Listen to the magic of Old Shaman Means!
Old Shaman Means talked to his manitou—
Had a little talk with his personal manitou—
Little White Fawn, his personal manitou!
Listen to the manitou of old Shaman Means!
We’ll go to Caughnawaga, Caughnawaga, Caughnawaga
With the personal manitou
Of old Shaman Means!
Remember Caughnawaga where Verrieul had friends!
We can go to Caughnawaga
And get started toward the war!
Spread the news of Caughnawaga
Where we got to go ashore,
Or Shaman Means’s manitou
Won’t let you go to war!

… When I saw Verrieul transmitting Shaman Means’s message to Sponge-belly, I had a sudden superstitious faith in Doc’s magic that made me wonder whether I myself had become part Indian.

Caughnawaga was already in sight on the right bank of the river; the great flotilla of canoes to which we belonged, sweeping to the left, was preparing to land on the left bank to carry over the rapids; but Sponge-belly, looking sullen, was sending our own canoe to the right and Caughnawaga.

LI

THE Indian town of Caughnawaga lies on the southern shore of the St. Lawrence, nine miles above Montreal, at the point where the river bursts into the thundering turbulence of Lachine rapids.

The word “Caughnawaga,” in the Algonkian tongue, means “town where Christians live”; and since Indians, unlike white men, insist on applying sensible and truthful names to towns and rivers, Caughnawaga is inhabited by Christian Indians who hold religion in higher esteem than tribal bonds. Thus, in Caughnawaga, one finds Iroquois, Hurons, Abenakis and Ottawas living happily together in the Indian manner; and one also finds white men and women who have become Indians and risen to positions of importance among their fellow Indians.

As Indian towns go, Caughnawaga wasn’t bad. It had a chapel with a bell-tower, several warehouses, some dilapidated fortifications, left over from the old French wars, and a varied assortment of houses and wigwams made from rough boards, bark, skins or rushes, depending on the fancy of the builders scattered haphazard around the point where Turtle River falls into the St. Lawrence.

The inhabitants struck me as peculiar. Certainly they were different from the red men to whom we had been accustomed. They were smaller, and their color was muddier, showing that their blood was mixed.

Indians are said to be filthy, but the houses of the Sacs had been cleaner than the cabins of most white men, whereas the very simplicity of their belongings had given their homes an air of neatness in spite of the meagerness of their furnishings.