FORT BRADDOCK LETTERS. LETTER I. [figure description] Page 003.[end figure description]

Fort Braddock, April 3, 1821.
Dear Jim,

IT is now spring—the buds are bursting
through all the wilderness about me; but the cold
rains which are constantly descending, make my
condition so cheerless, that I write to you merely
to pass the time. Why I was doomed to spend my
winter here so solitary, or when I shall have the
good luck to shift my quarters, for any other spot,
is past my skill to divine. Any other spot—the
Arkansas, the Rio Colorada, the Council Bluffs,
the Yellow Stone, any place but this. Was I dangerous
to government, that they should have contrived
for one poor subaltern, this Siberian banishment,
where I am ingeniously confined, not by
a guard placed over me, but by having the command
of about five and twenty men, that the spring
discovers in a uniform of rags.

I did suppose that I was more profitably employed
in another part of the state of New-York, on
that noble boundary of lake, and river, and cataract,
where I thought that my services had not only
insured me a continuance in the army list, but
entitled me to promotion.

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I came here five months ago, with a dashy suit
of new regimentals, a bright epaulette, and as tall
a white feather as there was between the straits of
Mackinaw and the heights of Abraham. With
this dear-bought equipage, I meant to have figured,
if not in the vicinity of New-York or Boston, at
least in some neighbourhood of gentilty, where I
might have gone to balls, lived at a tavern, figured
in full panoply before the ladies, and passed my
winter like a military man. But you know not
why I complain, or even where I am, for the map
is a blind guide to this part of the country.

You have seen the flourishing condition of this
and the neighbouring states. The towns, the villages,
the cultivated farms, the roads, the wealth,
and the spread of an industrious population, that
has converted, so suddenly, what was termed this
western wilderness, into a delightful and animated
landscape. It should seem like the changing
scenes in a theatre, or the operation of magic. No
tide like this, however, has set in to vary the prospect
within many a pathless mile of Fort Braddock.
I verily believe that the whole western
world, to the Pacific itself, will be filled up with
turnpike gates every three miles, and set out into
school districts, before any serious encroachment
will be made on this forbidden region. It will remain
as it was when Lord Amherst found it, and
he found it as it was a thousand years before, when
it must have been a sort of city of refuge for the
Indians, where the avenger of blood could not pursue,
or where he could not find them if he did.—
And yet, Jim, when I first came here, my head was
so full of romance from reading the Scotch novels
and poetry, that I admired it for its wild and rugged
scenery, and complimented myself with having
a taste for the sublime. From the top of a rock

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as high as St. Helena, I can see the waters of
Champlain, and the course of the Sorelle, till it
loses itself at a distance among the northern hills.
The borders of Vermont are covered with evergreen,
except where they glitter with snow, and
the view to the westward is intercepted by mountains
still higher than the precipice on which I
stand. The hill sides are covered with gigantic
trees, which seem intended to give shade to the
mammoth. And yet the fowl fly beneath me, and
I sometimes conceit that the noise of the thunder
comes from below. The road, difficult at all times,
was so impassible in winter, that I should be agreeably
surprised, even by the enemy; and the conversation
of a Dutch teamster savors to me much
of literature, as it would of humanity to Robinson
Crusoe. How do you think I pass my time? I
have the reveille and tattoo beat till the rocks echo.
I drill and discipline my twenty-five men, and
march them in echelon, as if they were the army
of the Rhine, and make them cry “all's well,” as
loud as if they mounted guard on the rock of Gibraltar.
I draw my rations in kind, but Uncle
Sam's alcohol is rather too much for me. The
Postmaster-General has no knowledge of this part
of the country; and I strongly suspect that the
Adjutant-General himself has forgotten it. Indeed,
this seems the place that Cowper wished for—“a
lodge in some vast wilderness,” where, to say nothing
of the “rumors of oppression and deceit,” I
seriously believe, though a soldier, that the noise


“Of unsuccessful or successful war
Will never reach me more.”

I should have deserted long since, but for a
source of amusement, to me perfectly accidental.
You must know that this fort is ancient, and has
been garrisoned at a time when its solitude did not

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form so strong a contrast to the rest of the country;
the graves of the soldiers of those who were
for the time connected with the garrison, are often
found; and the instruments of civilized and savage
warfare are frequently dug up together. The remains
of larger works and temporary barracks,
excite curiosity and give rise to conjectural disjointed
stories among the scattered inhabitants,
and anecdotes are told, in which times, places, and
persons, are strangely confounded.

From these tales, sometimes marvellous, and generally
inconsistent, as they are differently related
by the Dutch and the Yankees, the Negroes and
the Indians, I should have neither patience nor curiosity
to extract an intelligible narrative, had not
chance furnished me with the means, at a time
when I had no other amusement.

It happened that in clearing out one of the
ditches where the parapet was lowest, serjeant Gap
struck with his spade something that sounded hollow.
It was a trunk, which contained a few articles
of little value, and a collection of papers, letters,
&c. several from men of whom I had heard
and read; and among others, a pretty connected
account of events in which I felt an interest, because
they related to persons, many of whom had
been, in other circumstances, on the spot where I
now am. As I have leisure, I think of writing it
off, with the addition of some hints contained in
the letters, and some alteration in the order of the
narrative, though not in the events. You can then
read it to your mess at the cantonment, and pay
me by sending the National Intelligencer that has
the army list. Direct to the nearest Post Office,
at Mumblety-peg, near. Rattlesnake Falls, and I
will see that it reaches your old friend,

LETTER II.

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I received your letter, marred and soiled from
the distance and difficulty of the way; but it contained,
safe and sound, the printed enclosure that
I sent for, by which I learn my prospect of promoion,
and the chance of shifting my quarters. Oh!
if my good luck should send me, a military traveller,
among the unexplored regions west of the
Mississippi! what a book! and in military style
too! will I make! What a chance to make a fortune
did Lewis and Clark let slip; and what a
chance for immortality did Commodore Porter
lose, when he suffered his attention to be withdrawn
from his book by so slight a matter as an
action from the Phœbe and Cherub. In expectation
of such a chance, I have already prepared my
travels in part, as I presume is often the case with
travellers of zeal and industry; for all the figures
of speech, poetic quotations, and descriptions of
the sky and weather, (whereof we have here a fac
simile of all sorts,) may as well be done in preparatorio,
as any other way—so that I shall find little
else remaining than to fill up the blanks, as a
lawyer does a writ.

You claim the slight attention of a little incident
here in digging up some mutilated papers, as
a promise from me to send you a connected summary
of the Braddock Manuscript. Alas! these
documents are so sadly rubbed and worn, that it is
with difficulty I can join them. The dates of
months and years, as is common in most old letters
and papers, were worn out, and without books, as
I am here, what a figure I should make in supplying
the chronology. The mess at Sacket's Harbour,
you know, used to laugh at me, because I
could never remember the year when America was

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discovered; and I cannot tell to this day, without
cyphering, the year when I was born—and yet I
must attempt an order in the connexion, and of
course to supply dates. I do not mean to compare
my efforts to any thing great; but you remember
laughing when we were at Philadelphia, at the ribs
and bones of good new white oak, that were supplied
in the skeleton of the mammoth. My materials
are in the style of Mather's Magnalia—what
think ye of such new wine as mine in such old bottles?
But to the matter in hand—you are pleased
to express curiosity, which I write only to gratify.

The course of the mail, and the state of the
roads, postage, distance, &c. must excuse any want
of punctuality in my communications, But I
think I may say, you shall in time have what little
there is of it. The conclusion of this fragment I
ean hardly make out myself, and some spots, as
you will notice, are a little obscure. An antiquary
would be assisted, no doubt, by an old muster
roll, which I found among the papers, many of the
names on which are marked “D'd;” and his conjectures
might be aided by an examination of the
skeletons dug up about here, in the very bones of
which are the heads of Indian arrows.

Among other things in the old box, was a sword
belt, worked in crewel, with the name of Miles
Standish, which I mean to send to Squantum, at
the next celebration of the landing at Plymouth—
or perhaps wear it myself at a meeting of the Tammany
Society, in the face and eyes of the Sachems
and Sagamores, of whom this great Indian-hunter
killed so many. To give the thing somewhat an
air, I shall now and then quote a line or so of modern
poetry—not to show my learning, for the subalterns
of those days were as much more learned
than the same grade in Uncle Sam's late army, as

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the clergy of those days surpassed, in the same
particular, their worthy successors in these degenerate
and money-saving times.

I shall now make out the story as near as I can,
and send it from time to time, as the best opportunities
offer. Please to give me your undivided attention.

THE BRADDOCK MANUSCRIPT.

More than a century ago, in the evening of a
day in September, three students in the college
which was then at Saybrook, and which is now
known at New-Haven by the name of Yale College,
were seated in a room in the only building
which that institution had then to boast of. Something
like a commencement was at hand, and these
young men had parts to perform at the approaching
public exhibition, when they were to receive
the honours of that infant seminary. The Rev.
Mr. Devonport, with his cap and band had already
arrived in town; the rector, Williams, was expected
from Wethersfield, in the first boat down the
Connecticut river; the Rev. Mr. Saltonstall, the
Clergyman at New-London, afterwards the Ambassador
to the Dutch settlement at Manhattan,
now New-York, and shortly after the Governor of
this colony, was expected to accompany his Excellency
Governor Winthrop, from New-London;
and most of the clergy from the churches then
gathered, it was thought would attend. The word
splendid is a relative term—it was used by our ancestors,
and was good English as long ago as the
time of Richard the lion-hearted. They expected
a splendid commencement at Saybrook. The native
stock of female beauty for which that town,

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even to the present day, is famous, was to be increased
on the occasion by the great-grandmothers
of the present generation, then in the bloom of
youth, who came, some on foot and some in canoes,
from the shores of the river. The more highborn
and wealthy came on horseback, and generally
rode double; they were dressed in cloth of their
own manufacture, made up by themselves in the
fashion of the day, with long waists, short sleeves,
&c. their stockings were blue, and their shoes were
not morocco. Yet the manuscript speaks of bright
eyes, rosy cheeks, smiling lips, pearly teeth, and
all the witchery of female charms. This sad taste
on the part of the writer, considering the unimproved
state of the female costume, can only be accounted
for by the fact, that these classic beaux
themselves wore, (except on public days,) checked
shirts and butternut-coloured coats, with long
backs, full skirts, and large pewter buttons. It is
even said that in those days of simplicity, one of
the lay members of the corporation rode with beetle
rings in the place of stirrups.

At the meeting I have mentioned, this display
was in expectancy. The conversation of these
young men related in part to their approaching
separation, and the course of life they would pursue.
They read to each other several compositions.
One of them by the name of Dudley, from
the vicinity of Boston, whom his parents had always
intended for a military man, and who was
soon to enter into the small but active naval service
of the times, had prepared an oration in Greek
upon civilizing the Indians.

Another, whose name was Van Tromp, whose
Dutch parents had owned the very spot where Fort
Braddock now stands, and had lived in its vicinity,
had written a piece of pastoral poetry on the

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pleasures of retirement, which, as he was quite
homesick for this charming retreat, was said to be
very feeling. His parents were dead, and he was
to return with a considerable property and much
family influence to his large but wild estate, which
was then known by the Dutch name of Hardzscoggin.
At the early age of twenty he was to be master
of his own conduct—and with ample means
for the times, was to be the head man among servants
and dependants, and the new settlers in his
neighbourhood.

The remaining member of the trio, was a reserved
youth, who had formed no intimacy during his
stay at the college, but with these two companions.
He had never, until now, spoke of his origin or his
prospects; his name was Du Quesne. He made,
upon this occasion, rather a melancholy disclosure
to his companions, that he knew little or nothing of
his parentage; that he had been constantly supplied
by a gentleman in New-York, with a quarterly
payment of money, which was remitted from
France by some unknown hand, accompanied by
letters not signed, which directed the plan of his
education. He was to return to New-York and
attempt the study of law. He had always been
better dressed than the other students, and wore,
by express direction, one of the most rare and extravagant
ornaments of the day—a large gold
watch of curious and expensive workmanship.—
Great care had been taken to supply him with additional
books and private instructions upon several
branches of science not professedly taught in
the college. A turn of mind rather melancholy,
inclined him to study, and made him a scholar.—
He not only learned the dead languages, which
were then better understood than at present, but he
spoke French, and had a good acquaintance with

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polite literature. He read, in his turn a little essay,
which he proposed to speak, on the uncertainty
of fortune, and the vicissitudes of human life,
some of which, it afterwards appeared, he was
doomed to experience. The unsettled state of this
new country, and their approaching separation for
a distance of time and space which they could not
determine, was then the topic of conversation;
they spoke of their pilgrimage as lonely, and
dwelt with the enthusiasm of young men upon the
great benefits that might result from union and mutual
assistance. They seemed each to feel the want
of support, and expressed their confidence; this
ended, before their separation for the night, in solemn
pledges for future friendship, which they engaged
should be of so serious and practical a kind
that if any one of them should at any time in their
lives be involved in difficulty, or need assistance,
the others should immediately, on notice, be bound
to render it, at the expense of every hazard, whether
of person or of property. Upon the strength
of this compact, they parted in better spirits.

It is said that the commencement was celebrated
with more parade than was expected—for, in addition
to the dignities of church and state, whose attendance
was as punctual as usual, the celebrated
Captain Mason, on his return from an Indian victory,
on his way to Stonington, stopped at the
town and honoured the company with his presence.
It is of this very occasion he speaks in a manuscript
account of his campaign, which is still extant,
in which he commends the good conduct of
Lt. Gardiner, who then commanded the garrison
on the platform, where, to use his own language,
he was “formally received and nobly entertained
with many great guns.”

LETTER III.

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The scholars were dismissed from Saybrook, and
each betook himself to his home, and entered upon
the course of life which his friends or his fortune
had prescribed for him. Du Quesne, with
whom we must at present continue, repaired to
New-York, where, upon his being admitted to the
bar, as in due time he was, his mysterious supply
of money was withheld, and he was left without
relatives or connexions, to make the usual slow and
uncertain progress in the business of his profession.
He was of a temperament much too sensitive for
his own comfort, in a calling which, at that time
at any rate, however it may be at present, exposed
him to personal altercation, contradiction, and that
sharp and harsh collision which tries and strengthens
the passions of the heart, at least as much as
it does the faculties of the mind.

He had a natural and easy eloquence, and more
taste and learning than most of his associates.—
His attention to his business was strict, but it was
forced, and his occasional success embittered his
enemies more than it conciliated his friends. He
even conceited at times, that the courts before
which he practiced had their favourites, and that
he was not in the number. Sometimes neglected,
always opposed, and often mortified, he yet patiently
persevered—though he soon found himself
the object of personal enmity, and was convinced
of attempts to defeat his progress. He resolved to
exert his industry to acquire the means of support
in some place in the new settlements, as remote as
was consistent with personal security, where land
was cheap, and where independence might be

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easily purchased. This vision of comfort he cherished
in secret, and resorted to it in his day dreams
as his standing consolation. But his enemies were
too active, and shortened the period which was necessary
to his success. Some bills and papers relating
to claims in a suit to a large amount, and
which were entrusted to him, were missing, as he
found when he was preparing his cases. He
searched in vain—his anxiety amounted to distress—
he feared to ask for any accommodation, for it
was attended with the risk of disclosure. Those
who had artfully accomplished their object, by involving
him in this embarrassment, were little likely
to show him favour. There was no alternative—
after weeks of agony the term began—the suits
were defeated—the was personally liable for the
loss, and industriously exposed to censure. His
employers were advised to their remedy against
him, and the least of his troubles was the constant
expectation of being arrested.

One morning very early, with an agitated mind,
he crossed the river to the Jersey shore, for the
sake of relieving or indulging his melancholy, and
having to himself a few moments of solitude and
security. There was a retired spot at no great
distance from the shore, sheltered by trees, and
surrounded with rural beauty, which seemed to invite
the solitary, and offer its quiet scenery to
soothe the angry passions, and imperceptibly substitute
feelings of a softer kind. And yet, this is
the very spot, which from that day to this, has
been the battle-ground of wounded honour. How
often has it witnessed the worst of passions, and
how rich has been the blood that has at times been
shed there! To this spot he was unconsciously
approaching, when he was roused by the near report
of fire arms. He quickened his pace in the

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direction of the noise, and on coming to a natural
lawn among the trees, discovered a man upon the
ground, apparently wounded, and just fallen.—
Three others were hastening through the thicket,
and evidently bent on a hasty escape. The nature
of this transaction was evident. He called upon
the fugitives in vain—he followed them some distance,
till they were out of his sight, and returned,
when he found there was no hope of assistance, towards
the wounded man. He stopped in his way
only to take up a pistol which lay on the ground
about ten paces distant from the object of his attention.
On reaching the wounded man, what
was his astonishment to find his own most bitter
enemy and rival lay speechless and dying. He
looked up with an expression unutterable, when he
saw who it was that came to his assistance, made
a violent attempt to speak, gasped and died. At
this moment Du Quesne was stooping to raise the
body, already lifeless, when several men who had
been alarmed by the same noise which drew him to
the place, rushed hastily upon him, and, as he began
artlessly to ask them for help, secured him as
their prisoner, and charged him with the murder.

His surprise made his answers incoherent, and
his agitation, to their eyes, was evidence of his
guilt. In this state of mind he was re-conveyed
to the city, taken before a magistrate, and charged
with the fact. On the examination it appeared
that the pistol found in his possession had been recently
discharged; the lock was sprung, and the
smell and marks of newly burnt powder were strong
about it. A surgeon had extracted a ball from the
dead man, which exactly corresponded to the calibre
of the pistol. It was likewise in proof, that
there had been a bitter enmity between the deceased
and the accused.

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“You are a lawyer, Mr. Du Quesne,” said the
magistrate, “and know that you can answer or not
to the charge. What say you, is there any reason
why you should not be fully committed for trial?
The offence is not bailable you know.”

“And if it was,” said Du Quesne, “I have no
bail.”

“Do you choose,” continued to magistrate, “to
attempt any defence or explanation? It will be
evidence against you, you know, and not in your
favour. But you are agitated—take a moment's
time.”

This moment's time helped to compose the prisoner's
spirits. He cast his eye round a room filled
with boys and men, black and white, ragged,
dirty and vulgar. It occurred to him how absurd
it was, in the presence of such an audience, to say
to a Dutch Justice, that his morning walk was one
of sentiment, and that the scenery and silence operated
upon his mind to cross the river.

He contented himself with a simple declaration
of his innocence, which he knew the Justiee did
not believe, and mustering his self-possession, said,
that he was without evidence and without friends.
He uttered this last word with a voice and in a manner
that would have outdone the best of actors. A
tear slid upon his long and drooping eye-lash, and
fell upon the floor—it was succeeded by another—
his face was fixed, and the last word, friends, had
recalled to his mind some strong recollections.

The Justice was looking fully at him, and felt
for his distress. He had no great opinion of the
deceased, and as far as morals were concerned,
could excuse the man who met his adversary in an
honourable way. He went up to him and led him
to the further corner of the room—

“My worthy friend,” said he, “confess the

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whole; I'll help you, if I can—he was a good-for-nothing
fellow, and I have no doubt was fairly killed—
come, tell me what you have got to say.”

“Mr. Van Erp,” said the prisoner, “upon my
soul's safety, I am not guilty.”

“Oh, I know that,” said the Justice, “it is no
great crime in a fair way to dispose of such a fellow,
especially in such a case—but don't deny the
fact; you may confide.”

“Yes I do confide, when I tell you I did not
do it.”

“What! not shoot him?”

“No, I did not.”

“Be it so,” said the Justice, incredulously shaking
his head, “you are a lawyer, and have heard
the evidence, and you know I must commit you—
delay is useless.”

The Squire, as he was termed, made out the
mittimus himself, (for in this country the magistrates
have no clerks,) and Du Quesne was followed
to the gaol by the rabble that had attended his
trial. The gaol then stood on the East River, near
the centre of that busy spot, where there are so
many slips and grocers—where the streets are so
dirty and the passing so difficult. The building
itself was made partly of stone and partly of logs;
and the gaoler's house, in which the keeper and
family lived, was a part of the building. The
gaoler too was a man of some distinction, and by
virtue of his office was a member of the city corporation.
In one of the cells of this establishment
was our high-minded and aspiring friend
locked up, and left to his meditations. It was some
time before he could regain his self-possession, and
his busy thoughts then suggested to him the certainty
of his fate, the shortness of the interval, and
the agonizing reflections with which that interval

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must be marked. The gallows would be the last
object before his closing eyes at night, and the first
thought which the mild beam of morning would
bring along with it. His very slumbers were disturbed
with dreams—dreams of the throng of faces
which would surround the place of his execution,
vacant, vulgar and unfeeling—dreams of the cart,
the hangman, and the coffin on which he should
sit, and of the awful dialogue with his ghostly confessor
about his future state—the dread memento
of the sheriff, “you have half an hour to live,”
and the grave ready dug at the foot of the scaffold.
The dreams would awake him only to the consciousness
that all was true. When awake, he meditated
on his hopes of acquittal. The law on duelling
was very severe, and the common law called
it murder. The statute, however, in those sad
times, unlike those of modern and more impartial
days, was unequally administered. Some who had
friends could transgress with impunity, while others
were left to the rigoar of the law. It was easy
for the judge to show that the law was plain, and
that conviction was inevitable. It was equally satisfactory
to hear him put analogous cases, and
show that the man, who on sudden provocation
would be guilty only of manslaughter, if he should
exercise a noble forbcarance, and give his adversary
a chance for his life, would commit a crime still
less, when he killed his man in a fair and honourable
duel.

But our friendless prisoner knew very well that
very little ingenuity from the bench would be exercised
in his favour. The most impartial direction
would be that the law should take its course.

Nearly five years had elapsed since his residence
at Saybrook. To this last peaceful period of his
life his thoughts naturally recurred, and dwelt on

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the only friendship with which his days had been
sweetened. Dudley was probably on the ocean;
and would hear of his misfortunes only to bewail
his death.

He knew well where Van Tromp lived, but
could not see how he could assist. Yet his presence,
his influence, and perhaps his council, if not
to avert, might relieve his sufferings. There was at
that time a regular communication kept up between
the Dutch settlement at New-Amsterdam, and the
French Posts on the Canada line, by the way of
the North River and Lake Champlain. To be
sure, as the residence of Van Tromp was out of
the way, and the country wild, the arrival of a letter
was uncertain. Yet as he had nothing else to
do, he determined, if only to feed his hopes, to
write letter after letter, by every return of the carrier,
and by every opportunity of sending to that
vicinity.

His letters were nearly of the same tenor, all
conversant about the same thing. The only one
preserved is the following:—

Gaol at New-Amsterdam,——.

My dear and only friend—I am here confined as
a criminal, on a capital charge, and am to be tried
in about ten months, with no hope of being acquitted.
To you it is not necessary that I should go
into detail; I know your confidence in me to be
such, that you will believe me when I say, that I
am perfectly innocent; for I would not call you to
the rescue of the guilty. My only solace now is,
that I can repose upon your friendship with perfect
security, and rely on your exertions as fully
as on my own. My thoughts are too distracted to
devise any mode of assistance; I leave that to you.

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Yet use your influence, and though it may all be
in vain, let me, if possible, see you once more.

CARLOS DU QUESNE.