lds, fanned the flame, gave presents of gunpowder
and firearms to the savages, and egged the hostiles on against the new
possessors of Canada, in order to divert the fur trade to French
traders still in Louisiana. Down at Miami, southwest of Lake Erie,
Ensign Holmes hears in March of 1763 that the war belt has been carried
to the Illinois. Up at Detroit, in May, Pontiac is camped on the east
side of the river with eight hundred hunters. Daily the French
farmers, who supply the fort with provisions, carry word to Major
Gladwin that the Indians are acting strangely, holding long and secret
powwow, borrowing files to saw off the barrels of their muskets short.
A French woman, who has visited the Indians across the river for a
supply of maple sugar, comes to Gladwin on May 5 with the same story.
From eight hundred, the Indians increase to two thousand. Old
Catherine, a toothless squaw, comes shaking as with the palsy to the
fort, and with mumbling words warns Gladwin to "Beware, beware!" So
does a young girl whose fine eyes have caught the fancy of Gladwin
himself. Breaking out with bitter weeping, she covers her head with
her shawl and bids her white lover have a care how he meets Pontiac in
council. Gladwin himself was a seasoned campaigner, who had escaped
the hurricane of death with Braddock and had also served under Amherst
at Montreal. In his fort are one hundred and twenty soldiers and forty
traders. At the wharf lie the two armed schooners, _Beaver_ and
_Gladwin_. When Pontiac comes with his sixty warriors Gladwin is ready
for him. In the council house the warriors seat themselves, weapons
concealed under blankets; but when Pontiac raises the wampum belt that
was to be the signal for the massacre to begin, Major Gladwin, never
moving his light blue eyes from {283} the snaky gleam of the Indian,
waves his hand, and at the motion there is a roll of drums, a grounding
of the sentry's arms, a trampling of soldiers outside, a rush as of
white men marching. Pontiac is dumfounded and departs without giving
the signal. Back in his cabin of rushes across the river he rages like
a maniac and buries a tomahawk in the skull of the old squaw Catherine.
Monday, May 9, at ten o'clock he comes again, followed by a rabble of
hunters. The gates are shut in his face. He shouts for admittance.
The sentry opens the wicket and in traders' vernacular bids him go
about his business. There is a wild war yell. The siege of Det