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Bentley Historical Library
The University of Michigan • Ann Arbor
Earl W. and Florence C. De La Vergne
Collection


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t.crAev *-'Horical
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»n
a SPY in
OLD DETROIT
By Anne Emery

Illustrated by H. B. Vestal
RAND M9NALLY & COMPANY
Chicago New York San Francisco
EMERSON JUNIOR HIGH
SCHOOL LIBRARY


Copyright © 1963 by Rand M?Nally & Company
Copyright 1963 under International Copyright Union
by Rand MSNally & Company
All rights reserved. Printed in U.S.A.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 63-12792
First printing, 1963
Second printing, 1964
Third printing, 1966
F


ILLUSTRATIONS
Paul embraced his brother 19
The shorter Ottawa picked up a scarlet stroud 31
No Indians come in the fort today I 36
Paul followed his brother 48
Paul and Angelique make plans 55
Pontiac and his men enter the fort 66
Paul climbed up to the rampart 83
Antoine Cuillerier sat in his living room 92
Suddenly Paul wanted to turn back 105
Otussa stood in front of Paul 110
"Disregard this Indian chief" 123
Paul took to his heels 129
Paul ran to the water 136
Major Gladwin stared at the man icily 142
Paul leaped up on the breastwork 156
Paul continued to sweep busily 167
The Frenchman doffed his cap gallantly 175
John walked slowly across the sandy strip 190
The chief was in council with his braves 196





Foreword
The frontier has always been a world that called to men, and
men have always answered that call: brave men, restless men,
holy men, greedy men; men who fought the wilderness for gold,
for power, for excitement, for curiosity; men who found the
challenge of the unknown irresistible; men who went out to
conquer and hold new territory for God and for King; and men
who followed the leaders.
Such men came from France, with names like Marquette
and La Salle and Champlain and Joliet and Cadillac. There
were men of God bringing religion to the savages, and men of
the world hunting for wealth and fame. In the great inland
region of the lakes, they claimed the land for France, be-
friended the Indians, and outstayed the wilderness.
They built forts to hold their territory, and to trade with
the Indians: Presqu'Isle at Erie, Le Boeuf at Waterford, Ven-
ango at Franklin, in the Pennsylvania territory; Niagara at the
entrance to the Great Lakes waterway at the falls; Pontchar-
train du Detroit at the narrow strait between Lakes Erie and
Huron; St. Mary's at the entrance to Lake Superior; Michili-
mackinac at the mouth of Lake Michigan. A chain of forts
connected the French colony in the great Louisiana Territory
with the French in Canada: Miamis at Fort Wayne, Ouiatenon
on the Wabash River near Lafayette, in Indiana; Sandusky near
the west end of Lake Erie.


in the New World of the Seven Years' War in Europe, also
between France and England.
When the French governor surrendered to the British major-
general Jeffrey Amherst (later Lord Amherst), at Montreal in
1760, French flags came down and British flags were raised
in the chain of forts in the heart of North America, from
Quebec to the Louisiana line.
As long as the French and the Indians had dwelt and traded
together, the French had supplied the Indians with ammunition
for their guns, and the Indians had returned their generosity
with gifts of venison and furs. Now Amherst, commander in
chief of the British forces in North America, decreed that no
longer were presents to be given to the Indians. The braves
returned from the hunt with their ammunition gone. To
refuse them ammunition, was, in their minds, to take bread
from their families. They felt that they had been better off under
French rule, and were bitter about the British.
Other rebuffs alienated the Indians from their new rulers.
The English never respected them as the French had. When
a chief died, the French mourned with them and gave them
presents to comfort them; the English laughed at their request
for condolence. The prices for English goods were higher than
they had been when the French held the trading posts; the prices
paid for furs were lower. Some of the French were whispering
to the Indians that the English secredy planned to wipe them
out, and that was why the English kept them short of ammuni-
tion. They whispered, too, that the great French Father across
the sea was going to send his armies to destroy the English. And
it was told across the country that Amherst had given Indian
lands to some of his officers. By 1763 the bitter resentment of
many tribes was fusing into a hard determination to rid their
land of the English and return to French rule.


shoot, to sing the songs of the voyageurs, to track like an
Indian. Philippe was like an Indian himself.
Last year Philippe had fought off a bear with his fists,
and had shown the claw marks to prove it, laughing all
the while he talked, his black eyes sparkling as if the
wilderness life were all a man could ask for under heaven.
Thinking of Philippe now made Paul more hungry for
the forest than ever.
Canoes were returning every day and, if the Girard
canoe came in, his father would expect him at the river.
But Paul told himself he could see the canoe from the
willow grove on the river bank, and there had been no
customers all afternoon. He locked up the cashbox and
asked the English trader next door to keep an eye on the
shop while he went on an errand, and then he ran off.
He nodded to the British sentry at the east gate, which
stood open, and ran out into the grassy meadowland
where a narrow footpath followed the bank of the river.
The Detroit was wide and deep, as blue as the sea, and
sparkling brilliantly today in the sun. The birch trees were
filmy with new leaf, their slim trunks gleaming white
among the tall dark pines. Violets poked purple blooms
through the forest undergrowth. A chipmunk sat up and
stared impudently at Paul as he ran past. And a canoe
came around the bend of the river, its red paddles flashing
like the wings of a bird as it drove for home. But it was
not the Girard canoe, and Paul ran on to the grove, whis-
tling a cardinal's call, to signal the boys to join him.
12


The willow grove stood at a spot where the shore thrust
out into the river, a quarter mile from the fort. It was a
group of ancient trees with trunks sloping over the water,
big enough to walk on, their trailing branches brushing
the water. The leaves were small and new-green, but al-
ready they were so thick that one could hide in the upper
branches and not be seen. And from this spot Paul could
see the Potawatomi village a mile down river, below the
fort, the Huron village across from the Potawatomies, and
the smoke from the fires of the Ottawa village two miles
upstream and across the river from the fort. Paul set his
foot against one of the leaning trunks and pulled himself
up into the branches by the strong shoots. Three boys were
already there, and he settled into a comfortable corner
made by a thick branch that stood upright from the trunk.
"What's new with you today?" he said to all three.
Louis La Butte was Paul's cousin. His father was the
official interpreter for the Ottawas, and this made Louis
feel very important, because his father worked closely
with the British commandant of the fort. Now he sat up
and puffed out his chest to show that he had something
special to tell Paul.
"My father says the Indians are complaining about prices
being up again," he announced. "And last week the Eng-
lish laughed at them when they came to say one of their
chiefs was dead. They're very angry with the English, and
there might be trouble before the summer's over."
Paul looked at his cousin scornfully. "I guess my father
13


trades with as many Indians as your father does. My father
isn't worrying about trouble."
"But remember the black rain last October? My father
still writes with it. And it smells terrible—like sulphur
and brimstone."
Paul sobered in spite of himself. Who could forget that
October rain, falling from murky clouds in a midday
black as night? But six months had passed since then, and
nothing had happened.
"These signs don't wait forever to mean something," he
told his cousin.
"When trouble means Indians, it has to wait till they
come back from the hunting grounds."
Paul, momentarily silenced, turned to the other boys.
Billy Turnbull blew a large cloud of smoke from the peace
pipe the boys had captured in a "raid" on an Indian village
last summer. He lived with his mother and his older
brother on a little farm half a mile north of the fort, on
the edge of the forest. He could speak a little French, and
he had taught the boys quite a bit of English, and some-
how the mixture of languages made his jokes much fun-
nier than they really were. When Billy Turnbull was with
them the boys laughed all the time. He was sixteen, blond
and blue-eyed, with a stolid air that made his jokes all the
more amusing because he delivered them without a smile
and always looked surprised at the boys' laughter.
Now he drawled, "I wish you fellows could make up
your minds. If the Indians are going on the warpath we
14


ought to know, over there on the farm." He puffed on the
peace pipe gravely.
The other three laughed hysterically, and John Ruther-
furd reached out to take the peace pipe from Billy.
"I never smoked before," he said, coughing as he swal-
lowed some of the smoke. He drew another mouthful and
expelled it without trouble, looked at the peace pipe as if
he had conquered something formidable, and gave it back.
John had arrived in Detroit only two weeks earlier, to
stay with James Sterling, the trader next door to the
Girards. His uncle was Sterling's partner in New York,
and John had come to the western lakes to learn some-
thing of wilderness trading. He was especially interested
in the Indians, of whom he had heard much and so far
seen little.
"The greatest luck of my life is this trip to sound the
lakes with Lieutenant Robertson," he said now. "You
don't really think the Indians are going to rise, do you?"
He looked anxiously from one boy to another. Louis
looked at Paul, and Paul shook his head, not willing to
agree with anything Louis said.
"Oh, I don't think they'll rise very soon," he said.
The sound of a homecoming voyageur song came across
the water, and Paul sat up straight, parting the leaves to
look toward the landing place outside the fort.
"That looks like our canoe," he said, beginning to slide
down the trunk of the tree. He stopped halfway down
and looked up at the boys persuasively. "Come on and
15


help us to haul the stuff. We will need a lot of hands."
"Don't mind if I do." Billy dangled from a branch, pipe
in mouth, and dropped to the ground. The others fol-
lowed, and the boys raced each other to the fort, where
they followed the path outside the walls to the sandy
beach before the water gate.
Two armed vessels, the sloop Michigan and the Huron,
stood at anchor in the river, at each corner of the stock-
ade. Their crews were hanging over the rail, observing
the incoming canoe with as much interest as the habitants
who had gathered along the shore. As the first voyageur
stepped out of the canoe upon the sand, a cheer went up
from first one ship and then the other. The crowd
yelled in greeting, and then surged down upon the sand.
Some curious Indians were among them, watching as
eagerly as the settlers to see what the canoe brought back
from the winter's hunt.
As far back as Paul could remember, the Indians had
had their summer villages along the banks of the river near
the fort. He knew their mud and wattle huts as well as he
knew the neat, white, thatched cottages of his French
neighbors.
Otussa was among the Indians who were watching the
trappers. He was a young Ottawa, a couple of years older
than Paul, and the two boys had played together for years.
He had taught Paul how to wrestle so well that every
once in a while Paul could overcome him. He had shown
him how to fish and trap in the Indian way. The boys had
16


raced in the meadow until Paul matched Otussa's speed,
and Paul considered Otussa one of his best friends.
Otussa's father was one of the Ottawa chiefs, and the
boy wanted more than anything else to be a chief himself
some day. Chiefs must be stronger, braver, more heroic
than other men, and Otussa had worked toward this am-
bition since he was small. Rarely did he laugh or chatter
as Paul's French and English friends did. For him life was
very serious.
Now Otussa looked around, saw Paul, and acknowl-
edged him with a slight gesture. Paul waved to the Indian
and pushed his way through the crowd and down to the
water's edge. Then he gave a shrill whoop. The Girard
canoe had come in, and Philippe was home.
The voyageurs were already unloading the big canoe,
tossing jokes at the crowd, and laughing about being
home again, after the long, hard winter. They were short,
stocky men, hardy and tough, who spent their lives trap-
ping for the fur traders. But they were gay and carefree,
loving their life in the forests, wild as Indians.
Philippe turned eagerly toward the waiting crowd. His
eyes were bright and his smile was dazzling in his dark
face. He wore the deerskin leggings, bright sash, and
red cap of the voyageur, and he tossed his head and strut-
ted like a homecoming conqueror. Paul threw himself
upon his brother and embraced him. Philippe held him at
arm's length and looked him over.
"My little brother," he said, as if he couldn't believe it.
17


"How you've grown this winter while I've been gone!"
Their father reached the sandy strip and embraced
Philippe; and then he held him off with both hands on his
arms, looking pridefully at his homecoming son. "How
was the trapping, my boy? It seemed like a long winter
wh,ile you were gone."
"We got fine furs, my father." Philippe smiled proudly
and lifted his head like an eagle. "It's good to be home
again. How is my mother?"
"She awaits you impatiently." His father slapped him
on the shoulder. "Go to her, Philippe. We'll get the furs
moved."
Philippe moved away through the crowd with spring-
ing steps, and his father looked at Paul, scowling.
"You, Paul!" he yelled. "Why weren't you at the store
when I sent for you?"
Paul stood respectfully, head lowered, while his father
berated him. "I went to get the boys to help me," he said,
waving toward his friends. Louis and Billy stepped for-
ward and picked up one of the heavy bundles of furs.
"Ah, well," his father conceded, "it's good to have the
extra hands. I thought you'd forgotten the canoe was ex-
pected today."
"How could I forget?" Paul cried, looking at Billy. The
English boy winked at him solemnly, and Paul had to
choke back another burst of laughter, as Billy and Louis
hoisted their load and began to move it up the narrow
street. He and John Rutherfurd picked up another bundle
18



Paul threw himself upon his brother and embraced him
19


and followed. The ground in the fort sloped up from the
river, and St. Joseph Street was farthest from the water
gate, and all uphill.
The Girard store was a good-sized room, with a counter,
a few shelves, and light coming through small-paned
windows. Back of the store was the family's home: a
living room, dining room, and tiny kitchen, and a bed-
room for the father and mother. Up a narrow, steep flight
of stairs were two more bedrooms, under the steeply slop-
ing roof: one for the two girls, one for the four boys.
In the small courtyard was a tiny herb garden and a
chicken yard in a corner near the kitchen, where a dozen
hens and a flock of small yellow chicks pecked busily all
day. The warehouse ran across the back of the courtyard.
It was a barnlike building seventy feet long, with shut-
tered windows looking out upon the fifteen-foot stock-
ade wall on the northwest side of the fort, and a small
stable at one end, where the Girard's two cows could be
sheltered when they were brought inside the fort from
pasture at night.
The boys carried the heavy loads of furs through the
courtyard gate and into the warehouse, and put them on
the long table. As Henri Girard began to cut the rawhide
thongs from the first bundle, Louis, Billy, and John dis-
appeared before anyone could ask them to do any more
work. But Paul watched his father, as interested in the
quality of the pelts as the trader himself.
There were raccoon pelts, mink, otter, buckskins, and
20


a goodly proportion of the most highly valued, beaver.
"These," Monsieur Girard said, as he picked up a bundle
of beaver pelts, "these should please even Monsieur Cuil-
lerier. Fah! That snob! He must have the finest of every-
thing, even if he has to buy from another trader than me,
his own brother-in-law!"
He tossed the prime pelts into a corner as if he despised
them as much as the man who would buy them. Uncle
Antoine Cuillerier was richer, more opinionated, and
more arrogant than anyone else in Detroit. His half
brother had been commandant of the fort before the
English came, and now Antoine Cuillerier thought the
community belonged to him.
"When the English leave," he had said openly, "and
they will leave, I will be the next commandant."
"He should keep his mouth shut," Paul's other uncle,
Pierre La Butte, had growled. "The English are not going
to leave, and I don't know why he talks in this foolish
fashion."
"He says the Indians hate the English," Paul had said.
"And so they may. But the Indians aren't going to decide
a thing like that. The English are here to stay. We've
sworn allegiance to their king. I don't like him, but I will
not betray my sworn oath, even so."
A man's oath was a sacred thing, Paul's father had
taught him long ago. On the day the British had taken
over the fort, the French had been sworn en. masse to
British allegiance. Paul had not opened his mouth. But
21


them weeping, while the blue flag with the lilies of France
had come down the staff of Fort Pontchartrain, and the
red flag with the cross of St. George of England had
soared up to snap in the cold wind across the fort that
would now be called Fort Detroit. Paul remembered the
dismay and the weeping, and now he wondered why it
had mattered so much.
He had come to know many of the English in those
years. There were a couple of youths in the garrison who
were about Philippe's age—Jack Bradshaw and Tom
Smith. He spent quite a lot of time with them, learning
English, hearing interesting things about their military
life, listening to their stories of life back home. Both had
been homesick those first months, and Paul had discovered
that the English boys were very much like his French
friends. After the garrison had been in the fort two and
a half years, it seemed as if they had been there always.
Jack felt as Paul did, that in this new land kings did not
matter much.
This is our land, Paul thought now, looking beyond the
stockade across the blue river and the open fields to the
endless forests. This place has nothing to do with kings.
My family helped to build Detroit, and it belongs to us,
to me. No king has anything to say to us.
His father locked up the warehouse, and they went into
the house to see Philippe. The voyageur was telling stories
of the winter adventures to his younger brothers, and they
were listening with eyes glowing and mouths open. His
23


mother watched him with a warm tenderness in her eyes.
"And that's how I brought down that elk," he ended,
looking up as Paul came in. "Biggest one you ever saw ...
Paul, how about going down to the parade ground before
supper? I want to see some of the boys."
The parade ground was filled with boys and young
men, English and French, and a shout of welcome went
up as Philippe appeared.
"Here's John Rutherfurd!" Paul cried. "He wants to
meet a voyageur, Philippe."
John looked up from the group about him, and the two
shook hands, looking at each other with interest. Philippe
was small, like all voyageurs, but he had enormous shoul-
ders and an air of cocky confidence. John Rutherfurd
was tall and friendly.
"I've wanted to meet a voyageur ever since I came out
from New York. "What a great life you must have!"
Philippe threw out his chest and acknowledged this
recognition with satisfaction. "I like the wilderness."
"I, too!" John said. He turned back to his audience, in-
cluding Philippe now. "As I was saying about this trip
through the lakes, they tell me the sport should be mag-
nificent. Especially the waterfowl. We'll be a good-sized
party: six soldiers, two sailors, besides Lieutenant Charles
Robertson and Sir Robert Davers and his Pawnee slave."
"Will you tell me why a man like Davers comes to a place
like this?'' Alexis Cuillerier asked, jestingly.
Paul's cousin Alexis was an arrogant young man in his
24


middle twenties, and Paul alternately admired and de-
tested him. Now Paul laughed with the others at the
thought of Davers, the middle-aged English tourist, pok-
ing around in the wilderness in the middle of the New
World.
"He wants to see the world." Rutherfurd winked at
Paul as he answered Alexis. "He's been learning Indian
languages, and he thinks this chance to see the lakes is a
great thing." He laughed. "Of course, 1 think it's a great
thing, too. But I'm seventeen, and Davers must be forty.
However, he's spry and active. Good company, really."
"Do you think the Indians will give you any trouble?"
one of the youths asked.
"Oh, not a bit! Why should they?" he said confidently.
"They seem like friendly chaps, and Davers can speak
their language now."
Alexis looked at him from under dark brows, and then
across at Philippe. Paul felt a warning in the air, almost
as tangible as a cold wind.
"Alexis," he said sharply. His cousin looked at him
coldly. "Do you know anything about trouble with the
Indians?"
Alexis dropped his eyes as if he had dropped a shutter
to close out the light.
"Not a thing." He shook his head.
But Paul knew he lied, and he dared not look at Phi-
lippe. Something ugly was going to happen, and Alexis
Cuillerier knew what it was.
25


Chapter 2
T
"^he Girards celebrated Philippe's return with the fin-
est dinner Marie Girard could put together. Marie
sat at the head of her table and looked upon her family
with fond pride. She was plump and dark and energetic,
with a mobile face that was sometimes plain, sometimes
wistful, and almost pretty tonight, because she was happy.
She was renowned for her excellent cooking, and for this
dinner for her homecoming son she had outdone herself:
fine whitefish, a salad of dandelion greens and dried herbs
from her kitchen garden, roast goose, hot crusty bread,
and a cream pastry for dessert. She had the lightest hand
for pastry of any of the wives in the settlement.
Philippe sat beside his mother, and his eyes gleamed at
the food. His sister Suzette sat next to him. She was six-
teen, with blond hair and dark eyes, a demure young lady,
quiet and well-bred. She spoke little, being dreamy much
of the time. Robert, one of the ten-year-old twins, sat next
to Suzette. Charles, the other twin, sat on the other side
of the table. The boys were separated at meals because
they scuffled so much. Paul was between Charles and
Felice, the seven-year-old sister. Felice had brought her
doll to the table, and when her father ordered her to take
26


it away again, her eyes filled with tears, and she comforted
the doll at great length before she left her in a corner.
Philippe settled back after the dinner, sighing with
satisfaction. "You must have known we had nothing to
eat all winter but pemmican."
"I know, and so unnecessary. Why must you go into the
wilderness like that, Philippe? Can't you stay home now?"
"I've just come home," he said lightly. "Of course I'll
stay—for awhile."
His father looked at him sharply. Mme. Girard ges-
tured with her hand. Paul knew what that gesture meant:
"Let's not have an argument at the dinner table!" She
said quickly, "Will you have another bit of the pastry,
Philippe? I made it just for your homecoming."
But Philippe shook his head. "I'll save it for tomorrow,
Mother. I've eaten too much as it is. Tell me about our
friends."
For an hour they talked amicably about their neighbors.
Marie-Francoise Navarre was marrying the English lieu-
tenant McDougall, on the sixth of May, and the Navarres
were having a great party to celebrate the wedding. Phi-
lippe looked angry and sad, but he said nothing. The
English trader, James Sterling, was courting Angelique
Cuillerier, and how did her father feel about that? The
priest at Ste. Anne's Church, Father Bocquet, had de-
clared that Paul should go to Montreal for study, and Paul
didn't want to go. It was said the Indians were growing
restless, and some of the habitants were alarmed.
27


Philippe flung himself out of the house with a muttered
oath, and his mother wrung her hands. "Henri! Do not
blame the boy. He is young, he doesn't know what he
says." She made sweeping motions with both hands to-
ward the younger children. "Charles! Robert! Go out
and bring in the cows. Felice, look to the chickens!"
As the younger children disappeared, Henri Girard
stiffened his back and said, "I was just as foolish at his
age." He sounded annoyed with the boy he had been.
"Why should he make the same mistakes if I can keep
him from them?"
"But how will he learn without mistakes? Philippe will
let no one tell him anything."
"Who will help with the business? Is the boy mad, that
he has no thought for the future?"
"Tchch," said his wife. "What is there to think of the
future, except that it will some day be here? Paul can be
the trader instead of Philippe. He should go to Montreal,
as the good father says. And how can one know what to
plan? For two years now Philippe has brought back better
furs than Sterling's engages."
"And he grows closer to the Indians with each year.
Where will this end? Will he be a voyageur all his life?"
"I'd like to go with him next fall," Paul said.
His father glared at him. "You will learn how to trade,"
he told him. "Why do you think Father Bocquet has been
giving you schooling?"
Why indeed? Paul had often wondered, rebelliously.
29



The shorter Ottawa picked up a scarlet stroud
Paul knew these men, as he knew almost everyone in the
Ottawa tribe. He greeted them pleasantly and counted the
furs: forty raccoons, thirty beavers, ten buckskins. He told
off the count and the Indians nodded. The shorter one
picked up a scarlet stroud.
"Three beavers," Paul told him.
The man threw down the stroud, scowling fiercely.
31


Philippe came home to attend mass with his family. They
could see the white spire of Ste. Anne's Church shining
in the sunlight as they left their home. The twins took
care of Felice who carried her doll to church. Felice liked
to dawdle. During the service she ordered her poupette
to pay close attention to the prayers. She herself was de-
mure and quiet, her bright eyes glancing from one to
another of her brothers.
Philippe sat between Paul and Suzette in his voyageur
costume, and his voice sang out above the others. Admir-
ing eyes turned toward him, and his mother preened her-
self at the attention paid to her eldest son. His father sat
stiffly dignified, ignoring all of it.
After the service the Girards visited with their friends
in the sunny square before the church. Paul and Philippe
joined the boys and young men on the parade ground,
and listened to John Rutherfurd talking again about his
trip and drawing in the sandy ground with a pointed
stick as he talked.
"We'll move up the Detroit River to Lake St. Clair," he
said, "leave the flour for Desnoyers at the Pinery, in three
days, maybe four. Then we go up through Lake Huron,
all the way to Michilimackinac. I daresay we won't be
back here for a month or more." He looked up as Paul
leaned over to see his diagram. "Say, Paul!" His eyes
snapped with excitement. "Know what I want to do next?
Maybe we could go with some voyageurs next fall!"
Both boys looked at Philippe, who threw out his chest
34



No Indians come in the fort today!
36


complained. "Today we get orders, don't let 'em in. What
am I supposed to do?"
The young Frenchmen were silently observing the
business at the gate, smiling to each other at the sentry's
embarrassment. As La Butte approached, the sentry let
out a sigh of relief. "He can tell us what's going on."
Philippe stared at the sentry angrily, and muttered with
an oath, in French, "These English! No wonder the
Indians hate them. Look at that dog of a sentry: he speaks
to a great chief as if he were a slave! Why should Pontiac
take that? His people were here hundreds of years before
the English came with their pompous greed. If I were
Pontiac, I'd spit in his face!"
He raised his voice as if he wanted the sentry to know
how he felt. But the sentry ignored the French he could
not understand, and listened to the interpreter in open-
mouthed amusement at the deference the Frenchman
showed to the Indian.
La Butte looked like an Indian himself, dark, stolid,
unsmiling. He had lived with the Indians in his youth.
Now he spoke first to Pontiac, and then turned to translate
for the sentry.
"Chief Pontiac says he has brought his men to entertain
the commandant. They wish to dance the calumet for
him."
"Orders is orders," the sentry repeated stolidly.
"Very well." The interpreter spoke to Pontiac again,
and went across the way to the house of Major Henry
38


the warriors had slipped away and were walking in the
streets of the fort. While his friends watched the dance,
Paul moved quietly away and strolled up the street toward
his father's store. The Indians walked in twos and threes,
erect, businesslike, staring at every house. They studied
the shops with special interest. Paul came up and spoke
to them cheerfully in the Indian tongue. They ignored
his greeting, watching him silently until he had passed.
Looking back as he turned a corner, he saw that they were
peering into the window of the powder magazine, count-
ing.
Slowly he walked back to the dance.
"I wish you weren't going on this trip into the lakes to-
morrow," he said to John Rutherfurd. "The Indians aren't
friendly just now."
Rutherfurd looked at him in surprise. "Oh, come now.
They've made no trouble for years. And you said yourself
that the calumet they offer today is the peace-pipe dance."
"It could be a ruse," Paul said unhappily.
Rutherfurd laughed at his fears. "We're traveling with
soldiers and arms. There's nothing to fear, nothing at all!
An attack would be an interesting experience, and I wel-
come experiences ..." He watched the dancers another
moment. "But there's not a chance of Indian trouble
now."
40


with a cold, glittering fire that was chilling in its intensity.
"Some day I, too, will be a great chief," he had said.
"Like Pontiac, like Wabbicomigot, or Wasson. For this
I prepare for battle where I can prove myself."
In the courtyard Paul heard the hens squawking and
the chicks chittering madly. He stepped out to see what
was going on. A hawk's shadow sailed in slow circles over
the henyard, and the tiny yellow chicks skittered around
hunting shelter. He grinned at their panic. But the shadow
of the hawk fell over his own spirit, and, looking up, he
thought the sailing menace looked like Otussa. He went
back into the warehouse slowly, thoughtfully.
"The stocks are so low there's nothing to do," his father
said grumpily. "If that shipment doesn't come in from
Niagara we'll have to close up in a week. Run along—
take this package to Uncle Antoine. You might as well
run off some energy."
Paul raced through the narrow streets and out of the
east gate before his father should change his mind. And
then he decided to circle around by Billy Turnbull's house.
Billy's father had died a few months after he had
brought his family out to this farm in the wilderness, and
Billy and his older brother had been taking care of the
farm for their mother since then. Mrs. Turnbull was an
energetic woman who once had told Paul that she liked
living away from the rest of the settlement.
"I don't like to be in the middle of people," she had
said; "that's one reason we came out here."
42


She always seemed glad to see Paul, and often she gave
him fragrant dark gingerbread. She was different from
the French women who were his mother's friends, but
Paul liked her very much.
Billy was plowing the south field back of the house,
and he waved as Paul approached.
"I'm going upriver a little way to give this package to
Uncle Antoine," Paul said. "Come along."
Billy shook his head. "I've got to finish plowing. We're
late this year. Next week I could get away. How about
some fishing then?"
Paul watched him turn his ox into the next furrow. The
lazy gait of the ox in the plow shafts, the rich, brown
earth turning in heavy furrows, gave him a feeling of
deep satisfaction. Beyond the plowed land the apple trees
were pink with buds. Along the fence by the house the
wild grapes were in full leaf. He was filled with a sense
of well-being. Life in this wilderness of the lakes was very
sweet.
"We'll go fishing next week, then," he called, with a
wave, and he moved on down the rough path that angled
toward the Cuilleriers' house on the river bank a half mile
away. Under his feet the moss was thick and springy. He
slowed down and made no haste to finish his errand.
When he reached his Uncle Antoine's house, Philippe
was sitting with his uncle and his cousin Alexis. He looked
up, saw Paul, and there was a sudden silence. Paul gave
his uncle the package.
43


"Oh, yes. Thanks very much." Uncle Antoine sounded
as if he'd forgotten the order, as if his thoughts were far
away. "Sit down, sit down, Paul," he said at last.
Paul looked from one to the other. He disliked Uncle
Antoine as much as his father did. But still, Philippe was
here. Paul was about to join them when he looked at
Alexis. His cousin looked bored and angry with the inter-
ruptions, and suddenly Paul knew he didn't really want
to stay.
"Thank you just the same, Uncle Antoine, I must get
home again."
Philippe got up lazily and held out a packet wrapped in
leaves. "I brought this sugar from the Ottawa camp. Take
it to Mother, and tell her I'll come home and see her on
Friday."
Paul felt strangely awkward and intrusive in his uncle's
presence. No one had much to say while he stood there.
He made his farewells and started back on the river path,
feeling their eyes on him as he went.
Cousin Alexis was going to be just like Uncle Antoine
some day, he thought, as he left the settlement behind. He
was a wild, bullying young man, who constantly made
trouble, and Uncle Antoine was an arrogant, bullying old
man, who also made trouble. The thought cheered him up
so much that he whistled all the way back to the fort. He
remembered that Philippe had said he was coming home
on Friday, and he wondered if it was because of the
Navarre wedding that night.
44


On Friday it rained all day long. Spirits were depressed,
tempers were ragged, and the long-overdue shipment of
goods for the merchants arrived in the downpour and was
unloaded and left standing in the pouring rain.
Paul worked all morning carrying boxes and bales from
the landing place to the warehouse. At noon Philippe
arrived.
"So you come at last," his father greeted him. "It's about
time. Why can you not give me more help with the store?"
Philippe stood carelessly leaning against the wall of the
warehouse. He looked at his father patiently and cour-
teously, swinging a chain in a circle as if he listened with-
out hearing.
"I'm sorry to grieve you, Father. But when I come inside
this fort I choke for air—" His dark eyes blazed. "You
don't know how it feels, that freedom of the wild! The
forests, the sunsets, the free-running streams, the open
fires at night—" He flung his arms wide as if he appealed
for understanding. Then he smiled at his father teasingly.
"You, yourself—why did you come to this wilderness of
the lakes at seventeen, when you lived in a fine city like
Montreal?"
His father scowled and then, unwillingly, a smile
twitched at his mouth as if he recalled a long-gone mem-
ory. "Sometimes I wonder why I did ..." He turned
away impatiently. "Now that you're here, you can help
get those goods off the shore. Some of them are still stand-
ing in the rain."
45



Paul lifted his pile of boxes and followed his brother


hated the English. When the last load was stored in the
warehouse, Philippe glanced toward his father, working
in a distant corner, and spoke quietly to Paul.
"I'm going back now. Just tell Father when he asks that
I'll be in the fort again before very long."
He went as silently as an Indian, and Paul worked
quickly to finish checking the inventory before the day
ended. A brilliant and surprising ray of sunlight fell across
the floor, and Paul, startled, straightened up, feeling his
muscles ache from the stooping and carrying he had been
doing. He went to the door to breathe the fresh air.
The rain had stopped, and the clear blue sky in the west
was shading into hazy gold. The sun was sinking now,
its long golden rays turning the wet streets to iridescence.
Below the black and purple clouds, the golden horizon
turned to scarlet, the forests grew black in the fading
sunlight. Paul thought the change in the weather must
be a good omen.
Mme. Girard rejoiced volubly in the beautiful weather,
as she dressed her family in silks and laces for the Navarre
wedding. Marie-Francoise Navarre's betrothal to Lieu-
tenant George McDougall, of the English garrison, was
deeply interesting to the habitants. The lieutenant had
come to Detroit only two years ago, and Marie-Francoise
had been throwing herself at his head ever since, gossip
said. Well, now she was marrying the man.
"But can you tell me," Mme. Girard demanded of her
husband, as the family set out for the Navarre house out-
50


side the walls, where the ceremony would take place,
"what she can see in that Englishman, when she might
have had a fine young Frenchman like our Philippe?"
Her husband could not tell her. The stars were begin-
ning to show, the frogs along the river bank gurgled
lustily, and the fresh scents of the rain-washed evening
arose along the river path, as they left the walls of the fort
behind them. Mme. Navarre chattered on. She would not
have gone one step to this wedding, save that the Navarres
were old friends, and everyone in the village would be
there.
Paul walked along reluctantly, resenting the wedding
too. He hated to dress up, already his starched shirt was
chafing his neck. He wished again that he could go off
with Philippe and forget the fort and its problems.

51


about the table. Paul slipped in and joined them, holding
onto himself as he edged through the guests so that he
wouldn't crowd in too fast and be dragged back by his
mother, who was easily embarrassed. The food at these
parties made up for all the bother of dressing up, and Paul
felt more cheerful.
Just as he picked up a plate, someone jogged his elbow.
Clutching, to keep the plate from slipping from his
fingers, he looked over his shoulder.
Cousin Angelique murmured, "Paul, can you come
away for a minute? I've got to talk to you." She looked
around quickly and lowered her eyes again. "They're all
dancing; no one will notice. Quick!"
With one hand under his elbow, she moved Paul to-
ward the back door of the room, chatting about the
pleasant night as they went. Paul grabbed a couple of
pieces of bread and cheese as he left the table, and then,
holding his plate before him and thinking sadly of all the
goodies he had not yet collected, he accompanied Ange-
lique through the door into the back garden. The house
was so crowded and the crowd so gay that no one noticed
them leaving.
The night was warm and still, and the frogs were pip-
ing loudly along the river bank. Angelique led him away
from the house into the darkness at the back of the garden,
and motioned him to sit down on a fallen log. He began to
eat his bread and cheese. He was hungrier than he had
realized, and he wished he'd picked up more food.
53


"Paul," his cousin said, "listen to me very carefully."
He liked his cousin. She was the prettiest girl he had
ever seen. None of the women in the town could under-
stand how she had reached her mid-twenties without be-
ing married. Lately his mother had been telling his father
that Mr. Sterling seemed to be paying Angelique a lot of
attention. She twisted her hands together and looked
down at them.
"There is great danger, Paul," she whispered. "I don't
dare talk to anyone else about it."
He sat up, flattered and alarmed.
"You know my—my friend, Mr. Sterling?" she asked.
"In the fort? Next door to your store?"
"Of course." Even in the darkness, he knew she was
blushing hotly.
"I'm afraid for him ... Look, Paul. Pontiac is going to
attack the fort. Tomorrow. My father is... well, he's with
Pontiac." She spoke reluctantly. "He doesn't like Mr.
Sterling, because he's English. And Alexis is with the
Indians, too. They were watching me tonight, and I
couldn't say a word to Mr. Sterling. I can't talk to Major
Gladwin tonight, or to Captain Campbell, or to any
Englishman. But you're my own cousin, and if anyone
asks any questions you can say I was asking about Phi-
lippe."
She drew a quick breath, and Paul sat very still.
"I heard this plot in my father's house," she said. She
sounded stubborn and defiant. "Pontiac will come to the
54



'Paul," his cousin said, "listen to me very carefully."
55


lief and hugged his shoulders. "So smart and strong and
big for your age! Thank you a thousand times. Perhaps
some day I can help you."
They made their way back to the house, and Angelique
slipped, unnoticed, into the crowd in the dining room.
Paul remembered he had left a plate lying on the grass in
the garden and decided to leave it there. He picked up
another, wondering, as he filled it with cakes, bread, sliced
meat, and cheese, just how he could speak to the major in
private. As he was leaving the table he looked around the
room for the commandant, and saw him and Captain
Campbell bidding the Navarres farewell. James Sterling
was nowhere to be seen, and Angelique was flirting with
a young Frenchman.
Paul looked at his filled plate and crammed a piece of
meat into his mouth, trying to think of some other time,
some other way, to speak to Major Gladwin. "Tomorrow
morning," Angelique had said. Any other time might be
too late. This was the moment. With a sigh he put down
his plate and made his way through the laughing crowd
to a side door, where he let himself out without seeing his
hostess or his parents.
The two officers were striding along the river road to-
ward the fort, and Paul had to run to catch up with them.
Panting, he drew abreast. "Major Gladwin, sir! I have a
message for you."
Major Henry Gladwin was a man in his early thirties,
of moderate size, high color, and little humor. In this hos-
57


fire upon the officers, the Indians in the streets will attack
the garrison. Every Englishman will be killed."
As he spoke, the import of what he was saying became
real, and he began to tremble.
"Where did you hear talk like this?" Major Gladwin de-
manded.
He sounded as if he didn't believe a word of the story,
and Paul stared at him beseechingly. It was terribly im-
portant to make the major understand the danger.
"Sir, I can't tell you that. But I heard it from someone
who was present when the plan was formed, and who
wanted you to be warned."
"French?"
"Yes, sir."
The major said, "Humph!" and stood there, looking
away into the distance, scowling a little, as if he were try-
ing to decide exactly what this meant. Paul looked at
Captain Campbell. He had known the captain longer
than the major. The captain was looking at Paul gravely,
and the boy met his eyes.
"Captain Campbell, the French think the Indians are
rising. I've heard that three times lately."
"And why do they think that, sonny?"
"My brother says the Indians are very angry ..." He
found it was hard to say "with the English" to English
officers, and he let his voice trail away.
Captain Campbell said to the major, in a low voice,
59


"The boy's brother is a voyageur. He knows the Indians
well."
"Ah?" Major Gladwin looked intently at Paul again.
"So you think this plot is likely to succeed?" He still
sounded incredulous, and Paul became impatient.
"Sir," he stood very straight, "if Pontiac enters the fort
tomorrow morning with sixty chiefs, every Englishman
within the walls will die. But the Indians will not touch
a single Frenchman. The French have nothing to fear,
and some even hope they will again hold the fort, if the
English are destroyed."
Major Gladwin nodded. "I daresay. The French have
been friendly in the main, but it would be impossible to
believe they really like us. Thus," he glanced at the other
officer, "they have nothing to gain in warning us of an
attack. . . . Yesterday, Monsieur Gouin, from the coast,
told me the French suspected the Indians were readying
for an attack on the fort. And now this..."
"Monsieur Gouin has been friendly," the captain com-
mented.
In the distance, the long-drawn-out war whoops and
the Indian drums sounded. These had not been heard in
two and a half years. The three looked at each other. In
the moonlight Major Gladwin's face was stony. He looked
at Paul again.
"This is a valuable service," he said stiffly. "We shall be
prepared to resist Pontiac's attempt. In the name of the
garrison, I thank you for the warning." He reached out
60


and shook hands with Paul, and the two officers strode
off together. Their pace was a little faster than before.
Paul watched them until they faded into the darkness
and then turned back to the party. Perhaps now he could
have some supper.
In the big room the women were sitting together, fan-
ning themselves and gossiping, curled and powdered
heads together. The younger men were dancing, and
pretty girls were coquetting with them. Angelique was
dancing with her brother, and she saw Paul standing on
the edge of the dance floor, smiled at him, and raised her
eyebrows as if to question him. He smiled back, nodded
ever so slightly, and she turned gracefully in the figure
of the dance, with a satisfied expression.
At the far end of the room Henri Girard and Pierre
La Butte were talking with Antoine Cuillerier and half
a dozen other men. Out in the dining room Louis La Butte
was looking over a table stripped of its bounty. Paul started
in that direction, and almost tripped Alexis, who turned
in the figure of the dance and stumbled over Paul's foot.
He caught himself with an ugly scowl and a muttered
oath. Paul dodged away and found himself next to the
men around his father.
Antoine Cuillerier was saying, "Let me remind you
gentlemen that when the English leave, this fort will
again be French. And I, for one, should like to see that
day."
"Nonsense," Pierre La Butte told him gruffly, "when we
61


pledged allegiance to England over two years ago, it was
bcause France was conquered everywhere in this land..."
"Except in Louisiana," Cuillerier interrupted. "Loui-
siana is not so far from here. If we overthrow the English
—and with the help of the Indians that should not be
hard—our French brothers in Louisiana will join their
boundary with ours, and France again will hold the heart
of this continent."
"Impossible!" Paul's father spoke emphatically, and all
the men turned to listen. "A foolish dream! What do we
care for kings? Some day the English may be gone, or they
may not, but we habitants, we'll be here forever. Let us not
have war, that is what I say. We've been at peace ever
since the English raised their flag over Detroit, and I say,
let us leave it that way."
He looked beyond the group as he spoke and saw Paul
listening, his mouth open and eyes agog. Henri gestured
to the men and said sharply, "What are you listening for,
Paul? This is for men, not children!" With a wave of his
hand he dismissed the boy, and Paul, humiliated, cheeks
burning, turned as if he had heard nothing he could
understand, and went on to the dining room where Louis
was picking up crumbs from the table with a moist fore-
finger.
"Where were you all evening?" Louis asked. "This was
the best party I've ever been to—best food, that is."
"I wouldn't know." Paul tried to sound lofty. "I haven't
eaten yet."
62


Louis looked at him curiously. "Must have been some-
thing pretty important, to keep you away from food," he
observed.
"I guess I wasn't very hungry." To his own surprise,
Paul found this was true. One forlorn scrap of cheese lay
on a blue plate. But he didn't want it after all. He wan-
dered back to the crowd in the big room. You never knew
what you might overhear if you kept your ears open.
But the party was breaking up, guests were bidding
their hostess farewell, and Henri Girard called his family
together. As they walked home along the dark path by the
river, Paul walked with his father; his mother and Suzette
followed, bringing the younger children.
Still angry and humiliated over his dismissal earlier,
Paul stalked along saying nothing. He wondered if his
father knew of any plot to attack the fort. If he did not,
Paul was not going to tell him. He began to regain his
composure a little as he thought about his dark secret.
63


Chapter 5
aturday morning was bright and warm. The sky
was more brilliant, the south wind softer, the sun
more smiling than any day since winter had begun to
recede. The fort, freshly washed by yesterday's rain, was
sparkling clean when Paul opened the door of his father's
shop at eight in the morning. The streets were full of
people talking with each other about the war drums last
night, and the double sentinels at the gates today. James
Sterling came over to the Girard shop.
"Are you expecting to do business today?" he inquired.
"Aren't you?" Girard asked.
Sterling raised his eyebrows humorously, as if he didn't
want to seem fussy. "I don't like to seem agitated, you
know, but if the Indians are going to make trouble I shall
certainly lock up my store."
Girard said nothing. He was busily straightening out
his shelves and placing new merchandise on view. Paul
looked from his father to Mr. Sterling, wondering if he
should tell them what he knew. He was about to speak
when his father turned and said, "Paul, go out to the
warehouse and fetch in those bolts of ribbon. With Roga-
tion Days coming, we can sell ribbon."
64


When Paul returned from the warehouse, Mr. Sterling
had gone back to his own store, and other English traders
were collecting there. They talked in low voices, and each
carried his gun. The church bell in Ste. Anne's steeple
rang nine o'clock.
Paul was too restless to stay indoors. When his father
wasn't looking, he slipped out to see what news he could
pick up. At La Butte's house in Ste. Anne Street he found
Louis standing in the door watching the uneasy activity
in the streets.
"What'sgoing to happen?" Paul asked.
Louis shrugged. "Who knows? It's said the Indians are
going to attack the fort, but no one knows for certain."
"Where's your father?"
"He's gone to talk with the officers. Pontiac has asked
for a council..."
Paul looked down Ste. Anne Street toward the parade
ground where a hundred English soldiers were perform-
ing an exercise drill. The big gate beyond the parade
ground was open, as it always was, but two sentinels each
held a fixed bayonet. Beyond the gate a crowd of Indians
milled about in the field.
Paul's throat was dry, his breath came quickly, and he
tried to think of something he should be doing. At last he
said to Louis, "Come on down to the gate," and the two
boys went to stand near the sentries where they could
watch the Indians through the open gate. Some of them
were playing lacrosse, which they often did on that
EMERSON JUNIOR HIGi£5
SCHOOL LIBRARY


meadow. But there must be three hundred, Paul figured,
and some of the braves were stalking back and forth, star-
ing at the palisades.
Then, beyond the common, Pontiac came striding out
of the forest along the river road, with a long line of chiefs
marching behind him.
A hush fell over the fort as if everyone came to attention
at the same moment. Paul looked back over his shoulder.
The English traders were standing outside their closed
doors, muskets in hand, waiting. Just waiting. The church
Pontiac thrust bis chin up, as be marched up to


bell began to ring ten o'clock. And Pontiac reached the
east gate.
The war chief and his sixty warriors were painted with
black and white war paint and wrapped in colored
strouds; and they wore the eagle plumes of war. Their
eyes gleamed darkly, their mouths were stern. The senti-
nels made no move to stop them. Paul's heart began to
pound.
Pontiac marched through the gate arrogantly, and the
sentinels stood at attention as his followers passed through.
Captain Campbell's house, followed by all his men


In silence he led his warriors across the parade ground to
the meeting place. Forty of the Indians in the meadow
shuffled after them, clutching their blankets closely about
them. Paul watched them: if he hadn't known they car-
ried guns, he would have suspected nothing.
Pontiac saw the English garrison, and his face darkened
in an angry scowl. The soldiers who had been moving in
drill figures were standing stiffly at attention, each holding
his bayonet at the ready. Pontiac thrust his chin up, and
his steps lengthened, as he marched up to Captain Camp-
bell's house, where the council was being held, and
through the door, followed by all his men.
Paul stood still, his eyes fixed on the closed door of the
house. He thought of the plot Angelique had described.
The war belt—when Pontiac turned it from white to
green .... Sixty Indians in that house faced two officers
with two interpreters. How could the plot fail? And why
didn't Gladwin shut them out? Why? Why? Why? The
questions pounded angrily in his ears, and he felt confused
and helpless.
"They look as if they wanted to fight," Louis said brood-
ingly. "They don't look like a peace council. Let's go
around and listen in."
The boys looked up and down the narrow streets.
Indians had posted themselves at every shop, near the
gates, and around the barracks. Every Indian in the
meadow had come inside. There were three hundred in
the streets, as well as the sixty warriors with Pontiac. If the
68


chiefs plot was successful, every Englishman would die.
Today.
Would he be brave enough to fight with these doomed
men? Paul asked himself, feeling as if he were having a
nightmare.
He followed his cousin around the block and through
a wooden gate that gave into the courtyard behind Captain
Campbell's house. In the back wall of the house the
mullioned windows were opened to the warm sunlight
of the spring day, and the speech of the men within
came clearly through. The boys crawled quietly across
the courtyard and huddled below the windows.
Pontiac was speaking, and the Indian syllables fell
harshly upon the boys' ears. Paul shuddered. Then he
heard La Butte interpreting for the English.
"We are greatly surprised, brother, at this unusual step
thou hast taken to have all the soldiers under arms, and
that thy young chiefs are not at council as formerly. We
would be very glad to know the reason for this, for we
imagine some bad bird has given thee ill news of us, which
we advise thee not to believe, my brother, for there are bad
birds who want to stir thee up against thy brothers, the
Indians, who have been always in perfect friendship with
their brothers, the English."
Major Gladwin's voice sounded, answering this com-
plaint. Then there was a long silence. Unable to endure
it, Paul stood up and looked through the window, and
then ducked down again.
69


"Nobody saw me," he whispered. "Pontiac is standing
there, holding the wampum belt. He keeps fingering it
and smoothing it and looking at it now and then . . ."
Pontiac was speaking again, in sad tones. "Six of our
chiefs have died in the past winter. Will our brother give
us something to calm our minds and banish our sorrow?"
Again there was silence. "Look again," Louis whis-
pered.
Paul peeped over the sill. In that still room all faces were
fixed upon Pontiac, who held the wampum belt as he
looked at Major Gladwin. He held it white side out, he
raised it as if he would hand it to the major...
Major Gladwin lifted his hand, and a rolling thunder
of drums broke upon the silence. Paul dropped flat to the
ground at the first drumbeat. When the drum roll ended
he could hear Gladwin, speaking as calmly as if he were
entertaining his good friends.
"We grieve with you for your chiefs, our brother. And
in their memory we give you these six suits of clothes and
this bread and tobacco. May they calm your minds and
banish your sorrow..."
The boys lay still as death. The Indians were departing
from the council house. They were marching out the door
and into the street with measured steps. The boys sneaked
out of the back gate and sauntered toward the La Butte
house, trying to act as if they had been enjoying a walk
in the sunshine.
Scared faces showed in every window. Frightened
70


women looked out, holding their babies tightly. Small
children were screaming, demanding to know what the
noise was. A small, rough-haired terrier was running in
circles, barking in hysterical excitement.
From La Butte's house, the boys could see Pontiac
marching, with a cold and furious air, across the parade
ground to the east gate with his warriors. The other In-
dians straggled after them. The garrison stood at atten-
tion, bayonets gleaming in the sun.
The stolid sentinels watched the Indians leave. As
the last one went through, they closed and barred the
gate. The garrison was ordered to stand at rest.
Major Gladwin and Captain Campbell stood at the
door of the captain's house with the two interpreters. The
major was filling his pipe, tamping the tobacco tightly
into the bowl with one finger.
"I'm surprised he didn't attack," he said, poking into the
bowl of his pipe as intently as if that were the chief busi-
ness of the day. "He brought more Indians inside with
him than we number soldiers in our garrison."
Captain Campbell shook his head. "We've not seen the
end of this yet," he said, in his thick Scottish brogue.
"Pontiac had more men than we have, yes. But our sol-
diers were ready, and an Indian wants to win without los-
ing a man." He laughed. "This is too sensible for the Eng-
lish! We're ready to die for victory! But an Indian will
run away and hide rather than be killed. And then he'll
come back for a surprise attack when he thinks his chances
71


are better. . . . No, Major Gladwin, Pontiac withheld his
attack today because he would have lost many men, even
if he won the fort. But he'll try again, and soon. And we
should close the gates and keep him out next time."
Pierre La Butte was nodding as if he agreed. Major
Gladwin put the pipe into his mouth and the three men
moved into the street toward the parade ground where
the major dismissed the garrison.
"I know you thought I should have closed the gate in his
face today," the major said to the captain. "But he would
have denied any reason for such treatment, after coming
and going freely all this time. And above all, Lieutenant
Robertson and Sir Robert Davers are in Indian territory
at this moment. If we angered Pontiac without reason, his
allies might attack Lieutenant Robertson's party...."
He drew a deep breath and looked very grave. "I
wonder, even, if the drum roll was a mistake." He sighed.
"How can you know when you're right and when you're
wrong until blood has been shed? La Butte, what do you
say about today's business?"
La Butte stared impassively into Major Gladwin's eyes.
"I've known these Indians all my life, and there will be
more to this than today's council. Pontiac will try again.
Don't let yourself be surprised."
The major weighed his interpreter's words, and then
he clapped the Frenchman on the shoulder. "I daresay
you're right, La Butte, although I hope you're wrong.
Will you be with us, if we're in trouble?"
72


Chapter 6
When the Girards went to mass at Ste. Anne's
Church on Sunday morning, the fort was quiet,
the fields surrounding it bloomed in sunny stillness, and
not an Indian was in sight. It seemed as if yesterday's
scare had been nothing but a bad dream. But the big gates
were closed now and guarded by double sentinels.
The story of Pontiac's council on Saturday had swept
through the fort, and opinions were divided. Some of the
French openly supported the English; many said noth-
ing at all, and Paul knew they felt as Philippe did. The
English traders jested about Pontiac's plans as if the whole
thing were a game.
Paul heard them, puzzled. He knew the danger in
which they stood, if Pontiac overwhelmed the fort. He
understood that their attitude was one of courage rather
than foolish optimism. But it was a lighthearted courage
that was new to him and unexpected from the English.
A sense of admiration was growing slowly, and leaving
him confused about his loyalties if the looming struggle
broke into war.
At the dinner table Paul said, "Do you think the In-
dians will try to attack again, Father?"
74


His mother looked distressed. The twins weren't listen-
ing, but Suzette and Felice stared at him fearfully. His
father said sternly, as if he should not have asked such a
question, "I don't think about the Indians, Paul. Nor
about the English. This is a matter that does not concern
me. We're safer if we stay apart from the whole thing."
"But won't Pontiac attack the habitants, when he's over-
thrown the English?" Paul persisted.
M. Girard shook his head emphatically. "Pontiac is
not stupid, that one! He's used to white men and their
ways, their ammunition, and their gunsmiths. He doesn't
want to lose them altogether. But he's discovered that the
English are different from the French, and he likes the
French better."
He spoke a little smugly, as if pleased to have the In-
dians prefer his people to the English. Then he shrugged
and slapped his hand down on the table authoritatively.
"It's not our problem," he repeated. "All that concerns
me is that my family shall be safe. If we keep to ourselves
and take no part in this quarrel, no one will bother us."
A sound of Indian yells arose in the afternoon sunlight,
and Paul rushed to the door. A band of Indians was
whooping and running to the playing field across the
river.
"They're going to have a game of lacrosse!" he cried.
"Maybe I can play."
He ran out of the door to find Louis, and the boys left
the fort by the water gate. If the Indians wanted to play
75


lacrosse with the French, as they did on so many Sunday
afternoons, they could not be planning for war. Paul felt
as if a cloud had rolled away from the sun, as he and Louis
pushed off in one of the canoes on the river bank, and
crossed to the playing field.
Philippe was there, chatting with his cousin Alexis and
a handful of his French friends. He was talking gaily, and
Alexis, glancing away from the group as Paul and Louis
approached, raised his hand in a quick signal to Philippe
not to let his talk be overheard, and then smiled at the
younger boys as if glad to see them. "Today, my young
friends, you can play. We need more men for our team."
The game began with shrill whoops. It was a fast, rough
game played with long, curved rackets and a small, hard
knot of wood, and Paul loved it. After an hour some of
the other young Frenchmen arrived, and Paul and Louis
dropped out.
They went down to the river to get a drink and dip their
heads in the cold water. They diey recrossed the river and
walked through the quiet forest, circling around behind
the fort to call on the Turnbulls.
Mrs. Turnbull had placed a pan of gingerbread on the
window sill to cool, and the spicy smell filled the farm-
yard as the boys went up to the door. Billy was chopping
wood, splitting chunks of log and throwing the pieces
on a large pile beside the door. As the boys came up, he left
the axe sunk in a log and cried, "Great! Just in time
for Ma's gingerbread!"
76


They sat on the stoop before the front door looking
toward the fort, waiting for the warm cake to cool, and
talking about the Indian plot of the day before.
"Why don't you move into the fort?" Paul asked. "It's
safer, if the Indians are restless."
Billy shook his head. "Why should they bother us?
We never gave them any trouble. We're way back here.
If they want to hit the fort we might be better off away
from it. What's got them stirred up, anyway?"
Paul shrugged. "The English aren't giving them the
presents they're used to, like powder and lead," he said;
it was the first thing that came into his head, and he re-
membered the Indians in the store a few days ago, who
were so angry about the English regulations. "Why do
the English try to change things?" he asked impatiently.
"We French never had any trouble with them."
Billy laughed. This was an old argument between the
boys, and he refused to take it seriously. "We don't want
to support these savages the rest of our lives with presents
and charity. If we stop giving them powder and balls,
they'll get used to paying for what they want like every-
one else."
It was hard to counter this argument. All Paul could
say was that this was the way it had always been. We share
what we have with our friends, he thought, and they share
with us...
At that moment an old Indian shambled across the
yard and went around to the back. Paul watched him idly.
77


Everyone knew old Gray Wolf. He had been a chief once,
it was said. But now he drank too much and begged food
of everyone, too lazy to work. At Mrs. Turnbull's door he
whined, "Give present?"
Mrs. Turnbull looked at the old man, at once annoyed
and kindly. "Here," she thrust the pan of gingerbread at
the Indian, "take this home to your squaw and her babies,
and leave me alone!"
Stolidly the old man stalked away toward the forest,
now and then sniffing the fragrant cake he carried. Paul
watched the gingerbread go, wistfully. Just because an
Indian beggar came along he would have no gingerbread
today Billy was grinning at him.
"So you think we ought to keep handing out presents?"
he teased.
Uncomfortably Paul got up. "I've got to get home," he
said. Louis joined him. Billy waved and went back to his
woodchopping.
As the boys went along the rough wagon road that led
from the Turnbulls' farm to the fort the air quivered with
Indian yells. Paul and Louis could see the sentries on the
ramparts walking more quickly, watching the forests
intently. The boys began to run, and as they came up to
the gate, a halfhearted burst of laughter sounded from
the garrison.
"False alarm!" yelled one of the soldiers. "Looks like the
French boys in their boats out there are trying to raise a
scare!"
78


But the horseplay of the young habitants suddenly re-
vived the tension that had set in the day before. Paul was
more frightened for the Turnbulls than they were for
themselves, and angry that they would not move to the
fort. And yet, as Billy had said, would they be any safer
inside the walls? Not if the Indians determined to attack
in force.
Monday, the ninth of May, was a Rogation Day, one of
the three holy days preceding Ascension Day on Thurs-
day, and all the habitants in the community attended mass
at Ste. Anne's. They followed their pastor in a chanting
procession to bless the fields outside the walls, and the
fields and meadows were empty and quiet. On the walls
the soldiers were preparing the cannon for fire, and mak-
ing ready for defense against surprise attack.
Back in the church, Paul's mother whispered to her
neighbor, "There are no more than a hundred and fifty
English, counting traders as well as soldiers. And Pontiac
has four hundred braves!"
"My husband says the commandant has no provisions
for war," her neighbor whispered back. "He heard there
is hardly flour enough for two weeks—and almost no
pork! The spring shipment has not yet come from
Niagara. And now the Indians will surely capture it be-
fore it reaches Detroit."
"T-t-t-t-t," Mme. Girard clucked. "But what can one
do?"
79


and form in a line behind Pontiac as he strode up to the
gate.
Pontiac pounded on the great gate, which swung open.
Two armed sentries faced him. He talked to them, and
they shook their heads, muskets crossed. Pontiac's head
lifted arrogantly, and he thrust out his dark face, demand-
ing entrance. The sentries barred the way with stolid de-
termination. Then, with an exclamation that carried to
the boys a quarter mile down the river, Pontiac turned
abruptly and signed to his braves to leave.
Cold and menacing, they stalked away from the gate,
following their chiefs to the canoes. Watching them, Paul
swallowed. In spite of his father's assurance that the In-
dians would not touch a Frenchman, he felt as if a murky
danger hung directly over him. The canoes sped past like
angry wasps, toward the Ottawa encampment, where the
campfires sent quiet smoke spirals into the still air.
They're going to attack^, Paul thought, and it was hard
to breathe. They're going to attac\ the fort any minute.
And the garrison is so small...
He sat very still. Louis said, "Maybe we'd better go
back."
Quickly and quietly the boys slipped down the tree,
watching for hostile eyes as they went. As they reached the
path, running feet and Indian yells sounded somewhere
, ahead of them. They stopped where they were, ducking
behind the nearest trees.
From where the boys stood, they could see the meadow
81


before the east gate of the fort. A band of thirty savages,
brown and shining in the sun, their faces gleaming with
war paint, were running across the meadow yelping like
dogs on the heels of a hare.
"They're going to the Turnbulls!" Paul said breathlessly.
"Isn't that Otussa?" Louis demanded. Paul looked at
the running gang. It was Otussa, and he felt sick.
Forgetting caution, the boys ran down the path and
across the meadow at top speed. They pounded and yelled
at the gate, and it seemed like an hour before the sentry
opened it.
"The Indians are going to the Turnbulls!" Paul cried.
"Can't you do something? Quick! Quick!"
Even as he spoke, the death halloo sounded. With a sob,
Paul ran to the nearest ladder and climbed up to the north
rampart, where he could see the Turnbull farm. Louis
was at his heels, and as he stood beside Paul on the ram-
part, the second death halloo sounded. And the third.
"That was their scalp yell," Jack Bradshaw said to Tom
Smith, looking grim. "Means they've spilled blood."
The two boys stared at the farmhouse, shaken and sick.
Paul could not look at Louis. They knew what the death
halloo meant. The Indians had killed Billy, their good
friend. And Billy's brother. And his mother, who had
given gingerbread to an Indian only yesterday. Paul be-
gan to tremble, and he clung to the palisades, so he
wouldn't pitch off the high walk. His friend Otussa had
done this.
82



With a sob, Paul climbed up to the north rampart
83


"I'm going to tell my father," Louis muttered, swallow-
ing hard. No one said anything, and he slipped down the
ladder. Paul was staring through wet eyes at the Turnbull
home, paying no attention to his cousin's departure.
Flames shot up from the roof of the Turnbull house,
and the Indians streamed out of the door and began to
drive oxen and cows into the pine woods back of the farm.
They tomahawked a stubborn ox that refused to move,
and the cow that stood stubbornly by her calf, and left
the carcasses on the ground amid the squawking hens. A
barking dog stood his ground until they disappeared, and
then sat and howled his own requiem for his dead masters.
"The Turnbulls were my friends," Paul said, feeling
that someone ought to know. His voice came out shakily.
Jack Bradshaw looked at him and then stared over the
ramparts again. "I guess you'll have a chance to get even.
They're asking for a fight."
Tom Smith cocked his gun and fired it into the air to
test it. Paul was trying to hold back tears, and swallow-
ing many times to ease a hurting throat. A hatred for the
Indians boiled up, and he nursed it angrily.
He was looking down river when a canoe full of Chip-
pewas pulled up at the water gate, let a Frenchman out
at the landing place, and sped upstream. Paul scrambled
down to the ground and ran to the water gate. He knew
that man.
The Frenchman stumbled, exhausted, through the gate,
84


and asked hoarsely for the commandant. Then he moved
shakily across the fort, supported by a couple of soldiers,
to Major Gladwin's house.
When the soldiers came out of the house, Paul asked,
"What happened to Lieutenant Robertson's expedition?"
"Did you know the Frenchman?" The soldiers stopped.
"That's Monsieur Desnoyers, one of our customers. We
sent flour to him with the bateau. What happened?"
"The Chippewas attacked the bateau last Friday. They
killed Lieutenant Robertson and Sir Robert Davers, and
a couple of sailors."
"What about John Rutherfurd?" Paul was afraid to hear.
"Indians took him away with some of the soldiers for
slaves. Desnoyers saw Rutherfurd a minute before the
Indians took him."
"Does he know where John is now?"
"Desnoyers thinks the Chippewas are adopting him.
Those Chips that brought Desnoyers here—they're join-
ing Pontiac."
Paul heard him, as if from a great distance.
"You all right, kid?" the taller soldier asked him.
Paul shook his head and cleared his eyes with his fists.
He knew now which side he would be fighting on.
"I'm all right. It's my friends I worry about..."
One soldier looked at the other, and both patted Paul
on the shoulder. "You'll feel better when you fight, boy.
It works that way."
85


Chapter 7
v If ^he night was quiet, but the dark horror that had
_ i_ fallen upon the English settlers overhung the fort.
Paul lay on his bed in the loft of the little white house on
St. Joseph Street, feeling the weight of the silence, and
thinking, thinking.
He must do something, and carrying a gun on the sentry
walk was not enough. A hot surge of rage flooded through
him, and he beat the bed with hard fists, swearing that he
would exact revenge from the Indians for the Turnbull
massacre. But the rage passed, and he knew that vengeance
was not enough either. The Indians had taken John
Rutherfurd, too, and when he thought about that Paul
shuddered.
Then he sat up, holding his head and praying to the
Virgin to give him strength. If he could go to the Indian
camp where John was held prisoner, perhaps he could
save him. If he could find Philippe in the Ottawa camp,
perhaps he could save all the English. Then he lay down
again, beaten and discouraged. How could anyone stop
the gathering thousands of Indians from killing all the
English?
As the darkness lightened into the early gray dawn,
86


long-drawn yells and war whoops shattered the silence,
and a clamor of bullets struck the stockade from all sides.
Paul lay very still, his hands tightly over his eyes, and
groaned. In those early hours when courage runs low, and
fears are overwhelming, he was sure the Indians would
overrun the stockade and he would witness the horrible
deaths of all his friends. For himself he feared nothing.
Pontiac had said no Frenchman would be touched. But
he would be safe only if he stood aside and made no move
to help his friends.
He sprang up from the bed and made his way down-
stairs, where his family was gathering for breakfast. The
racket of bullets was incessant.
His mother was cooking his favorite pancakes. She
looked sad and stern. Suzette was knitting on a stocking,
pale and unhappy. Felice was playing with the kittens on
the floor. The twins came in from feeding the chickens.
Mme. Girard set a plate of hot cakes before her husband,
who sprinkled them with brown sugar.
"What will happen today?" she demanded. "We should
lock the store, if the Indians are going to take the fort."
Henri Girard shook his head. "They won't take it to-
day. Major Gladwin was wise not to let them in yester-
day."
"Philippe—" Paul's voice was trembling, and he stopped.
No one said anything. His father looked anxious and
angry. His mother's eyes filled with tears, and she turned
away.
87


The attack went on into mid-morning, until the twins
were edgy and complaining of the noise. Paul's father
went to confer with Uncle Pierre La Butte, and Paul went
down to the barracks to find out from the garrison how
the fight was going.
Five men had been hit and lay where they had fallen,
some unconscious, two of them moaning heavily. Captain
Campbell was directing their removal to Ste. Anne's
Church, which the priest had offered as a hospital. He
looked up as Paul approached.
"You can help us with these wounded, my boy," he said,
getting up from his knees heavily. "I fear we've lost more
than the enemy, and we can ill afford it."
Paul helped carry the wounded into the church, and
there he made them as comfortable as he could, bathing
their faces, finding pillows for their heads, covering them
with blankets, and bringing cold water to drink. When
the doctor arrived, Paul went on to La Butte's house to
find his cousin. The firing had died away, the yelling
slackened, and the day quieted.
"My father's gone out to talk to Pontiac," Louis reported.
"Your father went with him. Major Gladwin said he
thought Father could persuade the Indians to settle their
demands peacefully."
"I wish there was something we could do," Paul said
restlessly.
"There's nothing now until Father gets back."
Paul was very tired, and he realized suddenly that he
88


had not slept at all during the night. The day was quiet
now, with a warm, muggy blanket of air smelling of
powder settling over the fort. He went slowly up the
sloping street, past the church where he could hear one
of the men still moaning, and back to his home, where
he fell on his bed and went to sleep.
When he awoke, it was late in the afternoon. He
stretched, listening to the pleasant homely sounds of cook-
ing in the kitchen. A wooden spoon was beating a pud-
ding, someone was whisking egg whites into a froth. In
the courtyard the children were shrieking at the antics of
the kittens. Somewhere a dog was barking furiously. For
a moment it seemed as if peace had returned. Then he
remembered his father's errand, and he jumped up and
went down to the kitchen.
"Has Father returned? What happened at the council?"
"He has just left with Uncle Pierre," his mother said,
not looking up. She was mixing a souffle, and she gave
it all her attention. "Pontiac wants Captain Campbell to
come to his camp and talk about a peace treaty."
"Does Father think this is wise?"
"Monsieur Gouin was there, and three other men from
the coasts. They all felt Captain Campbell should talk
with Pontiac, that anything should be done that might
please the Indians and stop this cruel war..."
Paul went to the door. From there he could see a
crowd gathering around the east gate, and he ran down
to join them.
89


Captain Campbell and Lieutenant McDougall were
jesting with Pierre La Butte and Henri Girard, as the
sentries stood back from the open gate to allow them to
go out. Four Indian chiefs awaited them, and a large
crowd of Frenchmen followed the officers, chattering
and laughing. Paul fell in with the crowd.
"What do you think will happen at this meeting?" he
asked M. Cesire, an elderly man trudging along in a
blacksmith's apron and sabots. M. Cesire stared at him as
if wondering what he meant.
"Captain Campbell is so upright a gentleman that
Pontiac must respond to an officer like him, who is willing
to go to him and discuss a negotiation like this."
"Will Captain Campbell be safe, do you think?"
The man's eyes filled with horror. "But of course! Who
could wish him harm? Pontiac has asked for him because
the captain has been a friend of the Indians these many
years, as he has also been our friend." He looked at the
crowd of Frenchmen about him. "When this trouble is
ended, we'll all be free to go about our affairs again. Until
then, it's a bad business, is it not?"
Paul nodded and moved on through the crowd, to listen
to the talk of the others. They all felt as the blacksmith did,
that Captain Campbell could bring about an end to the
fighting. One man was saying as Paul came up, "Monsieur
Gouin sent word that this was a trap, and the captain
must not go. Do you know what our captain said? He
said, 'Who is fearful for me, if I fear nothing meself?'
90


The fat Scotsman was silent for a moment. Lieutenant
McDougall looked ironic, as if he had expected nothing
less, as the interpreter gave Pontiac's offer to the officers
in English. Then the captain said with dignity, "I under-
stand your terms, Chief Pontiac. But I must talk with
Major Gladwin before I can give you an answer."
"Will you return John Rutherfurd to us?" the lieutenant
asked. Paul leaned forward to hear the answer.

92


Pontiac's face seemed to close up. "I know nothing of
him."
After a few more minutes of discussion, the captain
turned to the lieutenant. "We might as well return to the
fort," he said. He was calm and unruffled as always, but
Paul sensed an undercurrent of anxiety. To Pontiac the
captain said, "What if our commandant refuses your
terms?"

Antoine Cuillerier sat in the middle of bis big living room
in a velvet coat, keeping his laced hat on like a king
93


Pontiac pulled back his lips in a savage grin. "Then the
war will continue, and thousands of my allies will join
me.
"We've heard your terms. Now we'll take them to Major
Gladwin."
Pontiac looked at his braves, and six of them stepped
forward, surrounding the two officers. Silence fell upon
the crowd, as the Frenchmen looked at one another, realiz-
ing that Pontiac had trapped them all into believing his
good faith. Two of them looked at Pontiac defiantly, and
the blacksmith said firmly, "Captain Campbell, you are
free to return to the fort whenever you wish."
The Indian chief looked from the blacksmith to the
captain to the habitants, measuring them with his eyes.
"When Captain Campbell and Lieutenant McDougall
have slept in my lodges for two nights, we will send them
back to the fort."
The silence was thick and dark. Frenchman looked at
Frenchman, eyes dropped under Pontiac's stare. Feet
shuffled. And Cuillerier looked around the group, bold as
an eagle.
"Do you fear your friends, Pontiac's people?" he chal-
lenged. None answered. "You need not be alarmed, Cap-
tain Campbell," he said in a cold tone. "Pontiac will see
that you sleep safely."
Captain Campbell met Pontiac's eyes and shrugged.
"I fear nothing, my friend. Perhaps when we've spent two
nights together, our friendship will be stronger."
94


Lieutenant McDougall was pale. But he stood as firmly
as his chief, his head high, his back straight as a steel rod.
Pontiac waved to the habitants to depart. And slowly,
slowly, the French settlers who had accompanied the
officers so confidently turned and went out the door. The
last to leave were Pierre La Butte and Henri Girard.
Paul waited for them and fell into step beside them.
The three walked toward the fort in silence for some
minutes. Then La Butte sighed and spoke slowly as if a
weight depressed him.
"Now, indeed, I fear we should have listened to the
warning of Monsieur Gouin," he said to his brother-in-
law. "I fear for these good men."
Girard was staring toward the stockade, his mouth set
angrily.
"I, too, believed Pontiac was negotiating in good faith,"
he said. "Now I do not know what to believe."
He looked as if he felt the same shock of betrayal that
had struck Paul when the Turnbulls died.
95


Chapter 8
The ugly muttering buzzed through the English
garrison whenever a Frenchman appeared near the
barracks. On Wednesday night Paul went to see his friend
Jack Bradshaw, and as he approached the barracks some-
one yelled, "Where's our captain, Frenchie? What did
you give him to Pontiac for?"
Paul went into the barracks and found Jack polishing
his gun.
"Hello there." Jack sounded neutral. But Paul felt a
coolness.
"I wish you English could realize that the French feel
betrayed too!" he burst out.
Jack glanced at him. "Why? Pontiac didn't keep one
of your men."
"But he said 'two nights' and Captain Campbell and the
lieutenant said they would stay. Surely Pontiac wouldn't
betray a flag of truce! He must return the officers."
"Looks to me like you don't know the Indians as well
as you're supposed to," Jack said bitterly.
That made Paul feel like a fool, and that was even
worse than feeling misunderstood. "Could I fight with
the garrison if I got a gun?"
96


Jack shrugged. "Why not? We can use a few more
men ..." He glanced at the boy as if he were a stranger.
"Maybe."
As unhappy as if he, personally, had delivered the
English officers into Indian hands, Paul left the barracks
and walked slowly back home. It looked as if the English
didn't want him fighting with them.
He had never before cared what the English thought of
the French. He had thought only of his feeling for the
English. He had begun to like them when he became
friendly with Jack and Tom in the garrison, and the liking
had grown with his friendship for Billy and John. He
had begun to admire them when he had seen Major Glad-
win facing Pontiac in the council, last Saturday, and the
admiration had deepened when he had watched Captain
Campbell go out to meet Pontiac.
He couldn't bear to be thought a traitor to the English
command. Brooding and melancholy, he walked around
the fort. There must be some way he could prove his
loyalty. Rounding the corner where the arsenal stood, he
found Major Gladwin studying the wooden building
gloomily, with his aide.
"If they begin sending burning arrows, we're lost. All
these wooden buildings will go up at once."
"Yes, sir." The aide agreed with his chief.
"Something I can do, sir?" Paul saluted the comman-
dant. At least Major Gladwin knew of his loyalty. The
major looked at the boy as if he were surprised to see him.
97


"Oh, Paul! Yes, you can do something. Go through the
fort and get the citizens to set out tubs and barrels and
fill them with water. Tell them to keep them filled until
the war is over. We must be ready to put out any fires if
they get started, and I can't spare a man from the firing
lines."
Paul darted away to call on every Frenchman. All of
them realized the danger of the Indians setting fire to
the fort, and agreed to set out the buckets of water. Paul
walked through the fort again, checking the preparations,
and reported back to the major.
But there must be something more important he could
do. More than anything he wanted to be a hero. He
dreamed about that ambition the rest of the night. But
how could he do something heroic, cooped up inside the
fort?
On Thursday the firing was incessant again, and more
men were wounded. The noise died away toward even-
ing, and Paul roamed restlessly about talking to the set-
tlers. He found small comfort there: some of the French
were determinedly neutral, some were hoping for an
English defeat. Disconsolately he went to find Louis, and
the two went over to stand near the barracks, hoping
there would be some way to convince the garrison they
were friendly to them. The officers of the garrison were
entering Major Gladwin's house in a body.
"Going to talk about the situation," one English soldier
said, gesturing toward the officers with his thumb.
98


"They got two choices," said the other. "Surrender or
fight. If you ask me, a lot of the officers would like to sur-
render. They'd just as soon go back to Niagara, where
they ain't got so much trouble with the Injuns."
If the English gave up the fort, Paul thought, Antoine
Cuillerier would be the commandant, and the Detroit
territory would be French again. He'd rather have the
English.
"Well, we ain't got provisions," the first soldier said
gloomily. "From the looks of it, those Injuns could over-
run the stockade any time they'd a mind to. On the other
hand," he brightened, "I heered the boats was coming
down from Niagara with gunpowder and food—and
some more men. They oughta be along any day now..."
"The major ain't one to knuckle down to an Injun like
Pontiac," his companion remarked, shaking his head in
admiration. "He's stubborn. He'll keep this fort, I'll lay
you odds."
"He won't even talk terms till he gets his officers back."
"Aw, no Injun ever stayed at a fight more than a couple
of days," the first said disdainfully. "Any Englishman
can outstay any Injun two and three to one." He noticed
the boys standing nearby, and said with annoyance,
"What do you want? Beat it!"
Flushed and angry, the boys walked on. Sometimes the
English irritated Paul deeply. And yet he wanted them
to like him. He glanced at Louis. The La Buttes were
under even darker suspicion than the Girards. Soldiers
99


said openly that Pierre La Butte had betrayed their officers
to the Indian chief. Louis felt even worse about this
shadow of hate than Paul did, and Paul could think of
nothing to say to him.
He left his cousin and climbed the sloping street to his
home. He was going to show them all, Paul thought. He
dreamed of the gallant courage that would relieve the
garrison, subdue the Indians, and cause Major Gladwin
to pin a gold medal on him before all the assembled
troops, telling them that without Paul Girard all the
English would have been slaughtered.
The way to find the opening for all this accomplish-
ment eluded him. He went to bed feeling that life was
blocking him in every direction.
The days went by on heavy feet. The English officers
remained in captivity, and by Sunday there was no doubt
that Pontiac had violated his own flag of truce, and his
invitation to the officers to visit him in order to negotiate
terms. Henri Girard hardly spoke to his family when
they returned from church and sat down to the midday
dinner. After he had eaten he said brusquely, "I go to
have council with my brother La Butte," and he left the
house again.
"Your father is very angry," Marie Girard said to the
children. "The Indian chief has affronted his honor, and
this is very bitter for a man like your father. Robert, go
to the pump and fetch us more water. Charles, look to
the cow..."
100


Paul sat at the table when the twins had left, leaning his
head on his hand and thinking. His father was angry
because the English despised him and the rest of the
French. If Philippe had stayed at home it would have
helped. But Philippe was out in the forest with the
Ottawas . . . Out there one could do great things. Paul
sprang to his feet. If he could talk to Philippe ...
He ran out of the house and through the streets to the
commandant's house. The young aide who answered his
knock looked very supercilious.
"The major is very busy," he said. "Captain Campbell
is in the hands of the Indians, as you probably know."
Paul felt that the aide was blaming him personally.
But he thrust his chin up and spoke doggedly. "I know.
That's what 1 want to talk to Major Gladwin about. I
have an idea that might help."
The aide looked so scornful that Paul knew he was
about to dismiss him without further delay. But Major
Gladwin himself walked across the hall just then and
caught Paul's last words.
"Oh, Paul, it's you," he said, approaching the door. "So
you have a plan for our captain, do you?" He said to the
aide, "This is the boy who warned me last Friday of
Pontiac's plot to murder the garrison. He's worth listen-
ing to .. ."
The aide stepped back, an unwilling respect showing
through his stiff manner, and Major Gladwin told Paul
to continue.
101


"Sir," Paul said, "my brother lives with the Ottawas.
I'd like to go to the Ottawa camp and talk to him. I might
be able to discover more of Pontiac's plan for this war.
And I could ask Philippe if he knew of any plan for re-
leasing the officers..."
The commandant looked at the boy thoughtfully. "You
speak the Ottawa tongue?"
"Well enough."
The major nodded. "By all means, go ahead, Paul. If
you can discover any means of escape for Captain Camp-
bell and Lieutenant McDougall, we shall reward you
handsomely. We value our officers highly and ..." He
hesitated . . . "Captain Campbell is my good friend. If
you can inform us of the Indians' numbers and munitions,
this will be useful."
"Thank you, sir." Paul saluted.
"How long will you be away from the fort?"
"I don't know how long it will take, sir. But I'll return
as soon as I have something to tell you."
"Good enough." Major Gladwin sat down at a small
table in the hall and scribbled a note. "This will admit
you to the fort again, Paul, if there's any question. We
haven't closed the gates against Frenchmen yet—but that
may come."
Climbing back up the sloping street from the major's
house, Paul thought about his plan.
The Ottawas had moved their encampment on the first
102


day of the war to the north side of the river where they
had pitched their tepees on the farm of Baptiste Meloche,
two miles from the fort and near a small stream called
Parent's Creek. Baptiste Meloche was a friend of Phi-
lippe's, and Paul knew him well. He grimaced at the
thought. Like Alexis Cuillerier, Baptiste openly supported
Pontiac's war.
Paul left the fort at night when he could move across
the open land and through the forests with greater safety.
His mother had wrung her hands and wept when he said
he was going to join Philippe in the forest. His father had
stormed about his being foolish, too rash to use good
sense, rebellious against his parents, and no better than
his brother. But in the end, when Paul produced the
major's permit to leave the fort and re-enter, and per-
suaded them to listen long enough to understand that he
was going on an assignment for the commandant him-
self, they calmed down and conceded that, while they did
not like his taking such responsibility upon himself, he
must go.
"But take care," his mother said over and over. "Do not
stay away too long. Do not take foolish chances. What if
the Indians decide they hate all white men, and kill you
as they did the Turnbulls?"
Paul shrugged off her fears. But underneath he knew
they were justified. The Indians might turn against the
French at any time. He hoped he might be able to ac-
complish this errand without arousing any suspicions.
103


But that problem he was not going to think about until
he had to.
He made himself a packet of meat and cheese and
bread; he slung a rolled blanket around one shoulder; he
kissed his mother goodbye; then he walked to the gate
with his father. The sentry let him out of the gate, and he
looked back to wave to his father. Henri Girard was stand-
ing in the light of a lantern, and it seemed to the boy
that his father looked old and tired. Suddenly he wanted
to turn back.
He hesitated a moment, then resolutely walked toward
the river bank and along the river to the Meloche farm.
In the daytime Paul knew this footpath as well as the floor
of his own house; in the darkness it was different. He
had to move more slowly to avoid rustling the leafy
branches that overhung the narrow path; he had to feel
his way carefully to keep from tripping over treacherous
roots. But after the first half hour the moon was high,
his eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness, and
he could move more quickly.
He crossed the footbridge at Parent's Creek and passed
the Meloche house. There was candlelight in the windows.
He moved closer to the house and looked in. Inside the
living room four men were talking: Baptiste Meloche,
Philippe, Captain Campbell, and Lieutenant McDougall.
The English officers were in full uniform, as they had
been on Tuesday.
Paul hid in the thick shrubbery at the side of the house,
104



Henri Girard was standing in the light of a lantern.
Suddenly, Paul wanted to turn back
105


waiting for Philippe to leave. It was late, and the moon
was low again, when Philippe came out. He stood at the
door with his host and talked quietly with him for some
minutes. Then he swung into the lane and walked with
quick, silent steps toward the Indian tepees—at least a
hundred of them—that were scattered through the trees
beyond the house.
Paul followed his brother closely, until he entered a
tepee. Paul crept up and stood outside the tepee for several
minutes, wondering if Philippe was alone in there. Then,
as no sound issued from the tepee, he laid his ear to an
opening in one of the seams of the fabric and listened in-
tently. He could hear the breathing of only one person.
He lifted the flap, entered, and let the flap fall behind him.
Standing there in pitch blackness, he listened again to
his brother's breathing, uncertain whether he was awake
or asleep. And then, as quietly as a falling leaf, he heard
Philippe say in the Ottawa tongue, "What do you want?"
Paul dropped to his knees, feeling lightly with his
hands, and whispered, "Philippe, it's Paul."
Philippe sat up with a start, and Paul found his hand in
the darkness and grasped it. "Paul, what do you want
here?"
Suddenly Paul was too tired to hold his eyes open. "To-
night I want only to sleep. Tomorrow we must talk."
Philippe pulled Paul down near him on the ground.
Paul rolled up in his blanket and fell asleep almost before
his brother had turned over.
106


Paul drew a deep breath of the chill air and felt better.
"Did you hear about John Rutherfurd?"
"1 heard. He's all right. His master is very fond of him."
"Where is he?"
"Miles from here. With the Chippewas."
"Where is that village?" Paul asked.
His brother looked at him shrewdly. "You think you
can rescue him?"
"I'd like to get him away, yes. You know yourself the
Indians are flighty as the wind. They could turn upon
him ..."
"You'd better leave things alone," Philippe said. "You
could do more harm than good." Then, as Paul's jaw
hardened and his eyes darkened, his brother said, "The
Chippewas will be joining Pontiac some time soon." He
looked at Paul curiously. "What are you here for?" he
asked again.
"Can I stay with you awhile?"
"As you like." Philippe spoke warningly. "Don't ex-
pect to spy on the Indians and go back to the fort. They
know you're my brother, and I won't have you betray me.
If you want to go back to the fort now, you can go. But by
tomorrow you can't leave."
Paul sat silent for several minutes, thinking.
"I'll stay. I could do nothing for the English or the
French, either, inside the fort. I was cooped up, it was in-
tolerable. Out here in the forest I can breathe again . . ."
"You may be more like me than I had supposed." His
108


brother smiled, half sardonic, half pleased. He sat up and
threw back his blanket, stretching and rubbing his arms
and legs in the cold air. Then he sprang up and put on
Indian dress.
"I'll tell my friends you've run away from the fort," he
said. "But I'll tell you this: if you try to run back again,
you'll be shot. The Indians will let no Frenchman carry
information about Pontiac's plans."
Paul stood up and stretched, too, not meeting his
brother's eyes.
"I'm staying here."
The next days went by pleasantly enough. The Indians
did not question the presence of Philippe's brother, and
Paul was kept busy finding food for Philippe and himself.
The Indians, who never laid in stocks of reserve food,
could rely now only on what they could find in the forests
from day to day, and what they could take from the set-
tlers along the coasts. Between days of firing upon the
fort, warriors and braves called on the habitants to de-
mand food and ammunition. Much of the time they
hunted and fished.
One day, as Paul was grinding dried corn for Philippe,
Otussa passed the tepee with a rabbit snare.
"So you have joined us!" he said, looking pleased.
"I wanted to see Philippe." Paul remembered Billy Turn-
bull, and wished now he had not seen Otussa. He turned
back to his task, hating himself, and the Indian came to
109



As Paul was grinding corn, Otussa came and stood before him
110


war had begun. But even as he wrestled and competed
with Otussa, struggling intently to outdo him, Paul was
aware for the first time of a difference in his Indian friend.
There was none of the lighthearted gaiety he knew with
his French friends or his English comrades. Otussa spoke
often and intensely of the need to win glory. And Paul,
who had very little ambition, who lived from day to day,
carefree and reasonably content, found this burning am-
bition uncomfortable. True, he wanted to do something
heroic for the English garrison under siege. But he did
not dwell on this hope very often. Otussa's ambition
touched everything he did, and he never allowed himself
to betray either anger or great pleasure.
This was new, Paul thought. Last summer when he had
spent much time with the Indian, Otussa was more open,
easier to understand; he had laughed more. Now he was
a year older, he had reached the age when youths trained
for manhood, and he was training himself with rigid
determination. Paul admired his discipline. But more and
more he felt Otussa's hostility toward the white men, and
it made him uneasy with this long-time friend.
When he had been with the Indians a week, a band of
Chippewas arrived and Paul went with the Ottawas to
greet them. The Ottawas whooped and cheered as ten
war canoes filled with Chippewas lined up along the bank
of the Detroit River. Chief Sehakos stepped from the first
canoe and saluted Pontiac.
113


"Welcome, my brother Sehakos," Pontiac greeted him.
"We rejoice that you join our war upon the English. How
many braves do you bring?"
"We bring one hundred and twenty braves to our
brothers," the Chippewa chief replied. "The Master of
Life inspires us to war, as he inspired our brothers, the
Ottawas."
Seizing tomahawks, the braves of both bands danced
in celebration, shouting and singing the war chants. Paul
watched them closely.
Suddenly, for some unexplained reason, his attention
was drawn to a man in the last canoe. The man was
brown, he wore a breech clout, and his head was shaved,
except for a small tuft of hair upon the crown and two
locks, braided with silver ornaments, hanging over his
face. He was painted like the other warriors, but some-
thing in his manner was different. He glanced around as
the others exchanged vows of loyalty, and when all other
eyes were fixed upon Pontiac in dark, gleaming excite-
ment, this man looked beyond the Indians toward Paul.
His blue eyes lighted with recognition. Paul found him-
self tightening so suddenly that for a moment his head
swam. It was John Rutherfurd, dressed and painted like
an Indian.
Pontiac addressed the assembly, smiling proudly at the
numbers of his warriors. The Michigan had sailed from
Fort Detroit that morning, he told them, and was now


would bring reinforcements for the garrison. While she
was anchored there, Pontiac's forces would attack her.
The braves cheered.
Furthermore, Pontiac went on, there were now so many
Indian warriors allied with him that many could be dis-
patched along the waterways to intercept the reinforce-
ments. Cheering again, the braves began to brag of taking
Fort Detroit and the reinforcements, as well as the Michi-
gan. "The Michigan has a crew of only seven men,"
Pontiac told his cheering braves. "We can send out four
hundred, and she is ours!"
Paul listened, deeply uneasy. The danger to Fort Detroit
was great. But even if he could manage to escape his
brother's vigilance, what could he tell Major Gladwin?
Only that Pontiac had gained many reinforcements, and
planned attacks that the garrison would be helpless to
counter. There was no way to warn the oncoming boats,
no way to help the Michigan, moored miles from the fort,
in Indian territory.
The council was over, and the Chippewas moved away
from the river bank to set up their tepees. Rutherfurd's
master led his family to a spot not far from the Meloche
house, where they set about building a bark house. The
Indian squaw and her two children seemed to regard John
as one of the family. He moved freely about, without
115


ropes or manacles, and Paul was interested in the way the
young Englishman had adapted himself to Indian ways.
But he dared not approach Rutherfurd openly.
The next morning Philippe told Paul he was going up
the river with some of Pontiac's braves to look for the
bateaux from Niagara. He kept watching Paul as he
talked. "You will stay here today. Pontiac wants no spies
with him."
Paul looked up. "I'm planning to stay. Don't worry..."
Philippe smiled confidently. "Of course you're plan-
ning to stay. Pontiac's young sons and their dogs can
watch you as well as I can—and now that the English-
man has come to our village you will have company."
In the encampment the women were setting ketdes on
the fires to boil fish and soup, and pounding the dried
corn for the day's meals. Through the trees Paul could see
some of them digging in small cleared areas and planting
the corn for this summer's crop. Back of the bark house
John was setting out corn for his mistress. She was work-
ing at the far end of the row, watching her captive sus-
piciously. Paul watched, hidden in the trees. When the
mistress left the cornfield for a moment, he whistled very
softly. The English boy stood still, then stooped to plant
four more grains, looking over his shoulder toward the
trees. Then he saw Paul, and his face lighted in the old
smile Paul remembered.
Paul came forward a little, and John left the field and
116


joined him. "My brother is living with the Ottawas," Paul
told him. "I left the fort ten days ago. I hoped I could find
you! Are you well, John? How are you treated?"
"They treat me well," John said. "Peewash is very fond
of me. He talks of adopting me! Quite an experience, I
daresay, being adopted into an Indian tribe!"
"But do you like the Indian life?"
The youth shrugged. "It was rough, getting used to it.
I was sick for some days. But now I'm as hard as any
Indian, and I must say I feel very good. I hope . . ." He
stopped and looked cautiously around before he continued
in a whisper, "I hope I can escape some day. But they
watch me all the time. And I know now that an Indian
can track a man through these woods almost faster than
he can run. I used to talk about escaping with some of the
soldiers that were taken with me. But we never found a
way that would be practicable."
"Perhaps you and I can form a plan," Paul whispered.
A footfall sounded somewhere near him. "I'll come
again tomorrow," Paul said quickly. Rutherfurd picked
up some wood and moved on into the forest without an-
other word. Paul moved noiselessly toward his own tepee.
Now he was in no hurry to return to the fort. He had
achieved his own most important objective: he knew John
Rutherfurd was alive and well, and within shouting dis-
tance of the fort.
There was no chance to see John the next day. It rained
117


such torrents that even the Indians stayed inside their te-
pees. Not a shot sounded that day. And in Philippe's
tepee, rivulets of water ran across the grassy floor.
The day after that Paul watched the bark house for
hours, from a hiding place in the forest. Peewash was
constantly at John's side. Paul saw them go off together to
hunt, and, later, go into the Meloche house. He wondered
if John had a chance to talk to the English officers quar-
tered there.
At the close of the third day, just as the sun was sinking,
a wild yell of triumph sounded through the camp from
the river, and Paul and Philippe dashed over to the shore,
to see what had happened. Three Indian canoes filled
with Hurons had beached upon the river's edge. One of
them flew a captive red flag of St. George, and its party
was waiting to disembark.
As Paul came up, a hundred Indian warriors, Ottawas
and Hurons, lined up in a double row with spears, toma-
hawks, and clubs in hand, yelling ferociously. A British
officer, the only captive, stepped from the canoe with the
red flag and faced them coolly. Paul watched, his heart
pounding. Beside him, Philippe's face hardened cynically.
The officer began running between the lines, trying to
shield his head from the blows that rained upon him. He
staggered under the force of the clubs, dragged himself
to his feet again, and stumbled on. Paul felt his breath
coming quick and hard. If the man fell he was lost. And


Chapter 10
v jf^HE news of the fall of Sandusky was important,
Jl Paul knew. But Philippe was watching him more
closely than ever, and he must betray no idea of returning
to the fort. Planning ways to escape, Paul fell asleep. Per-
haps the next day...
But in the morning Philippe shook him awake, im-
patient to be up and leaving with the Indians. "Pontiac is
going to take the Michigan this morning," he told Paul,
his eyes alight with excitement. "You will go with us.
He'll take all his braves down to the Potawatomi camp
and attack from there. This may end the war!"
Paul had no choice. He accompanied his brother in a
canoe that carried three Indian braves, and he saw with
dismay that Captain Campbell was in Pontiac's canoe.
"Pontiac is taking Captain Campbell along so he can
order the sloop's captain to surrender," Philippe told Paul,
smiling at the brilliance of this strategy.
"Captain Campbell won't do it!" Paul cried, looking at
the straight, plump back of the Scottish officer in the canoe
ahead.
Philippe laughed at him. "Of course he will! Pontiac
will be holding a gun behind him. Do you think your
120


captain will find it worthwhile to die for nothing?"
"He'd die rather than take orders from Pontiac," Paul
declared. "Pontiac has behaved like a traitor, holding the
officers and dishonoring the flag of truce!"
Philippe scowled, looking remarkably like an Indian.
"Pontiac has more sense than all the English officers put
together," he cried. "He wants to drive the English off his
land. He wants to get rid of them without losing his own
men. Why should he fight by English rules? He fights
like an Indian. He's no traitor, he's a brilliant military
leader who makes his own rules."
"You sound like an Indian," Paul accused him.
Philippe looked at him levelly. "I feel like an Indian.
I want the land free to hunt, free of men who would cut
down the trees and drive away the game and the wilder-
ness. Why should we let the English fill up our land? We
French hunted it as the Indians do. But the English—
they overrun everything, they take over everything, who
can live with them?"
Paul said no more. Silently the brothers paddled past
the fort where the guards on the stockade stared stolidly
at the canoes passing by, and made no sign.
The Michigan had been standing guard at the mouth
of Lake Erie for five days now, waiting to escort the
bateaux from Fort Niagara that would bring the badly
needed men, food, and munitions to Fort Detroit. As the
Indians approached the ship, the crew of seven men lined
up with Captain Newman along the side of the vessel.
121


canoes gave chase. But shots from the ship's guns struck
the water close enough to splash them, and they gave up
the chase and turned back. Pontiac kept looking at Cap-
tain Campbell, angry but puzzled, as if undecided what
to do to him. In the end the canoes went back upstream
to the encampment.
"Disregard this Indian chief," Captain Campbell ordered


Philippe was silent for many minutes. Paul said noth-
ing, thinking about the captain's courage. At last Philippe
said, "He is a brave man, your captain."
"Very brave."
"This will make the war last longer."
"The English will never give up."
"Then they will all die. After all, Pontiac has a thou-
sand Indians now, and more will join him."
Paul said no more. He was so filled with admiration at
the quiet courage he had witnessed, that he wanted only
to think about it. An Indian was reckoned brave when he
fought to kill and gain glory for himself. He proved his
bravery when he withstood tortures without a grimace.
But—Paul's mind was going off in a direction it had
never taken before—he had never admired the heroism of
the Indians the way he admired Captain Campbell this
morning, and he wondered why that was.
Suddenly it came to him: an Indian must be brave and
strong to win glory for himself and gain leadership. But
Captain Campbell had performed a brave action for the
sake of his fellows, the garrison of Fort Detroit. He would
have sacrificed himself without a second thought. Paul
contemplated this kind of courage all the way back to the
Indian village. Before this summer Philippe had been his
hero. Philippe had killed a bear with his own hands. But
could Philippe be as brave as Captain Campbell? Paul
wondered.
More than ever, he wanted to get back to the fort. But
124


Philippe looked at him suspiciously. But Uncle An-
toine was a loyal supporter of Pontiac's war. And he was
a shrewd old man, not likely to let the prize Pontiac had
promised him slip from his fingers carelessly.
"Why not? We can go together. I, myself, have not
seen our uncle for many days."
It was a bright, warm day, with a soft breeze stirring
the forest trees, and the brothers walked at a leisurely
pace through the forest to the beaten path that led past
the Meloche house and southwest along the river bank
to the Cuillerier house, a mile or so closer to the fort.
Peewash's bark house looked deserted, as Paul watched
it for some sign of John Rutherfurd.
"Peewash took his family away some days ago," Phi-
lippe said carelessly. Paul said nothing as they continued.
When they entered the Cuillerier house in mid-morn-
ing they found a couple of Indian slaves cleaning and
sweeping. "Where is the commandant, Monsieur Cuil-
lerier?" Philippe asked in the Indian tongue.
Paul felt that his throat would close up before he could
call his uncle "Commandant," but he said nothing. He
looked around the house with interest. He had been here
before, of course, but seldom, because of his father's dis-
like for his rich brother-in-law.
The Cuillerier house was much larger than the Gir-
ards'. Indeed it was known in the settlement to be a rich
126


and luxurious dwelling, and many Frenchmen envied
it. The main room was a great hall in which Pontiac fre-
quently held council with as many as two hundred
braves. On one side was a heavily carved chair as big as
a throne. This was the place where Uncle Antoine had
sat with his hat on, the day Captain Campbell had gone
to the Indian council to talk with Pontiac.
The Indian slave girl looked at them stolidly. "He's
in the garden."
The brothers went through the hall leading from the
front door to the back, and looked into the garden. Cuil-
lerier was sitting in the sun, his bald head shining, talk-
ing with Alexis. Near them Angelique sat working at
fine embroidery.
"We come to pay a call on our uncle," Philippe said,
with a courteous bow. Paul came forward, bowed, but not
so low as Philippe, and suffered his uncle to kiss him
on both cheeks. Alexis welcomed his cousins with a sharp
glance at Philippe, a questioning scowl at Paul.
"And Angelique, have you nothing to say to your cous-
ins after all these weeks?" Uncle Antoine cried.
She set down her needlework and came forward, warn-
ing Paul with an uneasy glance to say nothing of the
secret between them. Uncle Antoine sat down again on
the grass, puffing on an Indian pipe and looking well
content with the world. Philippe sat down to talk to
Alexis, and Paul stared at his cousin's needlework


tie window that looked toward the clearing back of the
garden. Philippe was deep in conversation with Alexis.
"I left the fort a little over two weeks ago," Paul said to
his cousin in a whisper. "I wanted to find out about John,
and to get any information that would help Major Glad-
win. Philippe has kept such close guard over me that
I cannot return."
Angelique said swiftly, "If you slip away through the
front door there, they won't see you go. Do you think you
could escape with so much of a start?"
"Easily!" He was in the hallway in one bound, and
then he stopped. "But you—will you not suffer for this?"
Paul took to his heels


"Not I!" She threw up her head proudly. "No one has
told me to hold you captive, and if Philippe is angry—
well, I can talk faster than he can!"
Paul took to his heels. As he reached the edge of the
forest he heard a halloo behind him, and he ran faster.
Then he was out in the open meadow before the stock-
ade, and breathing hard. He felt as if he could hardly
keep going. One of the sentries was yelling at the man
at the gate: "Open up! An Indian fugitive is coming!"
Paul glanced over his shoulder. Someone was giving
chase, although he could not be sure it was Philippe. He
heard a musket shot from the walls, and the thud of a
bullet some inches behind him. And then the gate swung
open, he stumbled through, and it closed behind him.
Safe at last, he sank upon the hard ground.

130


Chapter 11
""W^T T'ell, look who's here," he heard the sentry say-
V v ing. "We thought you was gone for good!"
Paul looked up at him, but the sun was in his eyes and
he closed them and rolled over. Sitting up, he felt a little
dizzy, but he said, "I must see Major Gladwin right
away. I have some news for him."
"Rifht away!" The sentry hallooed to someone crossing
the paicde ground. "Here," he said, "this kid says he's
got news for the major. Take him over there, will you?
And it better be good. We need good news for a change."
"You escaped from the Indians?" the soldier asked
curiously. Paul nodded. He was unsteady and he needed
to think about keeping his balance. He stopped at the
well at the intersection. "I need a drink of water."
The water revived him remarkably. He splashed some
over his head, pushed his hair out of his eyes, stood
straight, and looked at the soldier accompanying him.
He was a young recruit of Paul's own age, and he was
regarding Paul with great interest.
"You got friends among the Indians?" he asked.
Paul shrugged. "We've been friends for years," he
said, with a strangely mixed feeling of defending the
131


Indians and disliking the English—even this blond, in-
experienced boy who was asking questions. Then he
remembered Captain Campbell, and things slipped into
place again.
"Here you are," the blond boy said, leaving Paul at the
door of the major's house.
Paul knocked, and the major's aide appeared. He
looked surprised, and then he said, more politely than
he had ever spoken to Paul, "The major will see you
right away."
"So you bring us some news," Major Gladwin said.
Paul felt good. The major and all of his men were so
obviously in need of some cheering word, and he could
give it to them.
"An Indian brought news to the camp yesterday," he
said. "The reinforcements sailed from Niagara on May
thirteenth. Ninety-six men and a hundred and thirty-six
barrels of provisions."
The major looked at him keenly, relief in his eyes.
"They must come soon, then," he said. "Certainly the
Michigan will escort the boats through Indian attacks."
He got up and paced back and forth across the room.
"Do you know anything of the Michigan}"
Paul told him of Pontiac's attempt to take the ship,
of Captain Campbell's action, and of the ship's escape.
"And Captain Campbell? Is he still safe?"
"I guess Pontiac had to admire his courage. We went
back to the village, and the captain is still safe."
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"Then the Michigan must meet the reinforcements..."
"Yes, sir." The very urgency in the major's tone
wakened a fear in the boy that the ship might not find
the detachment.
"Has Pontiac received reinforcements?"
"Chief Sehakos brought a hundred and twenty braves.
Wasson said he was bringing two hundred and fifty
Chippewas. Ninivois had a hundred and fifty Potawa-
tomies, Take brought fifty Hurons." He counted in his
head, staring at the ceiling. "That makes about eight
hundred braves out there, with Pontiac's own men."
The major nodded as if he, too, had been figuring to
himself. Paul told him about Fort Sandusky.
"I couldn't get away before," he said apologetically.
"My brother was trying to hold me in camp. At San-
dusky, the Indians asked for council, and Ensign Pauli
let seven of them in. One of them raised his head as a
signal, and two braves grabbed Pauli and tied him up.
When they carried him out, every one of the garrison—
fifteen men—was killed. He was the only survivor."
He said no more. The major looked sober and
thoughtful. Sandusky had fallen to a plot like the one
Pontiac had planned for Detroit. The commandant
slumped a little, as if he were very tired.
"By the way, we're still worried about the fire arrows,"
the commandant remarked. "Tell the people to keep the
water tubs ready."
"I'll do that." Paul nodded. "But Pontiac won't bum
133


the fort and its stocks of goods unless he has to— He'd
rather get the traders' goods than lose them."
"You've done well, Paul," the major said. "Thank you.
You'd better go home, now. I think your family will
want to see you."
Paul saluted and went out, feeling pleased with him-
self. He sauntered through the narrow streets, noticing
changes since he had left a couple of weeks ago. There
was none of the gaiety he was used to. Some Frenchmen
who were gathered in front of his Uncle Pierre La Butte's
store talked in low tones with gloomy expressions. A few
small children played with a ball, but they seemed listless
and fretful.
When he came into his own home, Felice was crying,
and his mother was sweeping as if she were trying to vent
her anger with her broom. When she saw Paul, she flung
the broom from her and embraced her son.
"How we've missed you, Paul! And did you see Phi-
lippe? Why didn't he come with you?"
"He can't leave the Indians. He'll stay there for awhile
yet. But he's well, he sends his love," he invented fluently,
knowing what would please his mother. "What is there
to eat? There is almost no food in the Indian village, and
I'm starving."
His mother threw up her hands angrily. "Here, too,
we're hungry! That English major has sent his com-
mission to take all the surplus food from us! We, who
were thrifty and foresighted, we must give our food to
134


feed the soldiers! Ah, Paul, you cannot know how dreary
this war has become. If it could only be over!"
"We all wish it could be over," he said, and he went into
the kitchen to see what he could find. A leg of roasted
chicken was in the food safe, and a small crust of bread.
Gnawing on the chicken, he went back to his mother.
"The reinforcements are on the way from Niagara,"
he said, to cheer her up. "They should be here soon.
And then the war should end almost any day."
"So they say," his mother said with a bitter expression,
"but day after day goes by, and still we are closed up in
here with less and less food. They don't even ring the
church bells now, and the day is empty without them."
Paul went out to the warehouse to look for his father,
and found him checking his food stocks. They were very
low.
"The major's commission is going to come around and
take some more in a week or so," Henri Girard prophe-
sied gloomily. "We have barely enough for ourselves, and
they take and take . . . Waste it, that's all they do. Give
it to the people that never had enough sense to save up
for their own needs. . ." He shook his head like a man
caught in a trap. "Can't eat it up, we'll need it later.
Can't save it, they'll take it. And Cuillerier out there—
friend of the Indians! He just sits on money and tons
of food, and has no worries."
"The Indians are taking food from everyone outside,"
Paul told him. "They take more than the English do."
135


The young officer stiffened and saluted. The soldiers,
listening, straightened their shoulders and lifted their
chins again. The sentinels on the ramparts stared at the
threatening forests with guns cocked. And Paul again
felt a thrill of admiration for the English courage.
On the twenty-first of June a loyal habitant came
across the river to tell the commandant that settlers down
the river had seen the Michigan. This was the first word
of the ship since she had failed to meet the Cuyler de-
tachment almost a month before, and relief flew around
the fort like sunlight. Habitants who had quarreled yes-
terday spoke in friendly tones today. The Michigan would
bring soldiers and food, they told each other, and the war
would be over. They never spoke of the fate of the Cuyler
detachment, but the memory hung like a dark cloud
over their effort to be cheerful.
For the next two days the garrison watched for the
Michigan. As the days went by with no word from her
their spirits fell and rose and fell again. When they felt
optimistic they talked about the reinforcements that
would end the war the next day. When they were pessi-
mistic, they expected to die in this fort, if not by Indian
hands, then through starvation.
Even to Paul, who had lived in and loved the forest
all his life, the wilderness was threatening. Now when
he stood on the ramparts and watched the forest wall
beyond the meadow, he was looking for attacking In-
dians. When he watched for the Michigan to appear on
-
143


the river, curving beautifully through walls of trees, he
remembered that death waited behind those trees.
After some days Pierre La Butte went outside to see
what he could discover. He returned with ominous news:
the Michigan was becalmed near Turkey Island, seven
miles downstream from the fort, at the narrowest point
of the river. The Indians were fortifying the island with
trees and branches, and planned to attack the ship in
force.
"Hundreds of them will attack," the interpreter re-
ported, impassively.
The habitants gave up hope and talked in gloomy
voices of the loss of the Michigan. A man of sense and
reason would know it was impossible to hold the fort,
they told each other. Without the wind, the ship was
helpless; she must sit becalmed and the Indians would
take her easily. Without her cargo they would all die of
starvation in this fort. It was only sensible for the English
to leave the fort to the French and the Indians, and set
sail for Niagara.
But the wind rose a couple of days later, and at last,
a week after she had been sighted at Turkey Island,
the Michigan came to anchor alongside the Huron, on the
thirtieth of June. The gates were flung open, and the
welcoming crowd surged out to greet the long awaited
men.
Captain Newman was smiling broadly as he came
from the ship in the dinghy to meet Major Gladwin.
144


He climbed out upon the sand and saluted the major.
Other dinghys followed, filled with soldiers.
"I thought you'd never get back," the major said,
smiling as he glanced at the small boats landing. It
struck Paul that the major smiled very little these days.
"Did you meet any hostile Indians?"
The ship's captain laughed. "A week ago, back there
at Turkey Island, they thought they could take us. I
kept the men below decks, and the blasted savages
thought we had only a dozen men aboard. They came
out in canoes to board us, maybe thirty or forty canoes,
and we let them close in and then we opened up: can-
non, muskets, the whole ship was alight! They ran for
their lives!" He laughed again. "We counted fourteen
killed and as many wounded. After that they let us
alone."
"How many men do you bring us, Captain Newman?"
"Lieutenant Cuyler and fifty-five men."
"Cuyler!"
The young lieutenant looked worn and hard, as he
saluted Major Gladwin. "As you know, sir, I had to
return to Niagara after that Indian attack on my detach-
ment in May. Up to that time we had no idea the Indians
were rising. When the Michigan brought us the news of
your situation I was glad to return with the help you
asked for."
"This is a very bad business, Lieutenant," Major Glad-
win said soberly. "Very bad. But this may be the end for
145


Pontiac. Now that we have reinforcements, his game is
up, but I don't know how soon he will know it."
He turned with the young officer to enter the fort,
and the soldiers followed in a double line, heads up,
chins drawn in, buttons polished, uniforms and red
coats immaculate. These were men who had seen their
comrades slaughtered and scalped only a month ago.
They looked businesslike, determined, and, most of all,
enduring.
Watching them, Paul was beginning to achieve a new
understanding. Courage was not the dramatic, public
heroism he had once dreamed about. Rather, he knew
now, seeing the survivors of the Point Pelee massacre
return to Detroit to fight again, that courage meant en-
durance, and heroism meant fortitude and mostly pa-
tience. It was an attitude that he had seen the men in
the garrison developing and strengthening gradually
as the days went by. They complained, they fretted
about mosquitoes and hot weather, and sometimes they
talked about the stupidity of their officers, and of the
French. But never did they talk of quitting the fort or
the war.
He was thinking about this new idea as he worked in
his father's warehouse the next day. There was little
enough to do there, but he wanted to be alone.
He opened boxes of hose and looked at them as if he
had never seen them before, shook out blankets and
folded them again. He handled the half dozen muskets
146


Thoughtfully he replaced the blankets and muskets
on the shelves and looked about the great warehouse.
Then he went into the house and climbed up to the loft
to find the lesson books he had thrown in a corner weeks
ago.
An hour later he heard the door open and footsteps as
quiet as those of an Indian crossed the floor. Paul put
down his book and listened at the top of the stair. Phi-
lippe had come home.
His mother was embracing him, and Paul came warily
down the steps, wondering how Philippe would act to-
ward him since his escape a month ago. But the Indians
had won many victories since that day, and Philippe was
smiling.
"I've missed you since you ran away," he told Paul,
showing the affection he had always felt for his younger
brother. And Paul was so relieved that nothing else mat-
tered—not hunger, war, nor siege.
"But why are you home?" he asked. "Are you leaving
the Ottawas?"
Philippe shook his head. His mother came in with a
bowl of soup and some of her famous bread and set it
before him. While he ate she sat opposite him, watching
him lovingly.
"I'd like to see my family move out of the fort," Phi-
lippe said as he dipped a crust into the soup. His mother's
face lighted.
148


"Oh, how I'd love to live outside! We've been inside the
walls so long!"
"But why should we move out?" Paul demanded. "The
Indians have been bothering the habitants on the coasts.
We're better off inside."
Philippe shook his head and looked at him warningly.
"The Indians are going to take the fort any time now."
He sopped up the last drops of soup with a bit of bread.
"When they do, they'll kill everyone in the fort, even the
French. I wanted to warn you, Mother. I want my family
to be safe."
Paul heard him uneasily. Philippe knew something,
he was plotting something, and a cold hand closed about
Paul's heart.
"What makes you think the Indians will break into
the fort, if they have not tried it up to now? You know
the Indians will never risk so many lives..."
Philippe did not meet his eyes. "Pontiac is growing
weary of this war," he said. "He's going to finish it as
quickly as possible, even if he must lose a man or so."
Suzette clasped her hands together and leaned to-
ward him. "Do you know where John Rutherfurd is
now?"
Philippe smiled at his pretty sister. "He's in the Ottawa
camp, well and contented."
"Did Peewash return?" Paul cried.
"A couple of weeks ago."
"But will you help him escape?" she begged.
149


Philippe's face seemed to darken, and his eyes avoided
hers. "When the time is right I'll help him. But it would
be fatal at this time. At least he's safe while he stays
with Peewash."
He got up and strode about the little house restlessly,
as if already he felt enclosed.
"Well!" Philippe turned to his mother and sister
brightly, "I've got business to do. I must call on Cesire
as soon as I can."
The blacksmith had his shop two blocks away, and it
was reasonable enough that Philippe wanted some work
done on his gun while he could find a gunsmith.
"I'll go with you," Paul said.
Philippe halted. "On the other hand, this may be the
wrong time to see Cesire. I need only to have the sight
on the gun straightened and reforged." The explanation
sounded forced. "I'm going to call on a—a friend." He
winked at Paul as if to say, "I'm going to see a girl,
don't tag along."
Paul shrugged. "Very well. How long will you stay
with us?"
Philippe flung out expressive hands. "As long as need
be. If my family won't leave the fort, I must stay with
them at least for some time. So long now. I'll be back
soon enough."
He flung out of the door as if it were too small for
him, and strode up the narrow planked street, whistling
a voyageur tune. James Sterling hailed him from his
150


shop door, and Philippe stopped to tell him about John
Rutherfurd.
Paul watched him, deeply uneasy. He was sure that
Philippe had not returned to the fort only to look after
his family.

151


had not been able to fire a single shot in his first battle.
The other men began to return from the chase, and
joined Paul in tearing down the breastwork.
In the field beyond, Jack was stooping over a dead
Indian. His knife flashed in the dim light. He leaped to
his feet and charged again toward the Indians, who had
stopped a hundred yards away, waving a scalp with their
own scalp yell. They watched him with ugly scowls. He
waved the scalp again, jeeringly, and then turned and
ran back to his own troops.
"That was a foolish thing to do," Lieutenant Hay told
him sharply. "You've made them more angry than neces-
sary, and they'll get their revenge."
Jack saluted with a wide smile. "I seen them do that
to my friends, Lieutenant. I heerd them yell like that
when they scalped the English. I just wanted to show
them what it's like."
The lieutenant nodded, unsmiling, and told him to
help fill in the trench. An hour later, they marched back
to the fort. Jack showed Paul the scalp hung from his
belt. "I'd ruther have this than a medal," he said proudly.
In mid-morning Major Gladwin called Lieutenant
Hay's men to the parade ground to thank them for this
successful action, and to reward them with leave for the
rest of the day.
"I've been asked to announce at this time that the
French within the fort want to form their own com-
pany," he went on. "All those who wish to belong to
157


with desperate effort. When he came within gunshot dis-
tance of the fort, the Indians fell behind and watched
until he was admitted through the gate. Inside the fort
he dropped to the ground, where he sat with his head
down between his arms, breathing hard for some minutes.
He was dressed in an Indian breech clout, his hair cut
like a warrior's, and his face was covered with black and
white war paint. Someone had gone to fetch Major Glad-
win, and at his approach the man got to his feet and
saluted.
"Ensign Pauli, sir. Commandant and sole survivor of
Fort Sandusky."
A gasp went through the crowd, and they pressed
closer.
"Ensign Pauli!" Major Gladwin wrung his hand with
real feeling. "How did you escape?"
"Sir, I bring you sad news," the ensign said soberly.
"This morning one of your men scalped an Indian."
Heads nodded.
"Unfortunately, that Indian was the nephew of Was-
son, the chief of the Saginaw Chippewas." The crowd
drew a quick breath of apprehension. "Wasson de-
manded Captain Campbell from the Ottawas in revenge,
and Pontiac let him go." The silence was oppressive.
Ensign Pauli gasped a little, still breathing hard. "Was-
son took Captain Campbell to his camp and killed him
with one blow of his tomahawk."
Another gasp of horror fled around the crowd. Some
160


of the soldiers tightened their fists and stared angrily at
one another. Jack looked at his scalp as if it had scorched
him. He muttered, "It'll take ten more like this one to
get even with those devils."
Major Gladwin stiffened and paled. Captain Campbell
had been his good friend, as well as his first officer. Then
he took Pauli's arm soberly. "Come, my friend, and rest.
You, too, have been under a long strain."
They walked together toward the commandant's
house, and the silence broke into a thousand bits of hor-
ror, exclamation, and vows of revenge.
"But he was their friend!" a Frenchwoman cried. "He
spoke their language. The Indians loved Mr. Camp-
bell ..."
"That's why we must win this war," Captain Sterling
said slowly and emphatically. "No one now can count
on the friendship of an Indian. We must stand together
and stand firm ..."
His voice dropped, and he turned away looking
troubled. Paul remembered, piercingly, that Sterling's
young friend, John Rutherfurd, was still in the hands of
the Ottawas. None could count on his leaving them
alive, either.
161


Chapter 14
In the week after the news of Captain Campbell's
death, the habitants in the fort seemed subdued
though stubborn. Most of them were more united in
their support of the English; the few who were against
the English were quiet. Where they had talked and
argued, earlier, about ending the war, now they seemed
to be steeling themselves to resist Pontiac, forever, if
necessary.
The siege had gone on for ten weeks, and the supplies
that the Michigan had brought were running low. There
was a rumor that more reinforcements were on the way.
But there were many rumors: that the Indians were build-
ing fireboats to fire the Michigan and the Huron; that
the Potawatomies had visited Major Gladwin to talk
about an exchange of prisoners; that Pontiac's allies
were tired of the war, and were deserting him; that he
was gaining more allies daily. There was some truth in
some of the rumors, but none could say how much.
Henri Girard spent most of the days in his warehouse,
counting the dwindling stocks, and bemoaning what the
English requisitioned. They would not use his provisions
162


as cautiously as he himself would, he complained. None-
theless, he responded to every requisition.
Philippe worked with his father, but his temper was
becoming edgy, and Paul could see that he was irritable
about staying in the fort. He wondered why Philippe
stayed. Paul was more and more convinced that his
brother had come home to aid Pontiac in some way from
within the walls.
He could not mention this suspicion to his father, or
to anyone: he had no proof. When he tried to think about
the reason for his suspicion, he could tell himself only
that Philippe had not joined the new company of militia,
and that his brother was not the man he had admired
for so long. Something was different between them,
though Paul could not say why his feeling had changed,
and he was saddened.
One day in late July, when Paul was working alone
in the shop, Louis came in asking for Philippe.
"He went down to the arsenal to see the blacksmith . ..
what do you want him for?"
"He's got the key to the gate; he borrowed it from me
three days ago."
"Your key to the gate!" Paul's suspicions leaped up.
"Why?"
Louis threw out his hands. "How would I know why?
He said there was a girl on the south coast... it sounded
163


stopped a minute to steady it. "Because I hate to tell him
my brother is a traitor. Perhaps—he doesn't have to
know."
Philippe smiled, and in that smile he changed again
into the warm, kindly brother Paul had always admired.
"Of course he doesn't have to know," he said per-
suasively. "Give me the keys and forget it. Nothing will
happen to my family."
Paul shook his head. "I won't have to tell the com-
mandant if you leave the fort now. Today. And never
come back. But if you don't leave today, Major Gladwin
will know the whole story. And so will Father."
Philippe's eyes were black and icy and he stared at Paul
murderously. Paul stared back, as angry as Philippe, and
somehow no longer afraid of him. After a moment the
older brother dropped his eyes and shrugged.
"Well enough," he said, as if the whole argument were
of no importance, "we're late for dinner. Let us have no
questions from our father."
"Of course," Paul agreed.
Philippe stalked into the dining room, sullen and
silent. His mother said, "What is wrong, my son? Is
something upsetting you?"
"He's angry because he had to take a barrel of powder
down to the armory," his father said impatiently. "He
behaves like a child."
Philippe reached for a chunk of bread. "I'm only angry
with this stupid attitude of the French, that we must
169


fight for the English at a time like this!" he cried ex-
plosively. "The Indians are our friends. So we must fight
against them, beside the English who have always been
our enemies. This is senseless. I will stay no longer, I tell
you. I go to my friends, the Indians, tonight."
His father sprang to his feet and struck the table so
the dishes clattered. "In this war we have no friends! I
have told you before and I tell you again, it is madness to
fight for the Indians."
"But you joined the militia under the Englishman
Sterling," Philippe accused him. His face was contorted
with anger. "This is our country, these lakes and woods.
We were here a hundred years before the English. We've
lived with the Indians like brothers, and now we should
stand by, while the English drive out our friends and us,
too? This is madness!"
"It is useless to resist," his father said coldly. "The
French king has signed a treaty of peace with the English
king, that they will fight no longer. This treaty binds us,
too.
"No king speaks for me! I go back to my friends and
the forest!"
He was gone, the door slamming behind him. Paul
sprang to his feet. "I must speak to my brother before
he goes!"
The streets were empty for these two hours while
everyone—habitants and garrison alike—ate their mid-
day dinner. Philippe strode through the narrow street,
170


head up, chin thrust out. Paul, following a short distance
behind, was sad.
He had always admired Philippe's courage, his gaiety,
his wild, carefree life in the wilderness. He had envied
the strength and skill Philippe had acquired from his In-
dian friends. And in the Indian camp Philippe was a
different person. Paul felt like crying: he was losing an
important part of himself, and already he felt an ache of
emptiness.
As they passed the parade ground Philippe stopped to
speak to someone. Paul drew closer and saw that it was
Alexis. He dodged behind the corner of the nearest build-
ing and waited. Philippe clapped Alexis on the shoulder
and went on to the gate, and Paul ran to catch up with
him.
"Philippe!" he cried, and his voice broke, "let us part
friends."
Philippe halted and looked back at the little brother
who had always admired him. He smiled a little sadly,
and waited while Paul came up to him.
"When the war is over, perhaps you can come home
again," Paul said. He felt a hard knot closing his throat.
It seemed, with Philippe gone, that no matter what hap-
pened, he himself would have lost the war.
"I don't know whether I'll ever come back," Philippe
muttered.
He approached the sentry, spoke a few words, and the
gate swung open. Paul watched, blinking to clear his
171


working on the waterfront. He said it made things seem
kind of homey. Anchored in the river near the gate, the
Michigan and the Huron stood with cannon trained up-
stream, downstream, and on the farther shore. Paul
stared at the meadows across the river. The grass there
was knee-high, feathery and undisturbed, and he thought
wistfully of the lacrosse games that had trampled the
grass a few weeks ago.
A canoe drew up at the landing place, and a French-
man in a woodsman's cap and deerskin trousers climbed
out. He was Monsieur Boileau, who lived in the forest
near Parent's Creek, where he had cleared a little farm
for himself. Sometimes he sent Henri Girard a few furs
he had trapped during the winter. The women looked
up with quick interest as he approached, and stopped
talking. The Frenchman doffed his cap gallantly and
called them flowers blooming on the waterfront. They
giggled appreciatively, and he climbed on up the bank
to the gate.
"Paul, my friend!"
The sentinel barred the gate with his musket.
"Monsieur Boileau is a friend of mine," Paul said.
The old woodsman pushed the musket aside as if it
were the bar on a gate. "Show me to your friend, Mon-
sieur Sterling."
The sentry scowled, and then shrugged and let him
pass, as Paul nodded to him. Boileau took Paul by the
arm. "I have a letter for Monsieur Sterling."
174


Paul walked up the sloping street toward Sterling's
shop, glad to see an old friend and wondering cynically
if this old friend was with the Indians now, like so many
of the French outside the fort.
The Frenchman doffed his cap gallantly

175


"How are things with you?" he asked.
Boileau winked at him with great humor. "We're do-
ing all right outside," he said, twisting his face into a
comic expression. "The Indians, they want us to fight
for them, they treat us like old friends. The English—
Pah! They want food, they send to buy from us, we
make money from them."
"Are you selling provisions to the fort?"
Boileau winked again. "But of course!" He gestured
with both hands to show how generous he was. "Not all
at once, you understand. You'll be glad one day that I
held some back. When you need it more than you do
now, you'll be glad there is still some flour with old
Boileau, no?"
"1 guess so. You said you had a letter for Monsieur
Sterling?"
The jovial old habitant pulled out a scrap of paper
from his greasy pocket and turned it over.
"See this?" He held it out, and Paul looked at it in-
differently. It was crumpled and soiled, but folded to-
gether and properly sealed. "This is from an English-
man who is now a captive of the Ottawas."
Paul stopped. "What's his name? Is it Rutherfurd?"
Boileau nodded, laughing heartily. "These English
names, who can pronounce them? Rutterfurd, that is
right. Sterling is his friend, he says. Rutterfurd will give
money to help himself escape, and Sterling will give
more. So here is the letter to tell Sterling to pay me."
176


Paul stared at the letter as if he could read inside the
folded, dirty scrap of paper. "Can you help him get away
soonr
"Oh, yes. Peewash is very fond of him; he treats him
like a son. But lately the Indians have killed many Eng-
lish prisoners, and Rutterfurd thinks next time it might
be him."
"You think you can help him escape?"
"But certainly! for money one can do almost anything."
The door of Sterling's shop stood open, and Paul could
see him sitting at his desk looking at his accounts.
"No profit in this summer's trading!" he said, with a
wry grimace, to his visitors. He pushed the account book
to one side and came to the door. "What can I do for
you?"
"Messenger with a letter for you, Captain Sterling. This
is Monsieur Boileau from Parent's Creek."
Boileau handed over the letter, pulled off his greasy
cap, and stood waiting while Sterling read the letter.
Paul stepped outside the shop and lingered around until
Boileau came out.
"I thought I'd better show you the way back to the
river," he said. The Frenchman looked pleased.
"Good! In this fort I am not at home." He looked over
his shoulder suspiciously at the Englishman, again seated
at his desk. "Captain Sterling says he will pay me when
Rutterfurd enters the fort. How can I tell he will give me
the money?"
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the firelight fell on the white hair of an aged grand-
mother and the laughing faces of Felice and the twins, as
they capered and danced with excitement.
The captain of the new contingent met Major Glad-
win, and Paul could hear them clearly.
"You are to be congratulated, Captain Dalyell," Major
Gladwin told him. "These waterways are infested with
hostile Indians now. It's a miracle you weren't attacked
and overwhelmed."
Captain James Dalyell lifted his handsome blond head
as if he felt invincible. "Luck sailed with us all the way,
Major Gladwin. This fog hung over the river all the way
from Lake Erie. We did have fourteen men wounded as
we passed the Huron camp back there. But otherwise no
interference at all. I'm anxious to have at the scoundrels."
He sounded like John Rutherfurd, Paul thought: the
same confidence, the same excitement about hunting out
danger and facing it down, the same assurance that life
would treat him well. He wondered when John was
going to make his escape, and then put the thought aside,
as the new captain and the commandant began to walk
toward the commandant's house.
"I suggest a surprise attack, as soon as the men have
rested," Captain Dalyell was saying. "All the way up
the river I was afraid the Indians might be scared off
when they saw these reinforcements for the fort.. ." He
laughed. "I'm still afraid Pontiac will give up the siege
and slink off into the forest before I can meet him in
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battle and beat him properly. The thing is to surprise
him."
The major said drily, "It would be impossible to sur-
prise these Indians, my dear captain. They're not fools,
you know."
Captain Dalyell looked skeptical. "But we must seize
the offensive with these savages before they expect us to
strike."
They moved out of earshot, and Paul went back to the
ramparts thinking soberly about the young captain.

181


Chapter 16
On the evening of July 30 all the troops assembled
on the parade ground for instruction. The entire
population of the fort came out to watch them, crowd-
ing the streets and bickering with the sergeants at arms,
who kept pushing the civilians off the parade ground to
get them out of the way of the troops.
The sun glared low and hot over the west stockade.
Heat rose from the dusty ground, but in the excitement
no one noticed the discomfort. Dalyell's troops were go-
ing to make a surprise attack on Pontiac's Indian forces
the next night, and everyone knew about it.
On the parade ground the new redcoats were forming
their companies. Spruce and energetic, they stepped
smartly around, pleased to show these tired and dowdy
garrison men how soldiers should perform. Weapons
were distributed. Sabers and ammunition were passed out
to the new troops. And one of their officers called out
orders for the coming attack.
Paul stood stiffly in line with the French militia, turn-
ing his eyes sideways from time to time to watch the
new officers and men. Somewhere in the crowd he saw
a Frenchman laughing. He focused his attention more
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"I'll send directions to stop him at the gates," said
Captain Sterling.
"Let me tell the sentries at the water gate," Paul begged.
The captain nodded. "Tell them to let no Frenchman
go through."
Paul turned and ran. "Captain Sterling's orders!" he
shouted, as he came within range of the sentry at the
water gate. "Let no Frenchman go through the gates till
further notice."
The sentries saluted. Paul came up to the closing gates,
and asked, breathless, "Has any Frenchman left the fort
by this gate tonight?"
"None here," the sentry said.
He returned to the parade ground, walking around the
wall from gate to gate. The order had reached all sentries,
but they were uncertain as to whether any Frenchman
had left the fort before the order came. Slowly Paul went
back to report to Captain Sterling. If Alexis had left the
fort with his information about Captain Dalyell's plans,
it would be disastrous.
Paul stood his watch that night. The warm wind
was blowing from the west; the pale moon was bright
and full in the sky, as he watched Captain Dalyell lead
his troops to battle at two-thirty in the morning.
Captain Sterling had sent Paul's message to Major
Gladwin and told Paul what the mayor had replied.
"Captain Dalyell thinks there is no problem," he said,
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ness of the forest. A crash of musket fire sounded. He
jumped and stood rigid. The sound was repeated and
became continuous. Above the gunfire he heard screams.
Then he heard the Indian war whoops and scalp yells.
The men beside Paul shook their heads somberly.
"Those blasted Injuns knew they was coming," one of
them muttered. "They got Captain Dalyell trapped."
The sentry in charge said, "To your posts, men. No
telling when they might try an assault on the fort from
the other side."
The men went back to the other walls, and Paul stood
alone, staring at the moonlit field below and thinking—
about Philippe, about Alexis, about John Rutherfurd. He
dropped his head on his arms and shuddered. The firing
went on and on, and so did the scalp yells. The worst
of all was the Indian victory yell that sounded every once
in awhile.
Amid the noise and the cries and the yelling, the
night dragged endlessly. In the moonlight, Paul saw
one of the gunboats moving downriver toward the fort.
It approached the gate and the sentry gave the customary
challenge.
"Lieutenant Abbot with wounded from the battle."
A dozen soldiers ran down to the water line to carry
the wounded ashore. The lieutenant walked as if ex-
hausted. To one of the garrison he said, "They need am-
munition out there. Can you load the boat as soon as the
men are taken off?"
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during the battle, from the blood of men that fell in—"
Paul sighed. "I'm going home for awhile," he mut-
tered. He felt as tired as if he had fought in that battle
himself, as guilty as if he himself had betrayed the fool-
hardy young captain.
Stoically the garrison settled down after DalyelFs de-
feat to continue holding on. The French militia under
Captain Sterling drilled on the parade ground daily, and
shared the night watch with the garrison. Everyone
knew a French spy had been responsible for the defeat
at Bloody Run, and the French were more loyal now
than at any time since the beginning of the war, trying
to make up for that disaster.
A week had gone by since old Boileau had brought
his letter to James Sterling, and Paul wondered if John
had tried to escape and been caught. And then he tried
not to think about him at all. But he found himself wak-
ing up from sleep in a cold sweat, dreaming of seeing
Rutherfurd lying on the floor of an Indian tepee, his
skull crushed with a tomahawk, his scalp dangling in the
hand of a grinning savage.
On Friday after the defeat at Bloody Run, Paul
dreamed again of John slaughtered, and he woke with
a sense of deep melancholy. He got out of bed slowly
and wearily and ate his breakfast without appetite, which
distressed his mother.
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"My boy, you must not be well," she said, filling his
plate with corn cakes for the third time.
He pushed the plate back, irritated with her worry.
But he said nothing. This was a free day for him, and
he should be gay. What was there to be gay about? he
demanded angrily of himself. He went into the street and
looked out over the stockade at the world outside. It
looked so green and spacious, so free, after these weeks of
being cooped up. The schooner Huron lay at anchor
across from the gate and, as Paul watched, he saw they
were preparing to bring a man from the ship to the fort.
He ran down to the gate to see who this might be.
He was a dirty, greasy, painted old Indian, with swol-
len legs. A prisoner, possibly, who could be exchanged?
The canoe crossed the stretch of water, and the Indian
climbed painfully out upon the sandy beach. Paul stiff-
ened in wild excitement. It was John Rutherfurd!
John walked slowly across the sandy strip to the gate.
His legs were twice as big as normal, and had been
torn and scratched by thorns and briars. His face was
covered with red, black, and green paint. When Paul
looked again, he wondered how he knew it was Ruther-
furd. But the youth grinned at him and cried, "Paul!
Am I glad to see you!"
"So you did get away!" Paul's throat choked up and
he had to swallow and cough before he could talk
again. The streets were filling with people who had
189


He looked sad. "I'll never forget poor Davers. So happy
with his chance to explore the lakes, so sure he was a
friend of the Indians, because he spoke some of their
languages. They didn't even give him a chance to speak
He turned to Paul, and his eyes blazed with the same
excitement that had burned there before the ill-fated trip.
"When I came out here I wanted to see the wilderness,
you know. These forests are so exciting, so untouched,
so primitive, so new and so endless! There's a job to be
done here, and I want to stay. I'd like to fight for Fort
Detroit, or at any other spot where I'm needed."
A week later he signed on with the crew of the
Michigan to get supplies from Niagara for the garrison.
"But others can do that," Paul protested. "Why go into
Indian country again? There's not a fort between here
and Niagara that hasn't fallen to the Indians! You
don't want to fight them again?"
Rutherfurd laughed, a wide, joyous laugh that showed
all his white teeth. "One fort still stands." He held up
one finger. "Fort Pitt is still there. And Sterling needs
someone to oversee his cargo on this trip. I told him I'd
be glad to do it. After all—" he spoke as easily as if he
anticipated a pleasure cruise—"I'm used to Indians now."
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thinking aloud. "The Potawatomies from Fort St.
Joseph came to me last week to make peace. They said
some of the other tribes were tired of the long war. I'd
like to know more about this. See what you can do, Paul.
Any information you can bring back will be helpful."
He sat down and picked up his quill again, to scribble
a pass for the boy. "Take care," he said, handing Paul
the pass.
Paul approached the Ottawa village in darkness. He
The chief was in council with his braves. In the open


another. "Our women and children are hungry, we have
no food. Let us forget the fort for the winter. The Eng-
lish will not run away! In the spring we can fight again."
The braves stirred restlessly. "Who will feed our
families all winter?"
Pontiac raised a hand. "We can cut off the supplies
from the fort, we can starve them and feed ourselves at
the same time."
"But we have not cut off the supplies before this!"
Paul crawled away from the wrangling council and
made his way toward his brother's tepee. As he raised
the deerskin flap and appeared in the narrow opening,
Philippe's head jerked up. He was sitting alone beside a
tiny fire in the center of the tepee. Paul stepped inside
and crouched over the fire opposite him.
"What are you here for?" Philippe demanded.
"You'll be going to hunt soon, and I wanted to see you
before you left."
"I thought you never wanted to see me again," Philippe
said coldly.
Paul felt as if a wall stood between him and Philippe.
"I saw some voyageurs going up the river this after-
noon," he said in a low voice. It was not easy to talk to
Philippe in this mood. "I got thinking about the wilder-
ness. I'm tired of the fort, and I thought about your
going and ... I guess I just wanted to see you again."
The older brother glanced at the younger, and some of
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men through hostile territory to Niagara, back and forth,
again and again. He thought of Captain Campbell: "A
Campbell gave his word and a Campbell keeps it." He
thought of John Rutherfurd going into Indian territory
ten days after he had escaped from captivity. He thought
of Major Gladwin. Some time, he hardly knew when,
he had realized that the courage of these brave men was
more admirable than anything Philippe had ever done.
The challenge of the New World was more exciting
now than the challenge of the wilderness.
To live peacefully in that New World, he must work
with the Indians and the English, not fight them. He
would go to Montreal and get the schooling Father
Bocquet wanted him to have. And he began to wonder
how soon he could set out. Suddenly the big city of Mon-
treal looked more exciting, even, than the wilderness.
He faced his brother and he felt, for the first time, that
he was a man. "The forest is your destiny and the fort
is mine," he said, trying to speak as lightly as the English
spoke of their decisions. "I'll go back."
Philippe's eyes narrowed. Something in Paul's man-
ner surprised him and aroused his respect. "As you
will."
"But when you return in the spring, will you bring
furs to the Girard trading post?" Paul was wistful in
spite of himself.
Philippe looked at him with the old, flashing smile
Paul loved. "But of course!"
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have done to me, in order to think of nothing but
good. I, the Chippewas, the Hurons, we are ready
to go speak with you when you ask us. Give us
an answer. I am sending this resolution to you
in order that you may see it. If you are as kind as
I, you will make me a reply. I wish you a good
day.
PONTIAC.
The French looked at each other, laughed and cried,
and then, catching hands, they danced in the streets. As
Paul watched them, gay with their gaiety, the song of the
voyageurs fell upon his ears. He turned and ran to the
water gate.
A great canoe was moving downstream at full speed,
and the song of thirty voyageurs sounded across the
water, as the paddles rose and fell in unison. As the
canoe passed the fort, one man held his paddle aloft, as
if he signaled.
Philippe I Paul thought. He tore off his fur cap and
waved. The voyageur raised and lowered his paddle,
and then fell into stroke with the others. Paul scrambled
up to the top of the bastion, to watch them out of sight.
As the canoe dwindled in the distance, he felt as if
some spell had been lifted from him. No longer did he
crave the wilderness struggle of the voyageurs, and in-
stead he felt as if he had caught up with his brother,
but in his own way. He sent a ringing shout down the
203