Woods Runner, Massacre at Schenectady

Woods Runner

by Rejean Giguere

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 - Rejean Giguere

ISBN 978-1-927047-24-8

Ontario, Canada

rejeangiguere.com

The following story is a fictionalized version of real historical events that happened more than 300 years ago, according to the limited resources available to the writer.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your own personal enjoyment only. The book may not be resold or given to other people. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.

Other Books

by Rejean Giguere

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Merlin 444

Franklin Asylum

Endpoint

Jackfish Reborn

Raildogs

This book is dedicated to all the Gigueres out there.

Author’s note:

While researching a family history, I stumbled across the fact that all the Gigueres in North America are related to one ancestor. Robert Giguere emigrated from Tourouvre, France to the province of New France (Quebec) sometime between 1642 and 1651. A well-to-do farmer, Robert became one of the founders of Ste. Anne de Beaupre, Quebec, married the seventeen-year old Aymee Miville in 1652 and raised seven girls and six boys.

A footnote in my research turned up the fact that Jean Baptiste Giguere, son of Robert Giguere, was part of a scouting party that took part in the Massacre of Schenectady, New York during the Beaver Wars between the French colonists of what is now Quebec, and the English colonists of New England, and their Indian allies. The 1690 attacks were reprisals for the killing, capturing, torturing and burning of somewhere up to 250 civilians in Lachine, Quebec on August 5, 1689.

The following story is a fictionalized version of real historical events that happened more than 300 years ago, according to the limited resources available to the writer.

Woods Runner

Prologue

The faint line of men was barely visible as they pushed through the whiteout, shoulders hunched against the wind that blew from the north and then the west, covering them in a blanket of snow. It was the kind of storm that pulled and pushed and stole the energy out of a man just trying to stay upright. Most of the time they kept their heads down, but every once in a while one figure would raise an arm to break the wind, searching for a sign of the fort.

As they approached their target, they broke through the icy Mohawk River where it ran alongside the garrison town, their leggings soaked, freezing to their skin. Some of the men shivered due to the cold, others shivered in anticipation of the deeds they were about to commit.

Men picked up the pace, rushing forward as the outer wall came into view, resting their backs against the twelve-foot high palisade of logs that stood side-by-side, ringing the English town.

Jean Baptiste caught his breath. Exhausted but alert, with adrenaline pumping through his body, he looked left and right, but couldn’t see more than ten yards in either direction. The line of men disappeared into the storm. Someone next to him said something, but the words were lost to the wind.

He reached down, his hand patting the red sash tied around his waist to ensure his hatchet was in place, touching the knife hanging around his neck. He knew both his black-powder pistols were loaded and had been checked and double-checked. They were each good for one shot and then the fight would be down to his blades. Before he could analyze the situation any further, the line of men started moving.

They filed through the open gates like ghosts, hidden by the wind and snow, moving with purpose. Silently, the men filled the deserted courtyard.

Rows of small cabins lined the interior walls, while larger buildings took up the corners. The men took up positions in front of the houses, a few of them to each of the small log buildings.

The palisade walls cut the wind, making visibility through the falling snow easier. Jean Baptiste stood facing the front of a small house; one small window opening, covered with a wooden shutter, one low door cut into the squared wood logs. A bit of smoke still rose from the evening fire, but was lost immediately to the snow and wind above the rooftops as it left the chimney.

Most of the houses were surrounded, men standing quietly outside each one waiting for the signal.

The long drawn out battle-cries of the Algonquin and Sault Indians clashed in the air, screaming out into the night. The calls raised the hair on the back of his neck. Even though he was expecting it, Jean Baptiste still jolted into action, his voice screaming out, echoing the cries. The horror of battle began as the warriors rushed the houses, the Frenchmen right behind.

Book 1

Alouette, gentile alouette,

Alouette, je te plumerai.

Je te plumerai la tête.

Je te plumerai la tête.

Et la tête! Et la tête!

Alouette! Alouette!

Chapter One

Heading North ~ 9 February 1690

A sudden break in the wind gave Jean Baptiste a chance to look back at the long line of men, prisoners, and horses stretching out for more than a half-mile behind him. The dense forest on his left was forcing him to break trail through the open valley where the snow was up to his thighs. It was a chore.

He was still coming to grips with the massacre. With what they had done. Harshly pushing the thoughts away, he shook his head, there would be plenty of time to think about those things on the long walk home.

The men behind him who had looted the fort were loaded down with much more weight than they had carried when they traveled south. Now as the men struggled through the snow, their top-heavy packs were leaning one way or the other, threatening to topple them over with every step.

The Indians had piled their plunder onto makeshift toboggans and were taking turns pulling them through the snow. Overloaded stolen horses struggled to follow the lightly packed trail.

The wind picked up again and Jean Baptiste glanced up at the grey-white sky. It was hard to imagine, but it looked like the storm was getting heavier. The snow had been falling relentlessly for days and as he looked down the line of men, they slowly began to disappear again into the curtain of white.

He knew the natives had the prisoners near the back of the line, tied together with rope to ensure they didn’t attempt to run. Jean Baptiste hadn’t imagined any of this when he left Ville Marie.

The work of breaking trail settled his thoughts as he focused on placing snowshoe after snowshoe into the deep snow, packing down a narrow trail that would be widened by those following. As the sweat poured down his spine, his burning thighs reminded him it was almost time to trade off the point and let someone else take over.

He hadn’t come south for loot or for slaves. Now was the first time he asked the question of himself, why had he agreed to do this?

Looking down at the snow he supposed it didn’t matter at that moment, the only thing he should be concentrating on was placing each snowshoe carefully into the snow. Breaking a shoe now, in the middle of a getaway, could be critical.

A gust of building wind, timed just as he lifted his leg, almost blew him over. Jean Baptiste swore at the effort required to stay upright. He thought again of the long line stretched out behind him and realized that this slow getaway brought about another question. When will the Iroquois catch up?

There was no doubt they were coming. Raiders making it successfully through their territory would be taken as an insult. No attack went unanswered. Never had.

In an ideal world Jean Baptiste would have imagined a quick retreat, returning to Ville Marie as fast as possible. In that vision there was no time for the savages to catch up. This pace, with constant stops to rearrange the loot between men or horses, combined with the weather that threatened to become much worse, was eating at him. He’d never felt more exposed in his life.

The skills he had learned being a woods runner made it easy for him to drift off in his head to a better place, while his body forged ahead. He couldn’t wait to get out exploring the land again. In his mind he pictured the big bodies of water stretching to the horizon while his canoe cut smoothly through the waves. The lure of fresh furs and uncharted country was usually all he needed to occupy his mind.

Drawing the marten fur on the back of his mitten over his mouth, he dislodged the ice stuck around his mouth and beard. They would have to stop soon for the night. There was no way this parade of men and loot was moving in the dark.

He turned to one of the two Indians following closely behind. Okemos, take Kitchi and find a place ahead where the valley ends, we need to hold up for the night.

We should not stop Etchemin, we use swift feet now, go home.

There was no mistaking his friend’s message. The Indian was right. If it was up to him, this would be a forced march, non-stop – eat on the go, until they were back home.

But this wasn’t his parade.

Only Okemos’ penetrating eyes were visible through his winter gear. The Sault Indian stood there covered in his large cape, the hair side of the bearskin turned to the inside, his legs disappearing into the deep snow, arms crossed over his chest waiting for an answer.

You’re right, we should go. Jean Baptiste looked ahead into the driving snow, it was a personal commitment now, but I have to help all these men get home. Go ahead and find a good place. I’ll bring the others.

The Sault squinted his eyes in Jean Baptiste’s direction momentarily before turning to the tall Indian standing to his rear. The Sault and Algonquin spoke quickly back and forth, then Kitchi took his turn staring at Jean Baptiste like he should know better.

He obviously wasn’t impressed with the plan either. Reluctantly, the two finally moved ahead. Jean Baptiste was left standing beside their newly broken trail looking down at the oval imprints left by their snowshoes.

As the train of people started to move again, Jean Baptiste looked hard at the retreating war party as it lumbered by. He examined the tired faces, watching the slump-shouldered walkers struggle forward with each step. One hundred and ten French soldiers and woods runners mingled with eighty Sault Indians and sixteen Algonquin. They had started out the trip south with more than two hundred men. Now there were an additional twenty-seven English prisoners added to the line, mostly men and boys.

Most of the Frenchmen were boisterous, even under the harsh conditions. Sharp voices climbed up out of the storm to be answered by others further down the line. The men had gone to war and came out on top. Now they were acting like the winners in a tavern fight, eager to recall every detail and relive their own part of the action. Some walked by singing old familiar paddling songs, while others clutched a stolen trinket, staring at it as they trudged along.

The men’s spirits may have been high, but their progress surely wasn’t. Jean Baptiste wondered how far back down the line De Moyne was. Just thinking about the man unsettled him. The captain had been a big part of why he became involved in this mission, and he realized that was why he was starting to resent the man.

Ten minutes later Jean Baptiste saw the first of the prisoners and horses stumbling through the shifting wall of snow. The under-dressed prisoners looked cold, they struggled without snowshoes to walk on the packed trail, prodded and pushed by the natives. Each time one of them fell they pulled off-balance the others they were roped to.

It was obvious to him that the overloaded horses were working too hard. Each step was a burden. As their round hooves punched deep holes in the snow they sank under their own weight until the animal’s bellies touched down. They struggled to lift each leg high enough to clear the snow and swing it forward again. He could see their flanks heaving as the horse’s lungs roared with the effort of sucking in more air through their frost-covered noses. The sweat caked their long winter fur. Jean Baptiste shook his head, their wet coats would make the animals more susceptible to the cold when they stopped for the night. On the farm his father had always taken special care of their horses, they were too valuable and difficult to replace in the new world. He knew forcing them beyond exhaustion like this wasn’t going to work.

Some of the Frenchmen who still wore the traditional blue felt jackets looked like they were suffering from the weather as well. They hadn’t lived in New France that long, or hadn’t learnt the ways of the Indians yet. Or, they were stubborn and stuck to their traditional clothes from home. The soldiers were forced to wear trousers, leather boots and a felt coat that came down to the knees. For the woods runners who had been here longer, there was no excuse.

The weather had spared them almost the entire way south. The storm that began just before the assault had provided cover for the attack. So the men hadn’t had it too hard up until that point. He wondered how they would fare if this blizzard kept up. He reached up and pulled his ‘coon hat down closer to his eyes, tucking the flaps in around his neck.

Jean Baptiste took a deep breath. From his point of view this return march was becoming almost ridiculous. Right now he was really wishing he were somewhere else.

He gave up watching the endless line of men walking past, and decided he’d have to find De Moyne later. The woods runner rejoined the column as it slowly trudged north. He needed to catch up to Okemos and Kitchi before the sun set.

As he walked, just one of many in the long row, he was drawn back to the beginning. He could see this same group of men getting ready to leave Ville Marie for the journey south.

Heading South, Ville Marie ~ 17 January 1690

The main street hadn’t seen anything like it since the last boatload of orphaned casquette girls the king sent from France had arrived. The shops on the street level were obscured by the masses of town folk standing two and three deep on the steps and boardwalks. The upper level apartments had windows flung wide open. Even in the cold winter sunshine, people hung out of them to witness the occasion.

No one had seen this many men preparing to go into battle since they had left France. For some there was a disbelief in the air, hadn’t they left the old country and come to the new world to escape the wars and politics? Yet the mood was electric and spirits high. The soldiers and woods runners mixed with the Indians as they all waited for their marching orders.

Jean Baptiste stood with the woods runners as they were his kind. At twenty-seven he had been a coureur des bois, a woods runner, for the last ten years. He wasn’t one of the oldest, but he was well-traveled and had earned his good reputation.

He drew stares from some of the nearby soldiers as he moved through the groups of woodsmen, talking with others he knew. The soldiers kept looking suspiciously at the two Indians who tagged along behind him.

Jean Baptiste wanted to check the frame of mind of the volunteers, he was relieved when he realized everyone was up for the challenge. Woods runners gathered in groups of men who knew each other, men who had worked together, who had spent summers in the canoes trading for fur, or winters holed up in the villages waiting for spring. A few joked a little too loudly, others beating each other on the shoulders as they tried bolstering their own spirits by egging on their friends. Some, quieter, inspected their guns, double-checking the packaging of the gunpowder and their supply of lead balls.

Each man had his own packsack of provisions, while boxes of government supplies sat piled on the side of the dirt road.

The Indians didn’t bring much, they never did. They had weapons, furs, edibles and snowshoes. Standing slightly separate from the Frenchmen, they seemed as fired up and eager as everyone else.

Some of the hard-faced woodsmen were clearly fighters, others joked and laughed like a group of kids. One or two circles were passing around a bottle. He leaned over to talk with an older man working on a snowshoe.

Lucien, it’s late for repairs, no?

Lucien’s big moustache lifted as he smiled. His brother, sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, looked up as well. The two were almost identical, only the heavy single eyebrow stretching across Serge’s forehead stood out.

When Lucien moved one of his bushy eyebrows up or down it gave him some character. Since Serge’s eyebrows were connected in the middle, they formed a bar above his eyes, and it made him look lopsided when he tried to raise one or the other of them.

Ah, Giguere I never though to see you in town again, Lucien started to say.

And my God, how you become ugly with age, Serge finished.

As the pair of them laughed at his expense, Jean Baptiste slapped Lucien on the shoulder getting the last word in, See you on the trail young men.

He didn’t get far before a voice could be heard shouting up ahead. De Moyne was trying to make himself heard above the crowd.

All right men. Everyone up. We’re moving out.

The noise level rose even further as the men started to pick up their packs, and fell into line. Jean Baptiste noticed the contrast between the participants and the onlookers. Men were excited and still slapping each other on the backs, a few whooped and hollered. Yet the faces of some of the families were stiff with worry. He spotted some wet eyes as the line began to file out of town.

Someone was pointing at him, but he couldn’t hear the man’s question over the noise, then another man, standing behind him, noticed what was being called attention to and laughed. Hey Giguere, what are those snowshoes for? They look small enough for my sons.

Jean Baptiste didn’t answer. He had his reasons for carrying the extra weight of two pair. His long trail snowshoes were the same as everyone else’s, good for travelling for miles through deep snow. He had to assume that not many had seen shoes like his small oval set, but then again, they hadn’t seen the same things he had.

After crossing the frozen river below Ville Marie, the long column of whistling and singing men disappeared from view of the townspeople into the forest on the opposite shore.

Jean Baptiste looked back one last time before entering the trees. He’d been seeing the town less and less frequently over the years as his travels took him further and further west, but something told him that on this trip south he was coming back as quickly as he could.

Heading North ~ 9 February 1690

Jean Baptiste looked around the area where men were unloading their packs and starting to settle for the night. The wind was blowing the snow around so much he couldn’t see anything. He knew Okemos and Kitchi would have a fire going quickly and searched through the curtain of white flakes for their smoke.

He made his way between the groups of men gathered in knots of four or five until he smelled the smoke on the wind. Then it was lost. Finally, backed into a snowdrift at the far side of the clearing, he found the two Indians huddled over a fire, protecting the tiny flames, keeping it lit as it gained strength.

Once Jean Baptiste arrived, Kitchi disappeared into the woods, returning with an armload of pine branches to stand upright in the snow, creating a windbreak. Suddenly there was more heat and flame from the small fire, but the wind still caused havoc.

Groups of men began making their campsites, stamping the loose snow, packing down the ground while others gathering wood. He could hear the axes working above the howling wind. Kitchi returned from the forest a second time, this time dragging bare poles made from young saplings for the frame of their shelter.

Jean Baptiste knew he could survive anywhere. At times like this he was grateful for the skills he had been taught by the natives. He still marveled as he watched the Indians at work, there was no wasted time, each of their motions were efficient.

It was his decision to become a woods runner that had started it all.

The Woods Runner ~ Ville Marie 1678

The four youngsters were taking a chance. They weren’t supposed to leave the farm, but being fifteen-years-old meant they had their own ideas. The spring day was warm, the pastures were open and the cattle were out, but the fields were still too wet to seed. There wasn’t much to do and they’d been cooped up on the farms all winter. It was easy to sneak away.

Jean Baptiste ran at the head of the pack of boys, always in the lead. The two short, round Gamache kids ran second and third. Claude, the troublemaker with the idea, was bringing up the rear. Not because he was slow, but because he liked to be the last one into anything he instigated.

It wasn’t the first time they’d snuck into town, but this was different, they had a purpose. As they got closer to the houses on the outskirts, they slowed down and took extra time to look things over. Sometimes the town’s youngsters took issue with the farm boys hanging around. It was where he’d learned that strangers weren’t always welcome. The last time they’d been in town there had been a dust-up just trying to get home.

Jean Baptiste and Claude had stood up to that gang, assuming the chubby Gamache boys wouldn’t be much help. But the two little guys had started the fight themselves by jumping into the town boys, swinging and kicking. Surprised, Jean Baptiste and Claude had paused only a moment before joining in. Their will to fight, instead of run, had shocked the town bullies and they’d backed off. Jean Baptiste wondered if there would be more bullies this time.

The four of them headed straight to Notre Dame Street lined with stores, factories, and the place they were headed. This time they were in town because Claude had challenged Jean Baptiste. The boys ran directly to the small front window of the tavern. Putting their hands up to shade their eyes from the sun, they tried to peer in through the crack in the closed shutter. They couldn’t