The Hunters of the HillsAltsheler, Joseph A. (Joseph Alexander)
History
The Hunters of the Hills
Altsheler, Joseph A. (Joseph Alexander)
United States -- History -- French and Indian War, 1754-1763 -- Fiction
That night they dressed as much of their deer as they could carry, and
the next day they passed into Lake Champlain, which displayed all of its
finest colors, as if it had been made ready especially to receive them.
Its waters showed blue and green and silver as the skies above them
shifted and changed, and both to east and west the high mountains were
clothed in dark green foliage. Robert's eyes kindled at the sight of
nature's great handiwork, the magnificent lake more than a hundred miles
long, and the great scenery in which it was placed. It had its story and
legend too. Already it was famous in the history of the land and for
unbroken generations the Indians had used it as their road between north
and south. It was both the pathway of peace and the pathway of war, and
Robert foresaw that hostile forces would soon be passing upon it again.
They saw the distant smoke once more, and kept close to the western
shore where they were in the shadow of the wooded heights, their canoe
but a mote upon the surface of the water. In so small a vessel and
almost level with its waves, they saw the lake as one cannot see it from
above, its splendid expanse stretching away from north to south, until
it sank under the horizon, while the Green Mountains on the east and the
great ranges of New York on the west seemed to pierce the skies.
"It's our lake," said Robert, "whatever happens we can't give it up to
the French, or at least we'll divide it with the Hodenosaunee who can
claim the western shore. If we were to lose this lake no matter what
happened elsewhere I should think we had lost the war."
"We don't hold Champlain yet," said the hunter soberly. "The French
claim it, and it's even called after the first of their governors under
the Company of One Hundred Associates, Samuel de Champlain. They've put
upon it as a sign a name which we English and Americans ourselves have
accepted, and they come nearer to controlling it than we do. They're
advancing, too, Robert, to the lake that they call Saint Sacrement, and
that we call George. When it comes to battle they'll have the advantage
of occupation."
"It seems so, but we'll drive 'em out," said Robert hopefully.
"But while we talk of the future," said Tayoga in his measured and
scholastic English, "it would be well for us also to be watchful in the
present. The French and their Indians may be upon the lake, and we are
but three in a canoe."
"Justly spoken," said Willet heartily. "We can always trust you, Tayoga,
to bring us back to the needs of the moment. Robert, you've uncommonly
good eyes. Just you look to the north and to south with all your might,
and see if you can see any of their long canoes."
"I don't see a single dot upon the water, Dave," said the youth, "but I
notice something else I don't like."
"What is it, Robert?"
"Several little dark clouds hanging around the crests of the high
mountains to the west. Small though they are, they've grown somewhat
since I noticed them first."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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