It was while stationed in Montreal that our hero met Alexander Henry, ex-fur-trader and adventurer and coureur de bois—then a merchant and King's auctioneer—a notable personage and leader in many a wild exploit in the far West, an old though virile man after Isaac's own heart.

From Henry he learned much of the Indian wars in the West, and the strategic value of various points on the frontier, possession of which in the event of war he foresaw would be worth a king's ransom. Not least were details respecting Michilimackinac, the Mackinaw already referred to. Nearly half a century before, Henry, a native of New Jersey, of English parents—his ambition fired by tales of the fabulous fortunes to be made in the fur trade—obtained from the commandant at Montreal a permit to proceed west as a trader. He outfitted at Albany, and the following summer set out for Mackinaw.

Meanwhile the Indian allies, under control of the great Pontiac, were fighting immigration and civilization. Between Fort Pitt—Pittsburgh—and the Fox River, in Wisconsin, the home of the Sacs and Foxes, they had captured nine out of thirteen military posts, and were secretly planning the downfall of Fort Mackinaw. This was regarded as an impregnable post and vulnerable only through strategy—in Indian parlance another name for duplicity. Fort Mackinaw, as Brock well knew, was the most important trading entrepÔt west of Montreal. It served a territory extending from the Missouri in the west to the far Kissaskatchewan in the north.

On Henry's arrival his friendship was sought by an Indian chief, Wawatam. Between these two men a remarkable attachment developed. They became brothers by mutual adoption. At this time the fort was garrisoned by ninety British regulars. One day, outside the walls on the surrounding plateau, several hundred savages were encamped, ostensibly for purposes of trade, some of them killing time by playing the Indian game of ball—the baggatiway of the red-man, la jeu de la crosse of the voyageur. Henry, acting upon a veiled warning by Wawatam, suggested to the officer in command extra precaution.

"I told him," said he, while Brock drank in every word, "that Indian treachery was proverbial." Now this recital was of the deepest interest to our hero, for Mackinaw, then in the possession of the United States, held the key to the Michigan frontier and control of the upper lakes. While the huge log fire that roared in the chimney cast light and shadow on polished wall and the oak beams of the big dining-hall, Brock puffed away at his huge partiga, weighing every word that fell from the bearded lips of the trader.

"Major Errington," continued Henry, "while thanking me, laughed at my forebodings. Then Wawatam urged me, as his adopted brother, to depart for Sault Ste. Marie. But I delayed and once more sought Errington, who still ridiculed my fears. While I was yet expostulating with him we heard the louder shouts of the Indians. They had rushed through the fort gateway into the enclosure within the palisades in pursuit of a lost ball. This was but a ruse to gain admittance, for in a moment the laughter and shouts changed to wild yells and warwhoops. The guard was overpowered in a flash, and in the attack that followed almost the entire garrison was tomahawked and scalped."

"Ah!" said Brock, "so British lethargy and self-complaisance succumbed to Indian duplicity."

Then his thoughts turned to Niagara. He saw the open portals of Fort George, and Tuscarora youths playing the Indian game of ball in the meadows of the Mohawk village.

"Those who escaped massacre at Mackinaw," said Henry, refilling his stone pipe and resuming his story, "were preserved for a worse fate. Pontiac's allies—and you, Colonel, know something of these matters from the tales told you by the officers of the North-West Company—entered on a carnival of blood. From a garret, where a Pawnee Indian woman had secreted me, I saw the captured soldiers tomahawked and scalped, and some butchered like so many cattle, just as required for the cannibal feast that followed."

"Tortured?" interrogated Brock.

"Tortured!" repeated Henry. "Why, the diabolical devices that those men resorted to to inflict acute physical agony were inconceivable—unutterable, Colonel." He paused.... "After all, no worse, perhaps, than the tortures that have been inflicted by civilized fanatics in Europe."

There was silence for a moment. Both men were buried deep in thought, the one living in the past, the other striving to forecast the future.

"Through the intercession of Wennway, another friendly Indian," continued Henry, "my life was spared. Preparations were made for my secret departure. As I shoved my canoe into the water, en voyage for Wagoshene, the prayers of Wawatam rang in my ears as, standing on the yellow beach with outstretched arms, he invoked the Gitche Manitou, the Great Spirit, to conduct me in safety to the wigwams of my people."

"Surely, Master Henry," commented Isaac Brock, "with all the latent qualities for good that seem to underlie the outward ferocity of some redmen, firmness and kindness are alone needed to convert them into faithful friends."

"An Indian, or Indians collectively," said Henry, pausing before he answered,—"I speak from personal experience only—are faithful so long as you keep absolute good faith with them. In this particular they are no different from white people; but never deceive them, even in trifles, and never subject them to ridicule. Then, if you treat them with consideration, you can reasonably depend upon their individual loyalty. They expect a lot of attention. Yes! an Indian is naturally grateful, probably far more so than the ordinary white man, and seldom forgets a kindness. Should you come into closer contact with the redman, Colonel, as I have a presentiment you will before long, never forget that an Indian, by right of his mode of life, is deeply suspicious and painfully sensitive. He has a keen sense of humour, however, and is quick to discern and laugh at the weak points of others, which, until you understand his language, you will be slow to suspect. On the other hand, he won't stand being laughed at himself or placed in a foolish position. For that matter, who can? Occasionally you will meet a savage with strangely high principles. Among the redskins there is a proportion of good and bad, as there is in all races, but less crime, under normal conditions, than there is among the whites. So, summing up his vices and virtues, the North American Indian, allowing for heredity and surroundings, differs little from ourselves."

"They are brave," interrupted Brock.

"Oh, yes," said Henry, "splendidly reckless of life. The courage of the fatalist I should say. You see, they are so constantly on the war-path that fighting is a compulsory pastime."

"Still," said Brock, "with what daring they fight for their homes."

"True, Colonel," retorted Henry, "but when it comes to fighting for home, a hummingbird will defend its nest. Their peculiar traits are largely the result of a nomadic life and tribal strife, hence, their duplicity. Superstition influences them greatly, as it does all savage races. In one respect they are at least superior to some of our own people—I refer to their treatment of their children. Their lovingkindness is pathetic. Contact with civilization, as you may discover, develops at first all their bad qualities, for they are apt imitators, so when the pagan Indian meets a trader without a conscience—and there are some, you know—why, he is not slow to adopt the bad Christian's methods."

Brock's Cocked Hat

Brock's Cocked Hat