison was overjoyed to be suddenly relieved from a siege which had lasted over a month. They had heard nothing of Fort Pitt, so, fearing that the oxen and wagons would be greatly in the way should he be suddenly attacked, Bouquet left them behind him, and pressed onward to the banks of a stream called Bushy Run. The forest was deep, vast, impenetrable, wild, and rugged boulders impeded the progress of the hardy troops. They marched compactly with scouts on either flank to warn them of any lurking foe, and a number of backwoodsmen thrown well out to the front and to the rear. Before them was Turtle Creek, a stream flowing at the bottom of a deep hollow, flanked by steep precipices, where an ambuscade could be most effective; and, fearing this, Bouquet decided to camp at Bushy Run and to pass through this gorge during the night, when the savages could not see how to make a formidable attack. So the men pressed cautiously on, feeling their way and ever ready for a brush with the lurking foe. It was soon to come.

At one o'clock that day, when the little force was within half a mile of Bushy Run, a rifle shot sounded through the stillness of the forest, and a wild yell far to the front was followed by that volley for which the English had been waiting during every hour of the past week. A rattle of musketry and a round British cheer showed that the guard had been furiously attacked, so the foremost companies were at once ordered to rush forward and aid the backwoodsmen of the advance. As they fixed bayonets for the assault, a tremendous volley warned Bouquet that the enemy were there in numbers. The troops were, therefore, halted, formed in line, and ordered to charge with the bayonet. With a wild cheer they bore down through the forest, ran into a band of yelping redskins, and drove them, "screeching like wildcats," into the dim forest. But as this foe vanished, a tremendous yelling and firing was heard upon either flank, while cheers, shots, and war whoops in the rear showed that the entire force was attacked, and that—if not protected—the horses would be stampeded. So, turning about, the Highlanders and backwoodsmen hastened to form a circle around the terrified animals, while from all sides wild cries and yells showed that a vast number of Pontiac's allies were thirsting for their life blood. But steady, firm, and resolute, the Regulars crouched upon one knee; hid behind trees and logs; carefully aimed at the puffs of smoke which issued from the underbrush, and cheerfully awaited the charge of the savages; while Bouquet—in the centre—urged them with voice and gesture to be calm, to take certain aim, and to make every bullet count.

The Indians did not content themselves with remaining hidden within the dark brush and shadows of the forest. Suddenly a considerable body of them charged furiously upon the British line, holding their knives and tomahawks ready for a close encounter. But they were met by a gruelling volley, and with the cry of "No quarter!" the Highlanders charged with fixed bayonets and drove the whooping warriors into the forest, where they scampered away like deer. Few of them were either shot or stabbed, while over fifty of the English were soon writhing upon the ground with severe wounds from bullets and arrows. Again and again the red men thus charged; again and again they were repulsed; while the hoarse shouts of the sturdy backwoodsmen were mingled with the bloodthirsty whoops of the Indian braves, the rattle of musketry, the screams of the wounded, and the snorting of the terrified horses. Twilight came, but the red men and white still fought on in the forest, and only night with its blackness put an end to this furious fight in the wilderness. The combatants parted only to sleep upon their arms, and wait for the renewal of the struggle which the first flush of daylight was again to bring.

The watchful sentries of the English camp no sooner saw the dim red light of dawn in the far east than hideous and awe-inspiring whoops arose from all sides of the British camp. The English soldiers sprang to their guns, and it was not a moment too soon, for, with a thundering roar, a volley was poured in upon them. Under cover of the trees and bushes the enemy crept up close to where courageous Bouquet stood in the centre of his men, crying to them to fight the red men as they themselves fought: to crouch behind logs, boulders, bushes, and to shoot with the greatest accuracy. Terrible thirst beset the English, for no water was at hand and they could not reach the stream near by, while the groans of the wounded stirred the savages to renewed vigor in the assault. Again and again the English charged, but the Indians vanished into the brush like serpents, and reappeared to the onslaught just as soon as the Highlanders and backwoodsmen had reformed their line. The redskins redoubled their yells and saw the horses plunging and rearing to gain their freedom from behind a wall of flour bags, which also sheltered the wounded, and aiming at them, endeavored to stampede the entire herd. This had its effect. Many maddened brutes broke away from their halters, galloped through the ring of kneeling troops and yelping Indians, and rushed madly into the forest, sweating with fear and terror. The savages yelled with pleasure at this and taunted the troops in broken English from behind the shelter of trees and boulders, saying, "We got you! We got you!"

The fight had now waged from daylight until ten o'clock, and there was a lull in the battle—a lull which allowed Bouquet to perfect a plan for drawing the Indians into an ambuscade, which he hoped would finish the affair. This was: to allow two companies on the centre of the line to fall back and swing around to the left, behind some thick brush where they could not be seen. The place vacated by them was not to be filled up, and thus the British commander hoped to entice the Indians into the gap in his line. When they had come well inside, the two companies which had retreated were to close in upon their rear, and then hem them in so that they could be slaughtered. At the word of command, the two companies fell back and disappeared from view.

When the savages saw this retreat, they were sure that they at last had the British on the run, and so pressed onward with loud and exultant yells of defiance. A thin line of troops had filled up the gap in the line, and these were pushed back towards the interior of the camp, while the Indians seemed to be about to break into the very heart of the circle. With wild, hilarious yelpings they ran headlong into the gap, but, as they did so, the two companies which had retreated broke from the cover of the bushes which had hidden them, and bore down upon their rear with yells as fierce as those of the men of the forest. The Indians faced about with great courage and fired into the oncoming mass of men, but the Highlanders fell upon them with the bayonet. Nothing could stand such an attack; the red warriors broke and fled, while two companies which had advanced from their position in the line and had lain down upon the ground, poured a murderous fire into them as they passed. Numbers fell to the ground in their death agony. The remainder fled precipitously, while the four companies united and chased them furiously through the woods. Seeing which, the remaining Indians gave up all hope of success against the stalwart British, and, with one parting volley and yell of defiance, they, too, melted away into the forest. The fight at Bushy Run was over. About sixty Indian corpses lay upon the ground, among which were those of several chiefs, while eight English officers and one hundred and fifteen men had breathed their last amidst the dark forests of Pennsylvania. Next day the victorious troops marched onward to the relief of Fort Pitt—with their wounded upon litters—and, although frequently attacked by small bands of savages, reached there without further loss or mishap.

At far-away Detroit the siege went merrily on, but a detachment of three hundred regular troops was hastening to its relief. On July the 26th the seasoned veterans of this remarkable siege were overjoyed to see the red coats of their brethren-in-arms as they silently entered the fort, after coming down the river under cover of the night. This was fortunate, for so bold had Pontiac's warriors become that it would have fared ill with them had they advanced by daylight. Commanded by Dalzell, a brave and courageous man, the detachment was composed of seasoned British soldiers and twenty independent forest rangers, who were so anxious to get at the enemy that arrangements were immediately made for an attack upon Pontiac. But by some unknown means this arch-conspirator and Napoleonic designer of the movement against the English learned of the plan, and not only removed the women and children from his camp, but stationed two strong parties of his warriors in an ambuscade, behind piles of cord-wood which lay on either side of the road that the English had to take. Three hundred of the British left the fort about an hour before day, and marched rapidly up the bank of the stream in the direction of the Ottawa camp. They proceeded in silence until they reached a small bridge over a stream called Bloody Run, and were half way across it before they knew that the Indians had the slightest suspicion of their approach. Suddenly terrific yells burst from their front and a roar of musketry sounded in their ears from the high banks on either side. Half the advance party fell in their tracks, while the rest turned to run, but Dalzell raised his voice above the uproar, rushed to the front, sword in hand, and led on his men. They pushed across the bridge, and ran up the banks, but not an Indian was in sight. In vain the British looked for them—they had fled—but in the murk of the early morn their guns flashed from behind outhouses and fences, while fierce war cries rose with vigor and intensity. Again and again the soldiers advanced, but it was useless, and so, abandoning all idea of a successful attack upon Pontiac's camp, they retreated to the stockade at Detroit, fired at all the way and presenting somewhat the same appearance as Lord Percy's troops in the retreat from Lexington some years later, at the outbreak of the American Revolution.

As the soldiers were retreating before the warriors of Pontiac, Dalzell used every effort to restore order, and at last succeeded in doing so. The Indians had taken possession of a house, near the road, from the windows of which they fired down upon the English; so some of the rangers broke down the door with an axe, rushed in, and drove the redskins away. A captain was ordered to drive off some braves from behind some neighboring fences, and, as he charged them with his company, he fell, mortally wounded, shouting: "On, on, England forever!" The Indians ran off, but no sooner had the men turned about than the savages came running in upon the flank and rear, cutting down the stragglers with their tomahawks and scalping all who fell. A Sergeant of the 55th Regiment lay helplessly wounded, and realizing that he soon would be scalped, he gazed with a look of despair after his comrades as they made off. This caught the eye of warm-hearted Dalzell. So—with the true spirit of a hero—he ran over to the wounded man to pull him away out of danger, where he could be carried to the fort. But as he leaned over him, a rifle shot sounded through the dense mist which shrouded the battle field, and he fell dead across the body of the disabled private. Few saw him struck, and no one dared to turn back to recover his body, and thus, deserted and alone, the brave Englishman lay upon the field of battle to be scalped and plundered by the exultant savages.

This was the last important event attending the remarkable siege of Detroit. Winter was approaching, the Indians had nothing laid by which could sustain them through the winter, and so they had to repair into the forests in order to trap, hunt, and fish. When spring arrived, the various bands, as they came in to see the great chief Pontiac, told him that they were tired of the war and that they wished for peace. The Hurons and Pottawattamies, who had partly been forced into the war by threats of the followers of Pontiac, withdrew altogether, and thus completely ruined the ambitions of the great Ottawa chief, who had been so sure of success that he had already made arrangements with the French of dividing the conquered territory with them. The garrison at Detroit still watched his movements with anxiety. "'Tis said that Pontiac has gone to the Mississippi, but we don't believe it," wrote one of the soldiers at this time, and so constant watch and guard was kept up within the palisades which had successfully defied the might of the cruel leader of the conspiracy. He was still near by; no one dared to venture far into the wilderness; and there was constant dread of a fresh assault.

But the reign of terror was drawing to its close, and when, in the early summer of 1764, General Bradstreet arrived with a force of three thousand men, all the tribes in the vicinity of Detroit came in and concluded a peace, with the exception of the fierce Delawares and Shawnees, who had so unsuccessfully besieged the ramparts of Fort Pitt. Pontiac, himself, took no part in the council and was no longer seen. He abandoned both the country and his followers, and, according to report, went far to the southwest to the territory of the Illinois. Here, nursing in silence his wrath, resentment, and mortification, he brooded upon his fate, and contemplated a fresh outbreak against the English, trusting that the tribes in the vicinity of the Illinois River—the St. Josephs, the Miamis, the Marcontens, the Pians, and the Illinois—would be sufficiently strong to cope with the force and intelligence of the British. His plot against Detroit had been a complete failure. True—the smaller forts upon the frontier had fallen before the unexpected assaults of his allies—but the great prize, Detroit, had slipped his grasp. Now a large garrison was there, his Indians were starved and awed into submission. Fort Pitt still frowned down from its height in perpetual menace to his allies, and rumors of an advance upon the warlike Delawares and Shawnees filled him with chagrin and mortification. His confederacy was fast breaking.

And the advance came. The brave and hardy Bouquet with an army of Pennsylvania rangers, Virginia trappers, and regular troops, pushed far into the country of the warlike Delawares in the valley of the Ohio. Reaching a spot in the very heart of the Indian country, he erected a stout palisade, and awaited a deputation from the fierce enemies of the Pennsylvania frontier. All the villages of the Shawnees were within a few days' march, so no choice was left to the Indian warriors but to sue for peace or else battle with a man, who, at the desperate encounter of Bushy Run, had routed their entire force of fighting braves, with an army one-third the size of that which he now had with him. Bouquet meant business, and the Indians knew it. The frontiersmen were tired of scalpings, burnings, and robberies on the border. They had marched out to conclude a treaty of perpetual peace, or to give these wild rangers of the forest such a beating that they would remember it forever. Confident in their strength and the justice of their cause, they awaited the advent of the Indian Chiefs, with rifles loaded, bullet pouches well filled, and spirits fired with hatred for the cruel savages.

When the Indian Chiefs arrived next day, they found a small-sized army of over fifteen hundred fighting men drawn up in battle array. The soldiers were silent, their bright red coats of the Royal Americans shone brightly against the green of the forest, the bayonets flashed; the flags fluttered; and the even ranks of backwoodsmen in fringed hunting-frocks and moccasins had stern determination written upon their weather-beaten countenances. The Highlanders, with bare legs and kilts, leaned carelessly upon their rifles and gazed with indifference at the painted chieftains of the forest, who, seating themselves with sullen dignity, appointed one of their number to deliver a speech. In this the orator promised to give up all the white captives which the Indians held and to make peace. "I am come among you to force you to make atonement for the injuries you have done us," answered the martial Bouquet. "I have brought with me the relatives of those you have murdered. They are eager for vengeance, and nothing restrains them from taking it but my assurance that this army shall not leave your country until you have given them ample satisfaction. You are all in our power, and, if we choose, we can exterminate you from the earth, but the English are a merciful and generous people, adverse to shed the blood even of their greatest enemies; and if it were possible that you could convince us that you sincerely repent of your past perfidy, and that we could depend on your good behavior for the future, you might yet hope for mercy and peace. If I find that you faithfully execute the conditions which I shall prescribe, I will not treat you with the severity which you deserve. I give you twelve days from this date to deliver into my hands all the prisoners in your possession, without exception—Englishmen, Frenchmen, women, and children—whether adopted into your tribes, married, or living among you under any denomination or pretense whatsoever. And you are to furnish these prisoners with clothing, provisions, and horses, to carry them to Fort Pitt. When you have fully complied with these conditions, you shall then know on what terms you may obtain the peace you sue for." This speech had the desired effect; prisoners by the hundreds were soon brought in, and, after forcing the Indians to give him hostages to insure the keeping of peace, Bouquet went back to the settlements with his army, threatening that if the Indians again went upon the war path he would return with a larger force and completely annihilate the warring tribes.

News of this was reported to Pontiac, as he sullenly meditated further plans for revenge in his wigwam among the Illinois. Daily he saw his followers dropping off from him. To hold out longer against the whites was folly. He was surrounded by enemies. In the West were unfriendly Indian tribes; to the South were the hereditary enemies of his people, the Cherokees; in the East were the whites, and to the North a strong and vigorous garrison held the fortress of Detroit. Foiled, defeated, dismayed, he determined to accept that peace which he knew that the English would give, to smoke the calumet (or peace pipe) with his white conquerors, and to wait for some favorable opportunity for revenge. Consequently he attended a council between his tribesmen—the Ottawas—and the English at Detroit, promised allegiance to the British flag, and, requesting that the past be forgotten, threw down a wampum belt upon the floor, saying: "By this belt I remove all evil thoughts from my heart. Let us live together as brothers." In the spring he attended a council at Oswego, New York, presided over by Sir William Johnson, and, being requested for a speech, rose to say: "Father, when our great father of France was in this country, I held him fast by the hand. Now that he is gone, I take you, my English father, by the hand, in the name of all nations, and promise to keep this covenant as long as I live." Here he delivered a belt of wampum. "Father, when you address me, it is the same as if you addressed all the nations of the West. Father, this belt is to cover and strengthen our chain of friendship, and to show you that if any nation shall lift the hatchet against our English brethren we shall be the first to feel and resent it."

True to his promise, the Great War Chief remained at peace with the whites from now on. Who can reckon what bitter thoughts must have assailed this red Napoleon when he considered the humiliating close of his campaign? Proud, ambitious, savage, he saw the oncoming rush of the men of a different race with revengeful apprehension. His great plan of extermination of the British had completely failed. The Indian lack of order, well-defined plan, and knowledge of warfare, had failed to make but a temporary impression upon the garrison of the frontier. Their non-providence of provisions and forethought in gathering them, had caused the abandonment of the siege of Detroit. Their inability to successfully approach a well-built stockade had made it impossible for them to damage the walls of Fort Pitt. Pontiac had plead with his white Canadian allies—during the attack on Detroit—and had requested them to show his Indians how to make tunnels of approach as the English did in their own warfare. But the French said that they did not, themselves, know how to dig these trenches—which was an untruth—and so he had to give up this proper method of attack. Had his followers been taught in the civilized schools of military discipline, they would, by mere numbers, have annihilated the brave defenders of Detroit; but they were children of the forest—rude, untutored huntsmen—and as such only could they make war.

Across from the present city of St. Louis, Missouri, is an old hamlet called Cahokia, and here were gathered several Illinois Indians one pleasant day of the early spring of 1769. Pontiac had wandered to St. Louis to see an old acquaintance called St. Ange, and, hearing that some drinking bout, or social gathering was in progress, told his white acquaintance that he was going to cross the river to see what the warriors of Illinois were doing. St. Ange besought him not to join them, for he was not popular with this tribe. "I am a match for the English; I am a match for twenty red men," answered the Ottawa Chief, boastfully, "and I have no fear for my life." So saying, he entered a canoe and crossed to the other shore of the river.

A feast was in progress, and to it the mighty Pontiac was invited as soon as his presence among the Illinois was known. There were songs, boasts, speeches, and the whiskey bottle was passed freely about. There is no doubt that the red Emperor drank deeply, and, when the affair was over, he walked majestically down the village street to the adjacent woods, where he was heard to chant his medicine songs in the dark and silent wood. An English trader who had an intense dislike for the mighty war chief was then in the village, and, seeing that the moment was propitious for an assault upon him, bribed a strolling warrior of the Kaskaskia tribe of the Illinois with a barrel of liquor to kill the fierce leader of the Ottawas. Fired, perhaps, by an equal hatred for Pontiac, the red assassin soon consented to do the deed, for he was promised still further reward if he should be successful. As the dark figure of the leader of the great Indian conspiracy loomed strangely erect in the shadow of the forest, a silent form crept—like a wildcat—close to where he stood. A twig snapped. Pontiac turned to see what disturbed the quiet of the forest, and, as he did so, a tomahawk was buried in his brain. He fell prostrate upon the green carpet of moss. A shrill wail of triumph startled the night birds from the branches, and thus, foully and brutally assaulted, died the mighty Sachem of the Ottawas.