A few insignificant log-forts, widely scattered and feebly garrisoned, upheld the claims of England to the vast domain beyond the Alleghanies. The smaller garrisons consisted of an ensign and perhaps a dozen men. The weakness of this military cordon shows how slight was the fear of an Indian uprising. Yet no sooner was it known that Detroit was besieged, than these posts were, one after another, assaulted by the Indians, and nine out of the twelve were captured.

Hostile Indians were discovered in the vicinity of Presque Isle in the middle of June. This fort stood near the site of the present city of Erie, on the southern shore of Lake Erie, and was commanded by Ensign Christie, a brave and gallant officer. At one of its angles was a large block-house, substantially built of massive timber, its upper story projecting several feet beyond the lower one.

Into this block-house the garrison retired early on the morning of June 15th, abandoning the main body of the fort. To protect the roof from fire, a partial opening at its summit permitted water to be poured down upon it. Unfortunately there was a high steep ridge within forty yards of it, affording a cover for assailants.

From this favorable point the Indians repeatedly succeeded in setting fire to the roof of the block-house, but the flames were as often extinguished by the heroic little garrison. Soon, however, their supply of water gave out, and with desperate energy they set to work digging a well within the block-house. Before a sign of water appeared the block-house was again on fire, when a soldier, at the risk of his life, ascended the roof and tore away the burning shingles, thus extinguishing it.

During the night the well was finished. It was just in time. An adjacent building was discovered to be in flames, and they were communicated to the block-house, a corner of which at length burst into a sheet of flame. Water was passed up from the well, and the fire was once more extinguished.

By midnight of the second day the men were completely exhausted by the long and desperate struggle. One of the enemy called out in French that further resistance was useless, as the fort had been undermined. Ensign Christie was assured that, if he would surrender, the garrison should be spared; if not, they would all be burned alive.

Hostilities were suspended till morning, when Christie delivered up the post he had so gallantly defended, on condition that he and his garrison should be allowed to depart unmolested. Notwithstanding this stipulation they were seized, and sent to an Ottawa village near Detroit. Christie soon afterwards made his escape to the fort.

The unfortunate officer who commanded at Sandusky was taken prisoner when that place was captured, and carried to the Ottawa village. He was beaten, and compelled to sing and dance all the way from the landing-place to the camp. The worst was to come. To cap the climax of his misery, he was compelled to take to wife an old squaw who had lost her husband.

One of these outlying posts was taken in so ingenious a way, and one which so well displays the Indian's talent for strategy and deception, that it merits particular notice.

On the margin of Lake Huron, at the northern extremity of Michigan, stood Fort Michilimackinac, a large square area with wooden bastions, surrounded by high palisades. As it was susceptible of successful defence, stratagem was necessarily resorted to for its capture.

A Jesuit mission had been established here in 1671. It soon became an important centre of the fur-trade with the distant regions of the Mississippi and the north-west. Beyond the fort was a group of white Canadian houses, with strong picket-fences around them. The fort was garrisoned by thirty-five men. Within the palisades some thirty families resided, and without there were as many more.

The Indians in the vicinity were the Ojibwas and Ottawas. Many of the latter lived in log-houses, and cultivated corn and vegetables. The Ojibwas were still in their original barbarous state. All these Indians were extremely hostile to the English, and had fought against them in the recent war. Their feelings towards them are clearly shown in the speech of time Ojibwa chief, Minnevana, to an English trader, Alexander Henry. Said he:

"Englishman, we are informed that our father, the King of France, is old and infirm, and that being fatigued with making war upon your nation he is fallen asleep. During his sleep you have taken advantage of him and possessed yourselves of Canada. But his nap is about at an end. I think I hear him already stirring, and inquiring for his children, the Indians; and when he does awake, what must become of you? He will destroy you utterly.

"Englishman, although you have conquered the French, you have not yet conquered us. We are not your slaves. These lakes, these woods and mountains were left to us by our ancestors; they are our inheritance, and we will part with them to none.

"Englishman, our father, the King of France, employed our young men to make war upon your nation. In this warfare many of them have been killed, and it is our custom to retaliate until such time as the spirits of the slain are satisfied. This is done either by spilling the blood of the nation by which they fell, or by making presents.

"Englishman, your king has never sent us any presents, nor entered into any treaty with us, wherefore he and we are still at war; but for you, who came in peace to trade with us and supply our wants, we shall regard you as a brother, and you may sleep tranquilly, without fear of the Ojibwas."

This tribe, on hearing the news that Pontiac had begun the war, were wrought up to a high pitch of excitement, and determined to attack the fort without letting their neighbors, the Ottawas, know their design. Captain Etherington, the commander of the fort, received repeated warnings of his danger, but disregarded them all.

On the morning of June 4th, the king's birthday, the discipline of the garrison was somewhat relaxed, and many of the soldiers, without their arms, were outside the fort, watching a game of ball between the Ojibwas and the Sacs. The gates of the fort were open, and the officers themselves were witnessing the sport. A number of Canadian residents, traders, and fishermen, and many Indian squaws wrapped in blankets, were among the lookers-on. Indian chiefs and warriors were also apparently watching the game—in reality their thoughts were very differently occupied. Several bands of Ojibwas and Sacs who had recently arrived were encamped in the woods near by.

In front, the field was filled with the players. The game, called baggattaway by the Ojibwas, and lacrosse by the Canadians, is an exciting one, and is a favorite with the tribes. A tall post at either extremity of the ground was the goal, or station, of the rival parties. The object of each was to drive the ball to the post of the opposing players. Each player had a bat about five feet long, with a hoop-net at the end large enough to hold the ball. All were nearly naked.

The game was opened, as usual, by the ball being thrown into the air by some disinterested person in the centre of the field, when the contest for its possession began. Sometimes, while struggling for the ball, the players would close together in a dense mass, then they would scatter over the field in pursuit of it, all the while yelling and shouting at the top of their voices. Pushing and tripping their antagonists, or throwing them down, they kept up the contest, the spectators applauding and enjoying it almost as much as the players.

Suddenly the ball was thrown towards the fort and fell near it. This was no accident, but a part of a prearranged plan for the surprise and capture of the fort. Rushing on as if for the ball, the noisy throng crowded through the gate-way, and were masters of the fort before the astonished garrison could realize the fact, or interfere to prevent them.

The terrible warwhoop was sounded. The warriors grasped the hatchets their squaws had hidden beneath their blankets. Some assailed the spectators without, others attacked those within, and massacred them without mercy. Etherington and Leslie, his lieutenant, were seized and borne off; a few escaped the carnage, but in a few minutes all was over.

Alexander Henry, Travels in Canada and the Indian Territories. 8vo. New York, 1809.")?> who was an eye-witness, has left us an interesting account of this tragedy, and of his personal experiences during and after its occurrence.

An Indian named Wawaton had formed a strong friendship for him, and regarded him as a brother. A day or two before the capture of the fort, Wawaton paid him a visit, and urged him to accompany him on a journey. He came a second time, using every argument to persuade him, but without avail, and finally left him with a dejected countenance, even shedding tears. His urgency and the hints he dropped world have been more effectual if Henry had understood the Indian language better. Here is Henry's narrative of what followed:

"The morning of the 4th of June was sultry. A Chippewa came to tell me that his nation was going to play at baggattaway with the Sacs, another Indian nation, for a high wager. He invited me to witness the sport, adding that the commandant was to be there, and would bet on the side of the Chippewas. I did not go myself to see the match, because, there being a canoe prepared to depart on the following day for Montreal, I employed myself in writing letters to my friends. Suddenly I heard an Indian war-cry and a noise of general confusion.

"Going instantly to my window, I saw a crowd of Indians within the fort furiously cutting down and scalping every Englishman they found. In particular I noticed the fate of Lieutenant Jouette.

"I had in the room a fowling-piece loaded with swan shot. This I immediately seized, and waited to hear the drum beat to arms. In this dreadful interval I saw several of my countrymen fall, and more than one struggling between the knees of an Indian, who, holding him in this manner, scalped him while yet living.

At length, disappointed in the hope of seeing resistance made to the enemy, and sensible that no effort of mine could avail against four hundred Indians, I thought only of seeking shelter. Amid the slaughter that was raging I observed many of the Canadian inhabitants of the fort calmly looking on, neither opposing the Indians nor suffering injury, and from this circumstance I conceived a hope of finding security in their houses.

"Between the yard of my own house and that of Mr. Langlade, my neighbor, there was only a low fence, over which I easily climbed. I found the whole family at the windows, gazing at the scene of blood before them. I begged Mr. Langlade to put me in some place of safety until the heat of the affair should be over; but he, after looking a moment at me, turned again to the window, shrugging his shoulders, and intimating that he could do nothing for me. 'What,' said he, 'would you have me do?'

"This was a moment for despair; but the next, a Pani woman, a slave of Langlade's, beckoned to me to follow her. She took me to a door, which she opened, desiring me to enter, and told me that it led to the garret, where I could conceal myself. I joyfully followed her directions; she locked the garret door after me, and with great presence of mind took away the key.

"No long time elapsed before I heard some of the Indians enter the house in which I was. Through the flooring of single boards I could hear all that passed, and the Indians at once inquired if there were any Englishmen in the house. Langlade replied that 'he could not say, he did not know of any.' The Pani woman had kept my secret. Langlade, however, told them they might examine for themselves. Saying this, he brought them to the garret door.

"The state of my mind at this moment may readily be imagined. Some delay was occasioned by the absence of the key, and a few precious moments were thus allowed me in which to secrete myself. In one corner lay a heap of birch-bark vessels used in maple-sugar making.

"The door was unlocked and opened, and the Indians ascended the stairs before I had completely crept into a small opening which presented itself at one end of the heap. An instant after four Indians entered the room, all armed with tomahawks, and all besmeared with blood.

"I could scarcely breathe, and I thought the throbbing of my heart occasioned a noise loud enough to betray me. The Indians walked in every direction about the garret, and one of them approached me so nearly that, had he at a particular moment put forth his hand, he must have touched me. Still I remained undiscovered, a circumstance to which the dark color of my clothes and the want of light—there was no window—must have contributed. After taking several turns in the room, and informing Langlade how many they had killed and how many scalps they had taken, they returned downstairs, and I, with sensations not to be described, heard the door, which was the barrier between me and my fate, locked for the second time.

"This respite, however, was not of long duration. Next day Langlade, having ascertained my presence, and fearing for the safety of his family, delivered me into their hands. One of them, named Wenniway, whom I had previously known, and who was upward of six feet in height, had his entire face and body covered with grease and charcoal, with the exception of a white spot encircling either eye.

"This man, walking up to me, seized me with one hand by the collar of the coat, while with the other he held a large carving-knife, as if about to plunge it into my heart, his eyes meanwhile fixed steadfastly on mine. After some seconds of most anxious suspense he dropped his arm, saying, 'I won't kill you.' To this he added that he had been frequently engaged in wars against the English, and had brought away many scalps; that on one occasion he had lost a brother whose name was Musinigon, and that I should be called after him. At my request, as the Indians were all mad with liquor, Wenniway consented that I should for the present remain where I was.

"I had not been in my garret more than an hour when an Indian, whom I had seen before and who was in my debt, came to the house and ordered me to follow him to the Ojibwa camp, saying that Wenniway had sent him for me. I went, but instead of proceeding to the camp, the Indian turned in the direction of the woods. Suspecting treachery I refused to follow, and told him that I believed he meant to murder me, and that if so he might as well strike where he was as at any greater distance. He replied that he did intend to kill me, and to pay me in that manner for my goods.

"Then drawing his knife, he held me in a position to receive the intended blow. By a sudden effort I arrested his arm, and gave him a push by which I turned him from me, and released myself from his grasp. I then ran for the fort with all speed, the Indian following me, I expecting every moment to feel his knife. On entering the fort I saw Wenniway, and hastened to him for protection. He interfered, but the other still pursued. At last I succeeded in reaching Langlade's house, and he abandoned the chase."

Yet another freak of fortune was in store for our hero. He and other prisoners were being taken in canoes to Beaver Island, in Lake Michigan, when, a thick fog coming on, they were compelled to keep close to the shore. At Fore Point, when within a few yards of the land and in shallow water, one hundred Ottawas suddenly rushed upon them from among the bushes and dragged them to the shore with terrific shouts.

"No sooner, however, were we fairly on our legs," says Henry, "than the chiefs of the party advanced, and, giving us their hands, told us they were Ottawas, and friends whom the Ojibwas had insulted by destroying the English without consulting them. The truth was they felt aggrieved at losing such a glorious opportunity for plunder. Soon we were embarked again in the canoes of the Ottawas, who relanded us at Michilimackinac and took possession of the fort.

"Though we had changed masters, we were still prisoners and were strictly guarded. A council was held, the Ottawas were conciliated by presents, and we were once more in the hands of the Ojibwas, who declared that they intended 'to make broth of us.'"

Henry's suspense, however, was soon to end. His friend and brother Wawaton now appeared, claimed him as a brother, and enforced his claim by a quantity of goods with which to satisfy his captors. It appeared that Wawaton, before leaving the fort, had received the promise of Minnevana, the great war-chief, to protect Henry, and that the chief, at the moment of the assault, had sent his son to find him and bring him to his lodge. The son went, but did not succeed in finding him. After numerous other adventures Henry reached Montreal in safety, and resided there until his death, in 1824.

The fury of the Indians was not limited to the attack of stockades; they devastated the borders of Pennsylvania, New York, and Virginia, killing and carrying into captivity two thousand persons. A thrifty and independent population was suddenly reduced to beggary and despair.

In July, Colonel Henry Bouquet, with five hundred men, marched to the relief of Fort Pitt, which had been beleaguered since May. It had been attacked with great spirit by the savages, who endeavored to set it on fire with lighted combustibles attached to arrows, and who, with their rifles, kept up a constant discharge at the troops from under cover of the bank of the Alleghany River.

Captain Ecuyer, the commander of the fort, when summoned by the savages to surrender, was assured that if he would retreat to Carlisle they would protect him from some bad Indians in the neighborhood who thirsted for his blood; but if he stayed they would not be responsible for the consequences. Ecuyer, who fully comprehended Indian duplicity, thanked them for their "truly disinterested advice," but told them that "he did not care a straw for bad Indians, and meant to stay where he was; but," he added, "an army of six thousand pale-faces is now on the way hither, and another of three thousand has just gone up the lakes to annihilate Pontiac, so you had better be off. I have told you this in acknowledgment of your friendly counsels to me, but don't whisper it to those bad Indians, for fear that they should run away from our deadly vengeance." Though there was no truth in this story, it had its effect upon the Indians.

A Swiss by birth, Henry Bouquet began his military career when a boy. He was active, courageous, and faithful, and had acquired a practical knowledge of Indian warfare. His present undertaking—a march of two hundred miles, through a wilderness filled with hostile savages—was one of great difficulty and danger, and his force seemed hardly sufficient for the purpose. Only a few years before, Braddock, in a similar attempt, with four times as many men, had met with an overwhelming disaster.

Bouquet's order of march was as follows: In the advance were the Provincial rangers, closely followed by pioneers, who, with their axes, cleared the way. The wagons and cattle were in the centre, guarded in front, flank, and rear by the regulars. Another body of rangers guarded the rear. The riflemen, acting as scouts, ranged through the woods far in front and on either flank. In this order, through the heats of July, they toiled up the Alleghanies, and relieved the besieged posts at Bedford and Ligonier.

When Bouquet arrived within twenty-five miles of Fort Pitt, he was attacked at a place called Bushy Penn by a large body of Indians, and a severe battle was fought, lasting two days. On the second day, when the troops, exhausted, dispirited, and distressed to the last degree by the total want of water, were about to give way, and the Indians, confident of success, were pressing them more closely, redoubling their yells and war-cries—at this moment, when all seemed lost, their commander, a cool and experienced veteran, by a successful stratagem, changed the fortune of the day.

Withdrawing a part of his force from the front, he gave the Indians the impression that he was about to retreat. Leaping from their hiding-places, they rushed with fierce yells upon the thin line of English, and were on the point of breaking into the camp, when suddenly the troops that had been removed appeared upon their flank, and, after pouring in a well-directed fire, fell upon them with the bayonet. A similar movement, performed at the same moment by two companies upon the other flank, put the savages to flight. They were closely pursued by the troops, who gave them no time to rally or reload their rifles, and many of them slain. The loss of the English in this severe conflict was eight officers and one hundred and fifteen men.

On this occasion the Indians displayed great firmness and intrepidity, but these qualities were more than counterbalanced by the steadiness and courage of the English. A few days later Fort Pitt was relieved.

In the following campaign two armies were marched from different points into the heart of the Indian country. Bouquet advanced from Fort Pitt into the Delaware and Shawnee settlements of the Ohio valley, while Colonel Bradstreet passed up the lakes and penetrated the region beyond Detroit. The latter failed to accomplish anything of consequence, the former succeeded in overawing the hostile tribes, and compelled them to sue for peace and restore all their captives.

In conducting this expedition to a successful termination, Bouquet showed himself well acquainted with the Indian character, and fully equal to the task of impressing them strongly with his ability to chastise them in case they attempted to cajole or deceive him, as they several times attempted to do. Seeing the kind of man with whom they had to deal, they had no alternative but to submit. He told them plainly that their excuses were frivolous, and their conduct indefensible, that they were all in his power, and that he could exterminate them, but that the English were a merciful and generous people, and that if they sincerely repented of their past perfidy and behaved well in future they might hope for mercy and peace. As a reward for his important services, Bouquet received the thanks of the Assembly of Pennsylvania, and the rank of brigadier-general from the King.

The return of the English captives and the meeting of husbands and wives, parents and children, brothers and sisters, who had long been separated, and many of whom were supposed to be dead, presented a scene of thrilling interest. Even the Indians, taught from infancy to repress all outward signs of emotion, could not wholly conceal their sorrow at parting with their adopted relatives and friends. They shed tears over them, and earnestly besought for them the care and protection of the commanding officer. They offered them furs and choice articles of food, and even asked leave to follow the army home, that they might hunt for the captives and supply them with better food than that provided for the soldiers. The Indian women filled the camp with their lamentations and wailing both night and day.

A tinge of romance is thrown around this remarkable scene. One young warrior had become so much attached to a Virginia maiden among the captives that he called her his wife, and persisted in following her to the frontier at the risk of his life.

There was a darker side to this impressive picture. Among the Virginians and Pennsylvanians in Bouquet's army were many who had joined in the hope of recovering their lost loved ones. While some were filled with joy and rapture, others with anxious and troubled looks were flying from place to place, with eager inquiries after relatives and friends, trembling to receive the answer to their questions, distracted with doubts, hopes, and fears, on obtaining no news of those they sought for, or stiffened into living monuments of horror and woe on learning their unhappy fate.

At the delivery of the captives a Shawnee chief addressed Bouquet as follows:

"Father," said the chief, "we have brought your flesh and blood to you. They have all been united to us by adoption, and although we now deliver them, we will always look upon them as our relatives whenever the Great Spirit is pleased that we may visit them. We have taken as much care of them as if they were our own flesh and blood. They are now become unacquainted with your customs and manners, and we therefore request you to use them tenderly and kindly, which will induce them to live contentedly with you."

What a pang must have invaded that mother's breast who recognized her child, only to find it clinging more closely to its Indian mother, her own claims wholly forgotten? Some of the children had lost all remembrance of their former home, and resisted when handed over to their relatives. Some of the young women had married Indian husbands, and with their children were unwilling to return to the settlements. Indeed several of them had become so strongly attached to their Indian lords and to their mode of life that they made their escape and returned to the wigwams of their husbands.

One old woman sought her daughter, who had been carried off nine years before. She discovered her, but the girl, who had almost forgotten her native tongue, did not recognize her, and she bitterly complained that the child she had so often sung to sleep on her knee had forgotten her in her old age. Bouquet, whose humane heart had been deeply touched by this scene, suggested an expedient:

"Sing the song you used to sing to her when a child."

The mother sung, the child's attention was instantly fixed, a flood of tears proclaimed the awakened memories, and the long lost child was restored to the mother's arms.

Pontiac endeavored, but in vain, to secure the assistance of the French in his efforts to continue the war. In the spring of 1766 he made a treaty with Sir William Johnson at Oswego, and submitted to the English, renouncing forever the great scheme he had so long meditated. His death occurred at Cahokia, where he was murdered by an Illinois Indian, who, it is said, was bribed with a keg of whiskey by an English trader to commit the deed. This murder, which aroused the vengeance of all the tribes friendly to Pontiac, brought about the successive wars and almost total annihilation of the Illinois nation. The dead chieftain was buried with the honors of war by his friend, St. Ange, the French commandant of St. Louis.