Frontenac wrote a tale of blood. There were three war parties;
one set out from Montreal against New York, and one from Three
Rivers and one from Quebec against the frontier settlements of
New Hampshire and Maine. To describe one is to describe all. A
band of one hundred and sixty Frenchmen, with nearly as many
Indians, gathers at Montreal in mid-winter. The ground is deep
with snow and they troop on snowshoes across the white wastes.
Dragging on sleds the needed supplies, they march up the
Richelieu River and over the frozen surface of Lake Champlain. As
they advance with caution into the colony of New York they suffer
terribly, now from bitter cold, now from thaws which make the
soft trail almost impassable. On a February night their scouts
tell them that they are near Schenectady, on the English
frontier. There are young members of the Canadian noblesse in the
party. In the dead of night they creep up to the paling which
surrounds the village. The signal is given and the village is
awakened by the terrible war-whoop. Doors are smashed by axes and
hatchets, and women and children are killed as they lie in bed,
or kneel, shrieking for mercy. Houses are set on fire and living
human beings are thrown into the flames. By midday the assailants
have finished their dread work and are retreating along the
forest paths dragging with them a few miserable captives. In this
winter of 1689-90 raiding parties also came back from the borders
of New Hampshire and of Maine with news of similar exploits, and
Quebec and Montreal glowed with the joy of victory.

Far away an answering attack was soon on foot. Sir William Phips
of Massachusetts, the son of a poor settler on the Kennebec
River, had made his first advance in life by taking up the trade
of carpenter in Boston. Only when grown up had he learned to read