The journey east had taken days.

The ambassadors followed the ancient trail that cut through the forests of Western New York. Trail was almost the wrong word for it. Generations of footsteps had worn it into the earth until it resembled a narrow trench, barely wide enough for a traveler moving single file, sunk deeper than the ankle in places. But it was still easier than fighting through the tangled underbrush of the virgin forest.

Even the flats along the treeless banks of the Genesee River—now behind them—had offered little relief. The grass there grew straight and thick, taller than a man.

Still, the air smelled fresh. And hope traveled with the delegation.

Thirty ambassadors of the Cat Nation—the people the French called the Erie—had come to the Seneca capital district seeking peace. They came from the lands west of the Genesee River, where Seneca expansion had begun to press against the hunting grounds of the Erie people.

It was just a mistake. An accident. Something meant to be settled with words, not weapons.

They left the trail and gathered at the council near Sonnontouan.

But hope faded quickly.

The tension in the council house was unmistakable. Words sharpened. Voices rose.

For a moment the room fell silent.

Then it happened.

A Seneca chief lay dead.

No one knows exactly how it happened. Even the French Jesuits who recorded the event could only describe it as “some unexpected accident.”¹

But the consequences were immediate.Continue Reading “Settling Old Scores: The Beaver Wars”