It has been said by certain historians that, after the American War of Independence, British agents were employed not only to poison the minds of those Siouan and Iroquoian tribes that dwelt on the United States side of the Boundary, but even to keep them supplied with rifles and ammunition.

Be that as it may, it is certainly a fact that, in 1793, the Cherokee and Seneca tribes of the Iroquois were not only at war with the Crows, Iowas, etc., of the rival Sioux faction, but were turning their mysteriously obtained rifles on the white people of the States; and the celebrated General Wayne was sent into Ohio with a strong force of cavalry and infantry to restore order. He pitched his camp near Fort Jefferson, on Lake Erie, and having driven away the insurgents, sent a hundred foot-soldiers, under Lieutenants Lowry and Boyd, across the lake to a fort near Detroit, to bring back by road three hundred horses and extra 18 provisions, and, incidentally, to disarm any quarrelsome redskins they might meet with.

The return march was destined to be a very unpleasant one. Large and small bodies of the Indians whom Wayne had driven to the forests persistently harried the column, flank and rear, firing from behind rocks and among the trees, till, in a couple of days, the hundred men had become only seventy, and many of the horses had escaped or been stolen. At noon on the third day the men halted for dinner on a barren tract between a range of hills and a thick forest; and, in order to guard against a surprise, Lieutenant Boyd with twenty men was sent to patrol the woods while the rest ate their meal in comfort. Half an hour later, while Lieutenant Lowry was preparing to send another twenty men to relieve the scouts, the report of a gun, followed quickly by a dozen others, warned him that the day was not to be gone through without further trouble.

Every soldier caught up his rifle and made ready to defend the horses and stores which had been placed in the centre of the camp. Lowry called a couple of sergeants to him and pointed to the new patrol.

“Take these to Mr. Boyd’s assistance; and you, Munson” (to the younger sergeant) “bring me back word of what is going on. Hark at that!” A rapid, running fire was beginning, and above Boyd’s voice, which was shouting directions or encouragement to his men, there rose the truly fearful war-whoop peculiar to the Cherokee Indians. “Hurry; off with you! I’ve enough men here to guard the horses in case——”

The little squad plunged into the wood and made 19 for the scene of action, which could not be far away, judging by the distinctness of the voices. They arrived after a minute’s quick double, and the sight that awaited them was not an encouraging one. Ten of their comrades were already dead or dying; the rest were fighting desperately against a score of Indians, most of whom were armed with rifles in addition to their bows and hatchets, while, leaning back against a tree, and doing his best to cheer on the survivors, sat Lieutenant Boyd, his shin-bone shattered by a bullet.

The new-comers fired a volley; several Indians fell, and the rest were speedily charged with fixed bayonets. Again came the horrible war-whoop, this time from a second batch of Indians who either had just arrived or had been in hiding, and these hastened to pour flight after flight of arrows into the rescuers from behind.

Young Munson, who was now fighting on the right wing of the little force, turned swiftly, and, firing off the charge which he had just rammed down, shot the foremost of the bowmen. But, even as he started to reload, he remembered his officer’s command to return at once with news; in the hurry and excitement of the last few minutes he had forgotten all about it. He looked round for the quickest exit from the wood, and, in so doing, caught sight of Boyd who, faint with the loss of blood, had been feebly endeavouring to bandage his wound with a handkerchief. The sergeant threw one more glance back at the soldiers; many of them had already fallen before the Indian arrows, and the rest, paying no attention to their new 20 assailants, were pursuing those who had guns. Then he turned again to the officer. To leave him here was to abandon him to death, perhaps by torture.

“Can you get on my back, sir? he said hurriedly. Quick; the redskins’ll be on us in another minute. Here, give me a hold of your pistol; I must leave my rifle unless you can carry it for me.”

But the officer had scarcely strength enough to enable him to stand. With difficulty Munson hauled him upright against the tree-trunk, snatched up the pistol in case he should need it on the perilous little journey which he was undertaking, and, hoisting Boyd on his back, darted among the trees out of sight of the approaching Indians. On every side of him shooting seemed to be going on; an arrow fell at his very feet, and the next moment a stray musket-ball flattened itself against the tree which he was passing. What he could not understand was that, the nearer he came with his burden to the camp, the louder and more frequent did the firing sound. Had his mates already driven the enemy into the open?

A few steps more and he would be out of the wood. But what was all this prancing and stamping? The horses could hardly have broken loose, for, since his recent losses, Lowry had had them tethered in batches whenever a halt of any length was made. The firing grew louder and faster than ever, and all doubt in his mind was ended when he heard the lieutenant’s voice ordering the men to charge.

While the two bodies of Indians worked such fearful havoc among the patrols, a third and stronger 21 party—fifty in number, and many of them mounted—had worked round to the open and were attacking the remainder of the company with tomahawks and spears. The horses, many of them already liberated by the savages, were plunging and screaming. Lowry, who had leapt on to the back of one of them, was cutting right and left with his sword at the mounted Indians, while his men, though they fought furiously, were retreating rather than charging, for these Cherokee redskins, unlike the timid, treacherous bullies of the southern and western tribes, knew no such thing as fear; moreover, in addition to their unquestioned bravery, they often displayed, in their warfare, an amount of forethought and method that would not have discredited a white regiment.

Naturally, Munson’s first care was to get rid of his burden; and he resolutely turned his back on the fighting and made for the little tent that had been hastily rigged up for the two officers when the company halted. Depositing the wounded man here, he snatched up a rifle and hurried breathlessly back to take part in the fray, which was but a small part, for, all in a moment, a spear, thrown with terrific force, struck him in the shoulder and he dropped to the ground, striking his head on a boulder so violently that he lost consciousness.

When he recovered himself, some Indians were bending over him, and one of them asked him, by signs, if he could stand. He contrived to stagger to his feet; then, finding that his water-flask was still at his belt, took a long drink from it, for his lips and throat seemed as dry as the back of his hand.

“Well done, sergeant; bravo!” said someone behind him; and other voices echoed the sentiment. He turned his head dazedly, and gave a start of astonishment. Under a tree near him stood ten men of his company, some of them with heads or limbs roughly bandaged.

“What’s up? he asked. What’s happened, anyhow?”

One of the Indians here took him by the arm, led him over to the tree, and signified that he must take his stand with the rest; and now he could see that those of his comrades who were not wounded had their hands bound, and that every man had a lasso-like thong tied about his waist, the other end of which at present trailed loosely on the ground.

“We’re all on us prisoners; that’s what’s happened,” said a corporal by whose side he had been placed. “I thought you was done for; ’pon my word I did.”

“Where’s all the rest?”

“Dead, or else cut their lucky. Lowry, he’s gone out, poor feller.”

“How about Left’nant Boyd?”

“Guess he got clear after all. I seen two o’ the boys gettin’ him on to a saddle-horse. There’s one thing, them as got away on horseback’ll soon take the news to Wayne, so if these varmints don’t tomahawk us or set light to us, I surmise he’ll soon be along to rescue us.... What’s their game now?”

Several mounted redskins were coming over to the prisoners, and after a few words with those who had been taking charge of them, made a sign to the Yankees that they must be prepared to march. The loose ends 23 of the thongs that bound them were handed up to one or other of the horsemen, and they were soon being dragged forward at a brisk walking pace. Munson indicated that he could not walk far till his wound had received attention, whereupon, instead of treating him like the rest, the Indians lifted him on to a spare horse, fastened his ankles under the animal’s belly, and one of the mounted Cherokees, seizing the bridle, rode on with his captive.

The procession turned at once into the thickest part of the forest, the horses stepping along so quickly, nevertheless, that those on foot could scarcely keep up with them. Although there was no visible track for them to follow, the redskins appeared to know quite well where they were going; they conversed very little among themselves, and Munson was riding too far away from his comrades to be able to communicate with them. As nearly as he could guess by the light, it must have been after five o’clock, and he had eaten nothing since midday. He signed to his companion that he was hungry, but the Indian merely shook his head. In about an hour from the time of starting the horses were stopped, a short conversation ensued among the riders, and then, to the sergeant’s dismay, all moved on again, every one of the prisoners being taken in a different direction.

Munson’s captor, who was now joined by two other savages, turned in the direction of the lake shore, and, quickening their pace to a canter, they rode a good twelve miles without stopping. By dark they arrived at an encampment where there were at least sixty wigwams pitched. The horses were pulled up, 24 the prisoner’s feet were freed, and he was ordered to dismount. He again made signs that he was hungry, and this time one of the Indians pointed encouragingly to a cooking-pot that hung over the nearest fire, and bade him sit down on the grass.

Presently a squaw brought a kind of meal cake, and, plunging a wooden fork into the pot, brought out a bird rather larger than a pigeon, which she laid on the cake and handed to the captive, the three Indians helping themselves in a similar manner. After a while, voices and the tramp of more horses became audible, and about fifty Indians, seemingly of the same tribe as those who had attacked the soldiers, marched or rode into the camp. Many of these must have been away on a hunting expedition, for they had with them a good supply of birds, deer, hares, and foxes.

Feeling considerably stronger and more hopeful after his meal, the American cast his eyes round in search of a way of escape. He was unbound, and might possibly succeed in crawling, inch by inch, down to the water-side; yet, with his shoulder in its present condition, he could neither swim nor—supposing he should have the luck to find a canoe—work a paddle; reason, moreover, suggested that a semi-permanent camp such as this appeared to be, would assuredly be far enough away from any white station or boat-route.

While he was still revolving plans, two redskins crossed over to him, made him stand, seized his arms and bound them securely, though not unmercifully, behind his back, and motioned to him to follow them. 25 They conducted him towards the largest of the wigwams, outside which sat the chief of the tribe, solemnly smoking. After an interval of dead silence, that personage gave a little shout, and all the men in the camp collected round about the prisoner. A lengthy harangue followed, addressed partly to Munson, partly to the bystanders; and, at the close of this, one of the Indians drew a knife and whetted it on his moccasin.

Young Munson pulled himself together and endeavoured to take courage from the fact that, if death had now come, it had come while he was doing his duty; a man of his calling must expect to meet it any day of the week; indeed, how many of his old comrades-in-arms had met it within the last few hours? At least the savages should see that he could die like a man, without making a fuss.

The Indians nearest to him took him by the shoulders and forced him into a sitting posture, and the man with the knife walked slowly up to him and stood grinning over him. Then a horrible thought came to him; they were going to give him a punishment almost worse than death—to scalp him, in fact—an indignity which only a man who had lived all his life in the neighbourhood of Indians could fully appreciate. He wriggled himself free and, springing up again, kicked out fiercely at his tormentors. For this they seemed to care little; the man’s hands were tied and he was at their mercy. He was forced down again and held motionless; then, while one man gripped him by the back of his neck so that he could not possibly move his head, the operator with the knife entered upon his task.

But he whom Munson had regarded as the public executioner was but the barber to the tribe; the formidable-looking knife had no more terrible work to perform than that of shaving the unfortunate man’s head, and this in token that henceforth he was the chief’s bond-slave.

So much relieved that he laughed loudly at himself for his idle fears, the sergeant was then liberated, and taken to a wigwam where he found a fellow-slave, a Crow Indian, who had been captured some few weeks earlier; and both occupied the tent that night, by no means cheered by the fact that an armed redskin stood at the entrance all night long.

Apart from his anxiety to let his friends know of his whereabouts, the young man was not unhappy among the Cherokees. For the first month or two of his captivity a very close watch was kept upon him, and, even later, it was at all times difficult for him to be away from observation for many consecutive minutes; but gradually he was given more liberty, was allowed to go fishing and hunting within certain limits, and was not again subjected to the disgrace of having his head shaved. His principal duties were to carry water from the lake, collect firewood, tend the fires, and do such other menial work as the squaws were not strong enough for, and as the men were too proud to do. Having no one to converse with in his own language, he rapidly picked up theirs, more rapidly indeed than they realised, for they would often talk of their war plans in his presence as though he would not understand their talk. From the more approachable of the Cherokees he occasionally learned news of the outside 27 world; heard that General Wayne was still fighting against their people, and that “they themselves didn’t care a button for him.” He never saw, among them, any of the horrible scenes of blood and torture which other captives among Indians have described; they were ignorant and superstitious, but neither lazy nor drunken nor particularly cruel. Sometimes the “war-arrow” was brought into the camp by some fleet messenger, and then the majority of the braves would gallop away or set off in their canoes, and, after an absence of hours or days, would return—often laden with spoil taken from the Sioux or the whites, and sometimes leaving some of their number behind.

We may be sure that, all this while, Munson had worked out a good many schemes for effecting his escape; but, like a wise man, he knew that one unsuccessful attempt would infallibly result in prolonging his captivity and rendering it more severe, if not actually in his death. When he started, there must be no half-measures; all hindrances and difficulties must be foreseen and allowed for. He practised assiduously the art of following a trail, whether by land or water; already he had become very handy with a bow and arrow, for he was never allowed firearms; he did his best to become an expert canoeman, and lost no opportunity, in fact, of learning to outwit the enemy with their own weapons, all the while telling himself that, sooner or later, the golden opportunity must come.

It did come, but not till he had been in the Cherokee camp for nearly eight months. One morning, in the 28 summer of 1794, three Indians whom he had never seen before and who, he learned, were of the Huron tribe, rode into the camp and held a short parley with the chief. Very soon the place was in an uproar, and Munson was easily able to find out the news. The Iowas had spied out this camp and that of some neighbouring Hurons, had betrayed the secret to the Yankee general, and he was now on his way to attack the Hurons’ stronghold. In an hour’s time all the men, save three aged braves, had left the wigwams and were on the war-path.

For a while the sergeant hesitated. If the soldiers really knew how to find the camp they would force their way to it before long, cost them what it might; and he would be set at liberty. But the chances were that he might be either shot down before he could make himself known to them, or be killed by the Indians the moment he endeavoured to do so. He would never get a better opportunity of escaping than this, for the weather was warm, there was no one to stop him from going, and the canoes were all at his service, as the braves had gone in the opposite direction to the water.

He waited five days, for the old men left behind had shown a certain amount of suspicion of him for the first day or two. Then, with a plentiful supply of food, arrows, and fish-spears, he stole away soon after sundown, crept into a canoe and paddled away from the shore. His object was to reach Buffalo if possible, but that was over a hundred miles away, and he could not paddle day and night without rest. Knowing that he must husband his strength, he 29 confined himself to an easy rate of about three miles an hour; and even then, by the time he had gone thirty miles, he could hardly keep his eyes open.

He had recourse to the good old specific of cold water, took a header into the lake and, after a short swim, returned to his post, ate a cold but hearty breakfast, and began again, all the while keeping his eyes open for any white men’s boat that might come along. But the hours went by and he saw nothing, and the desire for sleep became as pressing—and just now as much to be dreaded—as though he had been lost in a snow-drift. He took a second dip and, clambering back into the canoe, began paddling again, though his muscles were now so stiff that he could scarcely move his arms.

He was nodding over his now almost useless labour when a light splash, like the bob of a fish, made him look round him. The splash had been caused by an arrow. Behind him, two canoes, each with three Indians in it, were coming along at a speed that he could not have beaten even had he been perfectly fresh. For just one second there was the hope that the redskins might be of some tribe hostile to the Cherokees, who would be willing to help him in return for promises of money, which he could easily obtain from some charitable person at Buffalo. But he knew the build, the costume, the very method of using the paddles, too well; these men were Cherokees. He turned round to pick up his bow, and, in so doing, looked over the side. Floating within a yard or two of him was an arrow, lying perfectly horizontal! He stared at it open-mouthed; an arrow, if the 30 weight of its head did not sink it entirely, must float perpendicularly, showing but very little of its length.

But this particular arrow had no head; a token that it had not been shot in any unfriendly spirit. He looked back at his pursuers again; one of them was waving his hand, and, as his canoe came almost within touching distance, shouted:

“We have some fish; will you give us bread in exchange for some? We have no bread, and very little tobacco.” The words sounded very much like an excerpt from Somebody or Other’s “French Exercises,” not the less so in that they were uttered in French-Canadian—a language which Munson understood perfectly well. He could almost have cried with relief.

The Cherokees were Ontario fishermen; Christians, and the sons of Christians, and no more likely to interfere with the soldier than if they had been his fellow-countrymen. On finding that he spoke not only French but their own Iroquoian as well, they became exceedingly friendly; but Munson (perhaps he did them grave injustice) had become far too cautious to tell them the circumstances under which he had learned their language. He confined himself to the statement that he wished to reach Buffalo, and would reward them amply if they would put him ashore there; he had been robbed of his money, he said—which was perfectly true—but could easily get some in the town; he was too tired to use his paddles; would they take him there?

The next thing he knew was that the Indians were waking him at the quay outside Buffalo; he had fallen asleep even while trying to strike a bargain with them, 31 and now they refused to take any other payment than the tobacco and provisions with which he had stored his boat; and, bidding him good-bye, they landed him and paddled away again.

He went to the nearest military depÔt and reported himself, and of course had no difficulty in obtaining the means to reach his home.