Chrétien de Parthenay

Former Wendake/Huronia (Modern-Day Ontario Peninsula)

On the fifth night of their invasion, Chrétien was shaken awake by Gyantwaka. Ever since their departure, Chrétien had not seen the old man’s face. It was hidden behind a large wooden mask, its features warped and crooked. The other warriors called it a False Face—the masks marked him as a member of a reclusive group of spiritual doctors. These False Faces were powerful and revered medicine men, a pan-tribal society of healers that linked the Haudenosaunee to the Wendat, Chonnonton, and other Iroquoian peoples. Chrétien was not sure why the old man had donned the mask. Perhaps it was to cause confusion in the ranks of the Iroquois, who might hesitate to attack such a renowned spiritual leader. Perhaps it was a ritual to prepare him for his job as battlefield medic. But Chrétien could not help but shake the feeling that the old man had his own secrets, things that not even his comrades knew, that perhaps even Jikohnsasee was unaware of.

Regardless of Gyantwaka’s motivations, waking to see a hideous face of twisted wood staring at him with gaunt and hollow eyes was enough to alarm Chrétien. What alarmed him more were the sounds of musket fire that rang out in the nearby woods. They were under attack.

He leaped to his feet, taking in his surroundings. The tight order the army had kept while marching had completely collapsed. Every man fought for himself with no regard for his fellow soldier. The Iroquois had not yet broken into the campgrounds, but seemed to be launching small and focused assaults beyond in the nearby woods.

“Where is Jikohnsasee?” Chrétien asked.

“She’s taken half the men into the woods with her,” Gyantwaka replied.

Chrétien clicked his tongue annoyedly. Already she had done something without even consulting him. We’re supposed to be a team, dammit.

“Find and recall them here,” Chrétien commanded the old man. “If we run out into the woods to chase them, we fight them on their terms. Have them fall back and regroup while I prepare the others. Make it look like they’re fleeing, and if they can, lure the Iroquois back to us.”

Gyantwaka nodded, grabbing a torch and hurrying into the thicket. Chrétien whirled around to see just over a dozen of his Deer warriors. They had taken defensive positions, but it was impossible to see where the enemy was attacking from through the darkness and the cover of the trees. The men just stood there, their confidence wavering as they heard the sounds of gunfire and metallic melees beyond, having no idea what to do.

“Chonnonton, to me!” Chrétien barked. His men obeyed—he had taught them enough French to understand his most essential orders, and they had taught him enough of their tongue to translate if need be. They rallied around him, awaiting an order.

“Form two lines for volleys, on either edge of the forest,” he commanded, gesturing where they should go. “Leave the middle open for the others to reinforce when they return. You four—douse the lights in the camp. We’re open targets for their fire as long as they can see us.”

The men nodded and immediately broke into action, their minds focused and their morale restored by their new orders. Chrétien snuffed out the two lanterns closest to him as the four he commanded did the same in other parts of the camp. One of the French marines saw one of the Deer Men approach. Confused at their sudden actions, the marine must have blindly assumed they were aiding the enemy. He raised his hand to attack one of Chrétien’s men until a musket ball sliced through his neck, killing him instantly. The Deer soldier ignored it, and quickly doused the campfire that had made the shot possible in the first place.

Before long, the camp was shrouded in darkness. The Deer Warriors had trained their eyes many nights to be able to see a few feet in front of them in the darkness, for they knew the Iroquois would most likely assault them at night. The Iroquois were singular and overt in their philosophy towards battle, and that ultimately made them predictable. Their aversion to losing any members meant they conducted their offense to that end—strike quick and fast in small groups, then retreat before the enemy can muster a counter-attack. Ambushing at night therefore was a strategy they were certain to employ, as the darkness would mean less casualties on both sides. But as long as the camp lights were lit, there would only be darkness on one side—the Iroquois could freely fire into them unimpeded, hiding just behind the cover of the treeline. Now, with the lights doused, they were at least on equal ground, even if the creeping darkness of the deep night filled the battlefield with a frightening uncertainty.

“Chonnonton!” Chrétien called again, determined to keep his men focused. “Form up, and steel yourselves! Be ready to intercept the enemy when our allies return!”

The men did so. They formed two lines, facing the encroaching wood on either flank, just in front of the treeline. They readied their arms, though of course they had nowhere to aim. That quickly changed, however, as Chrétien saw Gyantwaka’s torch approaching. He broke through the brush, Jikohnsasee and the rest of the warriors in tow, sprinting back towards them.

“You four!” Chrétien yelled, adapting to the direction they were coming in from. “Form a line on me!”

The four soldiers closest to him broke their old lines, reinforcing him with two on either side. They aimed their guns in the direction of their comrades, to fire on the whooping bands of Iroquois hot on their heels. They came in droves, armed with their tomahawks and bayonets, having likely fired their muskets already in the earlier fracasse.

“Behind us!” Chrétien yelled to Jikohnsasee. “Reinforce the flanks, and form lines of bayonets behind each volley line to support them!”

The fleeing warriors did so, taking their place in two lines. The ones in the lines behind crouched, working to fit their bayonets as quickly as they could. They were clunky and time-consuming to fit into the barrel, and prevented any further shots from being fired, but the returning group had no time to reload anyway, with their pursuers starting to emerge from the brush.

“Fire?” The warrior next to him asked, trying to enunciate the word in French as best he could.

“Hold,” Chrétien said. Ahead of them, the warriors broke through the trees into the camp. There were more than Chrétien expected, running in coordinated groups of three or four, more behind them. The largest force came from behind the retreating party, but Chrétien knew they were not dumb enough to attack from only one side. Whatever groups that planned to flank them had not yet emerged, and so he held his musket still, waiting for the right moment.

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“Fire?” The warrior asked again, shifting in his stance uncomfortably. Chrétien could feel his men’s apprehension coagulate the air, hot and stifling as the Iroquois came closer and closer.

“Hold,” he reaffirmed. “Premières lignes, apprêtez les armes! En Joue!”

All three lines heard him, keeping their guns aimed and steady despite the encroaching forces. Chrétien could practically hear their trigger fingers itch, the hammers beginning to click nervously.

“Fire?”

“Hold!”

Still he waited, and the others followed his lead. Until the first groups of the enemy were nearly upon them, until the bands from the left and right flanks leaped out to surround them. Until he could make out the faces of each and every Iroquois in the scant light of Gyantwaka’s torch.

“Volée!”

The three lines of riflemen fired all at once, and the first bands of the enemy dropped like flies. Two of the front band managed to avoid the fire, and rushed forward. Unfortunately for them, they rain straight into two bayonets, both wielded by the monstrous Jikohnsasee, one in each hand. She roared, using her boot to shove the pierced carcasses off the bladed edges. But the assault was not broken yet, for more approached, in a seemingly endless number. Chrétien immediately retreated behind with his musket, ordering the others in the first lines to do the same.

“Premières lignes, recharger! Deuxièmes lignes, avancez!”

As soon as the first lines retreated, the second lines behind them took their place in front, holding their ground as the Iroquois began their next offense. Though their unit was less than half the size of the other companies, their smaller number gave them an unmatched coordination, with each of the soldiers moving and operating in perfect tandem like links on a chain. The warriors in the back crouched and began to reload their weapons as quick as they could, preparing for another round of fire.

The survivors of the first volley set upon the front guard, locking them in a grand melee. But the bayonets provided a great reach compared to the tomahawks, and many of the Iroquois had dropped their own muskets to pursue their quarry quicker. The few that had kept theirs had no bayonets, so they used their muskets like clubs to bat the opposing lines of spears away. Jikohnsasee and her men took a handful of enemies down, but not nearly enough to cause a dent in the swarm that was starting to overwhelm the Deer company’s modest numbers. But that was fine—the second line did not need to kill so many, only to buy time, and now the first had reloaded.

“En Joue!” Chrétien screamed. The front line stood firm, grabbing their foes still locked in melee and holding them tight and close. Just as they did, the Deermen behind nocked their muskets over the shoulders of their comrades in front of them, using their brothers’ collarbones to steady their aim.

“Volée!”

A second round of fire rang out, obliterating the enemies locked in the grapples. The ones just behind recoiled from the force of their brethren falling back towards them. The complete rebuff of their offense took the Iroquois by surprise, and now they had suffered too many losses. They whooped in dismay, and turned to flee the camp, trying to find cover in the nearby woods. But this was folly too, for Athasata and his Flint-Wielders were already out there, having defeated their own foes. They corralled the Iroquois like sheep, cutting off their escapes and exploiting their shattered resolve. A few escaped, but most were butchered as two companies of French marines reinforced them from the flanks. The battle was over. They had won, and with aplomb—the Deer had not lost a single member of their company.

“Don’t ever run into battle without me again,” Chrétien scolded Jikohnsasee as they began cleaning up the mess left over.

“It’s your fault for staying asleep,” the she-chief returned, shrugging. “How the sounds of gunfire were not enough to wake you continues to astound me.”

Chrétien waved her away dismissively. He stood at attention as he saw Le Marquis approach them, wading through the bodies of dead Iroquois.

“I saw your exploits from the center of camp,” he laughed giddily, clapping like a seal. “By God, you’ve taught these savages the Pike and Shot! Will wonders never cease? Maybe next time they’ll learn a formation that isn’t so dated! Ha!”

“Oui, Monseigneur,” Chrétien replied, trying to ignore his commander’s idiotic taunting. “Pardonne moi. The battle is not quite over yet.”

He turned to leave Le Marquis’ company as quickly as possible, jogging out of the camp into the nearby woods to see if the Flint-Wielders needed help. He saw Athasata standing above one of the last Iroquois left on the battlefield. The man knelt at the chief’s feet, and spoke in pleading tones, cut short as Athasata slit open his throat with a swift slice of his tomahawk. Chrétien approached him as he watched the man bleed out in the grass.

“Are you alright?” Chrétien asked him.

“I knew this man,” the Flint chief said. “His name was Hoyë’gwagwas—one of the many chiefs of the Western Door. He was always arrogant—he had won many battles when I was young, and always bragged about how he could not be killed. I suppose I should be happy to prove him wrong.”

Chrétien reached his hand out to comfort him, but it couldn’t find his shoulder, for Athasata crouched down, squatting over the man’s corpse. He raised his tomahawk high with both hands, bringing it down with enough force to cleave the corpse’s head from its shoulders. He grabbed the head by the hair with his left hand, and with his right doffed the belt of wampum he wore across his chest.

“These belts are important things,” he said. “Many times they are treaties, the white beads signs of peace between two nations. But when treaties are broken, the belts are dyed red, marking the end of peace, and the beginning of war.”

He held the severed head over his belt, letting the innards from the neck drip onto it. Chrétien stood there, watching Athasata douse the delicate white beads with the blood of his enemy. He could not help but think back to the day they left the fort, when Le Marquis had received a letter from Governor Andros of New England. Chrétien supposed it was meant to dissuade their planned offense, to warn that any attack on the Iroquois would be an attack on the English, as their sworn allies. But in truth, he was never able to find out, because Le Marquis never read it. He tore it into shreds as soon as he received it, grinding the scraps of paper into the newly fallen snow with his boot.

“Do you think I care what some English fop has to say about my war?” He said, berating the courier who had brought it. “He is of a breed of rats, skulking and vile. The English build forts in La Baie d'Hudson to cut us off from the north. The English sneak into Michilimackinac, and try to lure our savages away from us. But God forbid we attack the Iroquois, who raid our towns and butcher our countrymen.”

He raised his shoe from the mix of mud and dirt that had covered the letter, only to add his spit to it.

It’s the same, Chrétien thought, as the white cross on Athasata’s belt dripped a crimson red. Everyone knows what war means, what it really is. Everyone knows that this is not just a simple campaign. This is an extermination, a war to end the Iroquois once and for all. None of us will make it through this unscathed, and none of us can ever go back.