# Myths and Legends Beyond Our Borders/Two Melicite Victories

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TWO MELICITE VICTORIES
SUNDRY miles of the country watered by the St. John—the river of that name in New Brunswick, for it is applied to other waters; indeed, there are not saints enough to go around—are and long have been the haunts of the Melicites, and although they now wear trousers, read the papers, and make a dollar or so a day as canoemen, they boast of many achievements in war. Especially venomous were the Mohawks, and two of their ​victories against those people were unusual. Near Muniac a peninsula juts into the St. John. It is a long way around, and a short cut is offered across the isthmus. The Melicites knew this and the Mohawks did not, and through the device known to theatrical managers who give a "cheap numerosity to a stage army," the invaders were turned back and no lives were lost. Finding their enemy encamped in force on the shore opposite this point, evidently intending an attack on some villages below that were peopled only by women, children, and old men, the braves being absent on a search for deer and Mohawks, a little company of six Melicites proceeded to multiply itself. The men had three canoes, and in them they paddled downstream as fast as possible and as far as possible from the hostile camp. But they did not go home. They turned around the point, out of sight behind the trees, then scrambled across the isthmus, embarked, and came down once more, the boats being well strung out. As boat after boat went by for half a day, the Mohawks, who had had no idea that there were so many hundred Melicites, became thoughtful, then sad. They felt that they had been lured away on a dangerous errand, and, so deciding, they packed up their belongings and returned to their own habitations.
The victory at the Grand Falls of the St. John was won by equally clever strategy, but it had its tragedy. Indeed, there have been many tragedies ​in this gloomy chasm, with its seventy-foot plunge of waters, from the times when the Melicites used to fling their prisoners over Squaw Rock into a black depth two hundred feet below, to these later days when lumbermen have been drawn into the torrent and their bodies never given back to the sight of men. Two or three centuries ago, at least, the Mohawks descended the river to do injury to the people who dwelt beside it. At the mouth of the Madawaska they paused for a few minutes to wipe a village out of existence. A few of the people escaped, but all on whom hands could be laid were killed, excepting only a squaw. Her life was spared on condition that she would act as their pilot down the stream, for they knew that there were dangers to navigation between them and the populous Melicite town of Aukpak. The woman gained their confidence by leading them safely over some rapids, and, as the current was strong and they were constitutionally opposed to work, they roped their canoes together and allowed the river to carry them. Their guide occupied a place in the first boat, and was warned that she would die if she misled them. Suddenly the shores came together in a savage gap, and the current grew more swift. The squaw looked straight ahead with impassive face. And now a deep roar was heard. She told them it was a stream falling into the St. John. Then, as the fleet swung about a point, the misty gulf disclosed itself, while a thunder of water stunned ​them. They realized their danger, and rowed with frenzy for the shore. But it was of no use. They were in the river's grasp. The squaw gave a loud cry of triumph, there was a faint crash of splintering canoes on the tooth of rock below, then victory and silence.