The chance to leave the fort and the rude culture soon appeared. A party of men had determined to travel to New York, mostly by way of native canoes, a few sticks covered with bark and hardly looking sturdy enough to carry a child yet alone two men. I asked if I might come and they agreed that every hand was needed for the larger the party, the less likely a band of savages would attack. While peace was at hand between the French and the Indians, individual bands did not always observe the truce when civilized men crossed their territory.
I purchased such goods as the leader said I would need, including a rifle, gunpowder, and shot, which I was unskilled with, and other goods for the travel. I was paired with a trapper of some regard, Pierre Laurent, grizzled and tough.
We started early the next day traveling down the St. Lawrence River. Even though the leaders did not set a killing pace, and even though we rowed with the flow of the river, the constant pulling of paddle in water was killing for one as unused to such activity as I. At the end of that day, it felt as though my arms had been ripped from my body. The traders laughed at my predicament, and I suppose, had I not been the one, I would have laughed as well.
The next day, I could hardly hold the paddle and row. Pierre would tolerate no slacking and sat behind me, cursing me as we fell behind the others until I would again take up the paddle and row. The muscles of my arms screamed in torture at every dip and pull. Pierre would grunt at me and I would stretch forth my arms, other muscles screaming in pain and once again feel the torture as I pulled the paddle through the water. The first days stretched beyond human endurance, and yet, I survived. Two days into our journey, we left the St. Lawrence and entered the territory of New York.
By this time, I had somewhat become accustomed the paddle and Pierre’s grumblings were of a minor nature. We entered a great lake, Black Lake according to Pierre. The end I could not espy. I had never seen a lake as large as this. Pierre quickly disabused me telling me of lakes many times larger than this one, lakes as large as seas themselves.
I noted a tension that evening as we put in on a bank. Pierre informed me that we had left civilization behind and might run into savages who would not take our presence lightly. I looked hard around but could only see the dense forests which covered every bit of land for leagues. There could have been armies of savages and I would not have known it.
We continued up the river for many days. At one point, M. Pichette, the leader, had us pull the canoes from the river and we struck out into the wilderness. This was the most difficult part of the journey, carrying the canoes as we tramped through primeval woods.
It was the second morning and we expected to reach the next river that day. I had not yet arisen when I heard muffled exclamations. I opened my eyes to see the others standing. Close by was a group of savages. I grabbed my rifle and stood unsure what to do. I looked to Pierre, who stood casually as if nothing was wrong even though just a day before he had told me how these same savages cut off the scalp of whites when they killed them.
M. Pichette could speak some of their language. I could tell nothing of what was said but I could tell that the savages were giving some sort of orders. Pichette turned to us and hissed, “Get dressed quickly and grab your things.” We broke camp under the watchful eyes of the savages and set out.
After we had walked for several hours at a killing pace, Pichette called a halt. “What did they say?” asked one of the men.
“They said we weren’t welcome in their land and had the morning to clear out. I don’t know how far their land reaches but I intend to be off it before noon,” he said. “Take some water and let’s go.” He hefted his canoe and off we went. We reached the banks of the Black River about noon. Pichette had us get in the canoes and set out immediately telling us that rivers often marked boundaries and we’d be better off on the river. I looked back after we were away and saw the group standing just in the trees watching us depart. A sense of dread filled me. How close had I come to feeling the stone axe of him cleaving my skull? Not for the first time, I wondered at the sagacity of my leaving Paris.
We traveled up the river without incident, crossed to another river and up it. We camped by the bank that night. This was to be our last overland trip. I was looking forward to it, since after this we would be on the other side of the ridge and traveling down river all the way to New York.
In two days we struck the Mohawk River and entered it. It was not much more than a large stream here, but the canoes could float in almost no water. We set out with buoyant spirits.
Three days into our travel on the river, it had grown to some width. I was paddling along, just keeping us with the current, as I heard behind me Pierre shout, “Trouble!”
All heads turned to see three canoes entering the river, all holding savages. The canoes ahead of me suddenly began paddling for life itself. “Paddle you fool,” Pierre shouted. I did. “Looks like they mean business,” he said. He picked up his rifle, poured some powder into the pan, the pans being empty to avoid wetting the powder until needed, and turned and shot. I glanced back to see the lead canoe tipping as one savage plunged into the water.
“Give me your rifle,” he shouted. I handed it back as he primed it, turned and shot. Another cry, but I did not turn this time instead paddling to catch up with those ahead. Pierre joined me and we surged like a sloop with the wind soon catching the others. As we passed the last canoe, Pierre shouted, “Shoot one more and they’ll quit.”
The man nodded, picked up his rifle, primed it, carefully turned and drew bead on the lead canoe of the savages. Fire, thunder, and smoke and the lead savage fell into the water. That indeed broke the spirit of the attackers, each canoe having lost one, and they fell behind as they sought to pull their fallen from the river.
We continued pulling hard until several bends in the river hid us from our potential pursuers. We joined up in the middle of the river, holding the canoes together, as we all sought to catch our breath. M. Pichette, after regaining his breath, said, “I propose we paddle through the night. There will be a moon tonight. We need to put distance between us and that tribe. They will return to their village and come after us with reinforcements.” The others nodded. “We need to be well beyond their land before they can catch us. Pace yourselves. It will be a long day and night.”
And so we did, paddling not hard but unceasing though the day and into the night. Pierre had me rest part of the night and he rested part. But the paddles never ceased. We ate breakfast in the canoes, some dried meat, and continued all that day. That evening, we found a bank which was protected by a cliff and therefore, difficult to sneak up on, and pulled in.
We had hardly pulled the canoes from the river when all were asleep. Although we saw additional signs of savages, at least Pierre pointed them out to me; we had no further dealings with them. When the Mohawk flowed into the Hudson River, the worst of the journey was over. Settlements flourished up and down the river. Every night was spent at some town or fort.
The Hudson is a great river and flowed strong and fast to the sea. We arrived in the city of New York a little after noon. Our journey had taken three weeks and I was glad to be returning to civilization. We put in just north of the harbor where several ships weighed at anchor. I bid my goodbye to the men and especially Pierre who I believe saved my life with the accuracy of his rifle.
With a happy step, I walked into New York. I must admit I felt a little bit the fool, walking down the street dressed as a woodsman in buckskin and carrying a rifle but most people didn't give a second look. In Europe a man walking down the main street with a rifle would have provoked a riot. Here only a glance. I was quickly disabused of that happiness and was most disappointed to find not a great city, but a small and rude city. It is true that the crown had recently opened a University in the city, but that was about the only evidence of high culture. New York left me wishing for Paris.
Additionally, it had once been a Dutch settlement and many of the inhabitants remained speaking their foul harsh tongue, spitting and hacking as they spoke. In all, I found the city a great disappointment. I spoke to men at the Inn where I had obtained lodgings. They agreed that Philadelphia was the largest city, but it was even ruder than New York. The only city of any culture was Boston. That decided me. I sold my rifle and buckskins and dressed in fashion for America. I found a packet boat heading north several days later. It stopped at many ports, dropping off and picking up mail and small cargo, mostly pamphlets etc., then heading on. A week later, I landed in Boston Harbor.
Copyright Rod O'Steele © 2007, 2012