Nine Years a Captive, or, John Gyles' Experience Among the Malicite Indians, from 1689 to 1698

Front matter

NINE YEARS A CAPTIVE,

or

JOHN GYLES'

Introduction

INTRODUCTION.

The following narrative of the captivity of John Gyles among the Indians of the St. John River, independently of its interest as a tale of human suffering and endurance, is of great value as a means of illustrating the manners and customs of the Indian tribes of Acadie. It is this consideration which is mainly the cause of its republication now, for it is the only authentic narrative that is known to exist of any lengthened residence among the savage tribes of Acadie during the seventeenth century, the period of their greatest power and greatest activity. Without it we might form a tolerable conjecture of the mode of life of the aborigines of our country, but the narrative of Gyles, in its simple and truthful quaintness, introduces us to those barbarous people as they actually were, tells us how they lived, what privations they endured, shows us, in short, the Indian stripped of his paint and feathers and without those romantic surroundings amid which writers of poetry and some historians have delighted to depict him. By the light of such a narrative, we are able to perceive how wretched was the lot of an Acadian Indian, even during the period when his very name carried terror to the hearts of the settlers of New Hampshire and Maine. Modern civilization may have degraded him in some respects, but it has elevated him in others. It has rescued him from the danger of starvation to which in his pristine state he was constantly exposed, and also from the cruel necessity of abandoning the aged and feeble of his kindred to perish, when unable longer to supply their own wants or endure the constant journeys necessitated by the nature of their nomad life.

A vast deal of nonsense has been written about the North American Indians, and perhaps on no point have the writers who conceive their vague fancies to be solemn facts, exhausted their rhetoric to a greater extent than in regard to the supposed inevitable doom of the Red Man, which they conceive to be his utter extinction. If, as appears to be the belief in some of the Western United States, the proper thing to do with every Indian is to shoot him, then of course the extinction of the race would seem to be inevitable, but fortunately this simple policy is not likely to be universally adopted. There is no reason whatever why the Indians of this continent should perish from the face of the earth, unless it is to be found in the lawless brutality, treachery and bad faith of white men. In New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, thanks to a policy of justice which protects men from murder and violence, no matter what their color, the Indians are increasing in numbers. I am firmly convinced, after a pretty thorough investigation of every available original authority, that there are more Indians in New Brunswick and Nova Scotia now than there ever were during any part of either the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries. It is doubtful if both the Malicites and Micmacs together ever could have brought 800 warriors into the field during the historical period. In point of fact, that number of warriors never was assembled together in Acadie at any one time. When Membertou, the Micmac, in 1607 collected all his forces to attack the Armouchquois at Chouakoet, (Saco) his whole force amounted to only 400 men, and there were never more than 300 Malicites engaged in any of the numerous raids they made on the English settlements. Even the Iroquois or five nations, which included the Mohawks, the most formidable Indian Confederacy in North America, never numbered more than 2,500 warriors.

The Indians of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, two provinces which formed a part of the ancient French Province of Acadie, all belonged to the great Algonquin family or nation, but were divided into two tribes. The Souriquois or Micmacs occupied the whole of the peninsula of Nova Scotia and the Gulf Shore of New Brunswick as far North as Gaspe. The Etchemins or Malicites possessed the whole of the line of the St. John River and inland as far as Riviere du Loup, and along the sea shore westward to the Penobscot. The people now known as the Penobscot Indians, the Passamaquoddy Indians, the Abenaquis of the Province of Quebec and the Indians now living on the St. John River are all Etchemins or Malicites and regard themselves as one people. The Malicites were a warlike race, as subtle and savage as any tribe on the continent, and lying, as they did, on the flank of the New England settlements, which they constantly attacked, their destruction was a consummation devoutly prayed for but never accomplished by the descendants of the Pilgrim fathers. Even the laurels which Capt. Church had gained in King Philip's war withered when he came to Acadie, and his triumphs were restricted to the burning of the dwellings and barns of the inoffensive French habitants of Chignecto and Minas. The Micmacs of Acadie were usually the allies of the Malicites and frequently sent warriors to take part in their expeditions against Maine.

The Indian war, in the course of which John Gyles was taken, was the second great Indian war in which the people of Eastern New England took part. It is known in history as King William's war, from the English monarch in whose reign it took place, as the first Indian war is known as King Philip's war from the name of the Indian Sagamore who banded his countrymen against the whites. King William's war was commenced in 1688 and lasted ten years. It was a ruinous contest. All the Indian tribes eastward of the Merrimack, including the Micmacs, took part in it. Every town and settlement in Maine except Wells, York, Kittery and the Isle of Shoals was over-run. A thousand white people were killed or taken prisoners and an untold number of domestic animals destroyed. Like nearly every other war, which the Indians have waged against the Whites, the latter were responsible for its origin. Several causes, some remote and some immediate, combined to invest this contest with a more than ordinary degree of ferocity. One of the former illustrates in a remarkable manner that long remembrance of an injury which is characteristic of savages. In 1676, towards the close of King Philip's war, Major Waldron, the Commander of the Militia, at Dover, had made a peace with 400 of the Eastern Indians and they were encamped quietly near his house, and regarded him as their friend and father. Two companies of troops, under Captains Sill and Hawthorne, soon afterwards arrived at Dover and they together with Major Waldron contrived a treacherous scheme to make the Indians prisoners. Waldron proposed to the Indians to have a review and a sham fight after the English mode; and summoning his own men, they in conjunction with the two companies formed one party, and the Indians another. After manœuvring for some time Major Waldron induced the Indians to fire the first volley, and the instant this was done they were surrounded by the soldiers and the whole 400 of them made prisoners. About half of them were afterwards set at liberty, but more than 200 Indians who had taken part in the war were sent to Boston, where a number of them were hanged and the remainder sold into slavery. This despicable act of treachery the Indians never forgot or forgave. It was a base deed which in after years brought its own punishment. The Indians learned the lesson and improved upon it. Thirteen years later Major Waldron was slain by the Indians, under circumstances which involved a breach of faith and of the laws of hospitality equal to his own, and, after the lapse of nearly ninety years, the Ottawas captured Machilmackinac by a device exactly modeled on Waldron's exploit; thus the evil seed sown by him bore its legitimate fruit.

The war was, however, precipitated by another needless outrage the infamy of which belongs to Andross the Governor of New England. In 1667 the Baron de St. Castine, who had been an officer in the Carignan Regiment in Canada, settled on a point of land on the eastern bank of the Penobscot River, near the town which now bears his name. He married a daughter of the Malicite Sagamore Madockawando and built a trading house where he did a large and profitable business with the Indians, among whom he was regarded with a degree of reverence that almost amounted to worship. It would have been prudent to have kept on good terms with such a man, but Andross, in April, 1688, thought proper to land with a party of men from the Rose frigate and rob Castine's house and fort, an act which so provoked the latter that he very soon gave the people of New England cause to curse the folly of their Governor. In a short time, mainly owing to his influence, the tribes of Acadie and Eastern Maine were allied and in arms against the English and the war commenced, one episode of which is described in the narrative in the following pages. I have given it in the exact language of the writer, but have added such notes as appeared to be necessary to the proper understanding of the interesting story of Mr. Gyles.

Memoirs

MEMOIRS

Introduction.—These private memoirs were collected from my minutes, at the earnest request of my second consort, for the use of our family, that we might have a memento ever ready at hand, to excite in ourselves gratitude and thankfulness to God; and in our offspring a due sense of their dependence on the Sovereign of the universe, from the precariousness and vicissitudes of all sublunary enjoyments. In this state, and for this end, they have laid by me for some years. They at length falling into the hands of some, for whose judgement I had a value, I was pressed for a copy for the public. Others, desiring of me to extract particulars from them, which the multiplicity and urgency of my affairs would not admit, I have now determined to suffer their publication. I have not made scarce any addition to this manual, except in the chapter of creatures, which I was urged to make much larger. I might have greatly enlarged it, but I feared it would grow beyond its proportion. I have been likewise advised to give a particular account of my father, which I am not very fond of, having no dependence on the virtues or honors of my ancestors to recommend me to the favor of God or men; nevertheless, because some think it is a respect due to the memory of my parents, whose name I was obliged to mention in the following story, and a satisfaction which their posterity might justly expect from me, I shall give some account of him, though as brief as possible.

The flourishing state of New England, before the unhappy eastern wars, drew my father hither, whose first settlement was on Kennebeck River, at a place called Merrymeeting Bay, where he dwelt for some years; until, on the death of my grand parents, he, with his family, returned to England, to settle his affairs. This done, he came over with the design to have returned to his farm; but on his arrival at Boston, the eastern Indians had begun their hostilities. He therefore begun a settlement on Long Island. The air of that place not so well agreeing with his constitution, and the Indians having become peaceable, he again proposed to resettle his lands in Merrymeeting Bay; but finding that place deserted, and that Plantations were going on at Pemmaquid, he purchased several tracts of land of the inhabitants there. Upon his highness the Duke of York resuming a claim to those parts, my father took out patents under that claim; and when Pemmaquid was set off by the name of the county of Cornwall, in the province of New York, he was commissioned chief justice of the same by Gov. Duncan [Dongan.] He was a strict sabbatarian, and met with considerable difficuity in the discharge of his office, from the immoralities of a people who had long lived lawless. He laid out no inconsiderable income, which he had annually from England, on the place, and at last lost his life there, as will hereafter be related.

I am not insensible of the truth of an assertion of Sir Roger L'Estrange, that "Books and dishes have this common fate: no one of either ever pleased all tastes." And I am fully of his opinion in this: "It is as little to be wished for as expected; for a universal applause is, at least, two-thirds of a scandal." To conclude with Sir Roger, "Though I made this composition principally for my family, yet, if any man has a mind to take part with me; he has free leave, and is welcome;" but let him carry this consideration. along with him, "that he is a very unmannerly guest who forces himself upon another man's table, and then quarrels with his dinner."

Chapter I

CHAPTER I.

Containing the occurrences of the first year.

On the second day of August, 1689, in the morning, my honored father, Thomas Gyles, Esq., went with some laborers, my two elder brothers and myself, to one of his farms, which laid upon the river about three miles above Fort Charles, adjoining Pemmaquid Falls, there to gather in his English harvest, and we labored securely till noon. After we had dined, our people went to their labor, some in one field to their English hay, the others to another field of English corn. My father, the youngest of my two brothers, and myself, tarried near the farm-house in which we had dined till about one of the clock; at which time we heard the report of several great guns at the fort. Upon which my father said he hoped it was a signal of good news, and that the great council had sent back the soldiers, to cover the inhabitants; (for on report of the revolution they had deserted.) But to our great surprise, about thirty or forty Indians, at that moment, discharged a volley of shot at us, from behind a rising ground, near our barn. The yelling of the Indians, the whistling of their shot, and the voice of my father, whom I heard cry out, "What now! what now!" so terrified me, (though he seemed to be handling a gun,) that I endeavored to make my escape. My brother ran one way and I another, and looking over my shoulder, I saw a stout fellow, painted, pursuing me with a gun, and a cutlass glittering in his hand, which I expected every moment in my brains. I soon fell down, and the Indian seized me by the left hand. He offered me no abuse, but tied my arms, then lifted me up, and pointed to the place where the people were at work about the hay, and led me that way. As we went, we crossed where my father was, who looked very pale and bloody, and walked very slowly. When we came to the place, I saw two men shot down on the flats, and one or two more knocked on their heads with hatchets, crying out, "O Lord," &c. There the Indians brought two captives, one a man, and my brother James, who, with me, had endeavored to escape by running from the house, when we were first attacked. This brother was about fourteen years of age. My oldest brother, whose name was Thomas, wonderfully escaped by land to the Barbican, a point of land on the west side of the river, opposite the fort, where several fishing vessels lay. He got on board one of them and sailed that night.

After doing what mischief they could, they sat down, and made us sit with them. After some time we arose, and the Indians pointed for us to go eastward. We marched about a quarter of a mile, and then made a halt. Here they brought my father to us. They made proposals to him, by old Moxus, who told him that those were strange Indians who shot him, and that he was sorry for it. My father replied that he was a dying man, and wanted no favor of them, but to pray with his children. This being granted him, he recommended us to the protection and blessing of God Almighty; then gave us the best advice, and took his leave for this life, hoping in God that we should meet in a better. He parted with a cheerful voice, but looked very pale, by reason of his great loss of blood, which now gushed out of his shoes. The Indians led him aside:—I heard the blows of the hatchet, but neither shriek nor groan! I afterwards heard that he had five or seven shot-holes through his waistcoat or jacket, and that he was covered with some boughs.

The Indians led us, their captives, on the east side of the river, towards the fort, and when we came within a mile and a half of the fort and town, and could see the fort, we saw firing and smoke on all sides. Here we made a short stop, and then moved within or near the distance of three quarters of a mile from the fort, into a thick swamp. There I saw my mother and my two little sisters, and many other captives who were taken from the town. My mother asked me about my father. I told her he was killed, but could say no more for grief. She burst into tears, and the Indians moved me a little farther off, and seized me with cords to a tree.

The Indians came to New Harbor, and sent spies several days to observe how and where the people were employed, &c., who found the men were generally at work at noon, and left about their houses women and children. Therefore the Indians divided themselves into several parties, some ambushing the way between the fort and the houses, as likewise between them and the distant fields; and then alarming the farthest off first, they killed and took the people, as they moved towards the town and fort, at their pleasure, and very few escaped to it. Mr. Pateshall was taken and killed, as he lay with his sloop near the Barbican.

On the first stir about the fort, my youngest brother was at play near it, and running in, was by God's goodness thus preserved. Captain Weems, with great courage and resolution, defended the weak old fort two days; when, being much wounded, and the best of his men killed, he beat for a parley, which eventuated in these conditions:

1. That they, the Indians, should give him Mr. Pateshall's sloop. 2. That they should not molest him in carrying off the few people that had got into the fort, and three captives that they had taken. 3. That the English should carry off in their hands what they could from the fort.

On these conditions the fort was surrendered, and Captain Weems went off; and soon after, the Indians set on fire the fort and houses, which made a terrible blast, and was a melancholy sight to us poor captives, who were sad spectators!

After the Indians had thus laid waste Pemmaquid, they moved us to New Harbor, about two miles east of Pemmaquid, a cove much frequented by fishermen, At this place, there were, before the war, twelve houses. These the inhabitants deserted as soon as the rumor of war reached the place. When we turned our backs on the town, my heart was ready to break. I saw my mother. She spoke to me, but I could not answer her. That night we tarried at New Harbor, and the next day went in their canoes for Penobscot. About noon, the canoe in which my mother was, and that in which I was, came side by side, whether accidentally or by my mother's desire I cannot say. She asked me how I did. I think I said "pretty well," but my heart was so full of grief I scarcely knew whether audible to her. Then she said, "O my child! how joyful and pleasant it would be, if we were going to old England, to see your uncle Chalker, and other friends there. Poor babe. we are going into the wilderness, the Lord knows where." Then bursting into tears, the canoes parted. That night following, the Indians with their captives lodged on an island.

A few days after, we arrived at Penobscot fort, where I again saw my mother, my brother and sisters, and many other captives. I think we tarried here eight days. In that time, the Jesuit of the place had a great mind to buy me. My Indian master made a visit to the Jesuit, and carried me with him. And here I will note, that the Indian who takes a captive is accounted his master, and has a perfect right to him, until he gives or sells him to another. I saw the Jesuit show my master pieces of gold, and understood afterwards that he was tendering them for my ransom. He gave me a biscuit, which I put into my pocket, and not daring to eat it, buried it under a log, fearing he had put something into it to make me love him. Being very young, and having heard much of the Papists torturing the Protestants, caused me to act thus; and I hated the sight of a Jesuit. When my mother heard the talk of my being sold to a Jesuit, she said to me, "Oh, my dear child, if it were God's will, I had rather follow you to your grave, or never see you more in this world, than you should be sold to a Jesuit; for a Jesuit will ruin you, body and soul." It pleased God to grant her request, for she never saw me more. Yet she and my two little sisters were, after several years' captivity redeemed, but she died before I returned. My brother who was taken with me, was, after several years' captivity, most barbariously tortured to death, by the Indians.

My Indian Master carried me up Penobscot River, to a village called Madawamkee, which stands on a point of land between the main river and a branch which heads to the east of it. At home I had ever seen strangers treated with the utmost civility, and being a stranger, I expected some kind treatment here; but I soon found myself deceived, for I presently saw a number of squaws, who had got together in a circle, dancing and yelling. An old grim looking one took me by the hand, and leading me into the ring, some seized me by my hair, and others by my hands and feet, like so many furies; but my master presently laying down a pledge, they released me.

A captive among the Indians is exposed to all manner of abuses, and to the extremest tortures, unless their master, or some of their master's relations, lay down a ransom; such as a bag of corn, a blanket, or the like, which redeems them from their cruelty for that dance. The next day we went up that eastern branch of Penobscot River many leagues; carried overland to a large pond, and from one pond to another, till in a few days, we went down a river, called Medoctack, which vents itself into St. John's River. But before we came to the mouth of this river, we passed over a long carrying place, to Medoctack fort, which stands on a bank of St. John's River. My master went before, and left me with an old Indian, and two or three squaws. The old man often said, (which was all the English he could speak,) "By and by come to a great town and fort." I now comforted myself in thinking how finely I should be refreshed when I came to this great town.

After some miles' travel we came in sight of a large cornfield, and soon after of the fort, to my great surprise. Two or three squaws met us, took off my pack, and led me to a large hut or wigwam, where thirty or forty Indians were dancing and yelling round five or six poor captives, who had been taken some months before from Quochech, at the time Major Waldron was so barbariously butchered by them. And before proceeding with my narrative I will give a short account of that action.

Major Waldron's garrison was taken on the night of the 27th of June, 1689. I have heard the Indians say at a feast that as there was a truce for some days, they contrived to send in two squaws to take notice of the numbers, lodgings and other circumstances of the people in his garrison, and it they could obtain leave to lodge there, to open the gates and whistle. (They said the gates had no locks, but were fastened with pins, and that they kept no watch.) The Squaws had a favorable season to prosecute their projection, for it was dull weather when they came to beg leave to lodge in the garrison. They told the Major that a great number of Indians were not far from thence, with a considerable quantity of beaver, who would be there to trade with him the next day. Some of the people were very much against their lodging in the garrison, but the major said, "Let the poor creatures lodge by the fire." The Squaws went into every apartment, and observing the numbers in each, when all the people were asleep, arose and opened the gates, gave the signal, and the other Indians came to them; and having received an account of the state of the garrison, they divided according to the number of people in each apartment, and soon took and killed them all. The major lodged within an inner room, and when the Indians broke in upon him, he cried out, "What now! what now!" and jumping out of his bed with only his shirt on, seized his sword and drove them before him through two or three doors; but for some reason, turning about towards the apartment he had just left, an Indian came up behind him, knocked him on the head with his hatchet, which stunned him, and he fell. They now seized upon him, dragged him out, and setting him upon a long table in his hall, bid him "judge Indians again." Then they cut and stabbed him, and he cried out, "O, Lord! O, Lord!" They bid him order his book of accounts to be brought, and to cross out all the Indians' debts, (he having traded much with them.) After they had tortured him to death, they burned the garrison and drew off. This narration I had from their own mouths at a general meeting, and have reason to think it true. But to return to my narrative.

I was whirled in among this circle of Indians, and we prisoners looked on each other with a sorrowful countenance. Presently one of them was seized by each hand and foot, by four Indians, who, swinging him up, let his back fall on the ground with full force. This they repeated, till they had danced, as they called it, round the whole wigwam, which was thirty or forty feet in length. But when they torture a boy they take him up between two. This is one of their customs of torturing captives. Another is to take up a person by the middle, with his head downwards, and jolt him round till one would think his bowels would shake out of his mouth. Sometimes they will take a captive by the hair of the head, and stooping him forward, strike him on the back and shoulders till the blood gushes out of his mouth and nose. Sometimes an old shrivelled Squaw will take up a shovel of hot embers and throw them into a captive's bosom. If he cry out, the Indians will laugh and shout, and say, "What a brave action our old grandmother has done." Sometimes they torture them with whips, &c.

The Indians looked on me with a fierce countenance, as much as to say, it will be your turn next. They champed cornstalks, which they threw into my hat, as I held it in my hand. I smiled on them, though my heart ached. I looked on one, and another, but could not perceive that any eye pitied me. Presently came a Squaw and a little girl, and laid down a bag of corn in the ring. The little girl took me by the hand, making signs for me to go out of the circle with them. Not knowing their custom, I supposed they designed to kill me, and refused to go. Then a grave Indian came and gave me a short pipe, and said in English, "Smoke it;" then he took me by the hand and led me out. My heart ached, thinking myself near my end. But he carried me to a French hut, about a mile from the Indian fort. The Frenchman was not at home, but his wife, who was a Squaw, had some discourse with my Indian friend, which I did not understand. We tarried about two hours, then returned to the Indian village, where they gave me some victuals. Not long after this I saw one of my fellow-captives, who gave me a melancholy account of their sufferings after I left them.

After some weeks had passed, we left this village and went up St. Johns, river about ten miles, to a branch called Medockseenecasis, where there was one wigwam. At our arrival an old squaw saluted me with a yell, taking me by the hair and one hand, but I was so rude as to break her hold and free myself. She gave me a filthy grin, and the Indians set up a laugh, and so it passed over. Here we lived on fish, wild grapes, roots, &c., which was hard living to me.