The well in the center of the Castle was there in the event the fort was ever surrounded and besieged. After the British captured and occupied it in 1759, they feared the French might have poisoned the water. So they filled the well with dirt and covered the top with large, flat stones that matched the rest of the floor. It was not until the 1920s that the well was restored.
In those early years a burial ground lay just outside the massive gates, and over its entrance was painted, in large characters, the word REST. Just how some of the poor wretches were sent to their “rest” in this barren field is open to speculation. Undoubtedly, there were those who came straight from the dungeon to the burial ground, for this fort also served as a harsh prison.
The dungeon, called the Black Hole, was a dark and dismal place. Over in one corner was a barbarous apparatus used for strangling those who offended the despotic rulers of a time when both justice and mercy were in short supply. On the dungeon’s walls, from top to bottom, prisoners had laboriously carved their names, a few pitiful words, or a family emblem.
Imagine the distress of one merchant at the fort who decided to hide some valuables in the dungeon when an attack was expected by superior British forces. He went there late one night and, on the wall, from among hundreds of French names, one leaped out at him. It was his own family name, d’Artagnan, carved in large letters.
Once, the bones of a woman were found when it became necessary to clear out an old mess-hall sink, confirming people’s suspicions that the fort was often the scene of foul murder. Thus, amid the natural beauty of the land and the lake, it is clear that the most atrocious crimes also took place in Old Fort Niagara. But let us return to our story.
During any occupation, there is a need for celebrations to break the monotony, and the French often held parties on the third floor of the Castle. It was the custom of the officers to invite a number of Indian girls from the nearby Seneca village. Among the Senecas, women had considerable power and were respected. They both nominated members of the tribal council and removed them if they misbehaved.
Henri Le Clerc, a young man of a good family from Bordeaux, France, had left early on the evening of the party with several fellow officers to escort the women to the Castle. Henri had personal reasons for going, as his heart had been captured by a lovely Indian girl named Onita. They had no sooner arrived at the Seneca village, however, than a cloudburst occurred, and no one wanted to leave until it was over. On the return to the Castle, the sky was clear and the night was beautiful, complete with an enormous full moon. Henri and Onita lingered a little behind the others, admiring the moon and happy in each other’s company. By the time the girls and their escorts reached the Castle, the wine was flowing freely, for Henri could hear loud talk and outbursts of laughter as they mounted the stairs to the third floor.
“The party is already quite noisy,” remarked Onita. Henri agreed. “If some of the men begin to get out of hand, I’ll take you back to the village early,” he said.
When the girls entered the room, cheers rang out; for a time there was singing and dancing, and all went well. Unfortunately, an officer named Jean-Claude de Rochefort, whom Henri particularly despised, had pulled up a chair and seated himself on the other side of Onita. Jean-Claude was a former seaman, and if he had not once been a pirate, Henri was certain he was at least a scoundrel. Jean-Claude also fancied himself irresistible to the ladies. All efforts that Henri and Onita made at conversation were futile, for Jean-Claude constantly interrupted.
With more wine, his behavior worsened. Several times Onita shook de Rochefort’s hand from her arm, but he continued to become even bolder. “Mon petit chou, why do you resist me?” he said, placing his arm around her shoulders and attempting to pull her close.
“Because you are a pig!” the angry young woman shot back at him.
“Why, you little . . . ,” shouted Jean-Claude, seizing her roughly and thrusting his face close to hers.
Henri jumped from his chair and struck Jean-Claude’s face such a blow that he released the girl in surprise. There was the thud of fists striking flesh and bone. Jean-Claude was getting much the worst of it. He leaped behind a chair and, to the other officers’ surprise, drew his sword. Henri had to retreat enough to draw his own weapon.
Henri thrust repeatedly at his attacker, and the greater amount of wine that Jean-Claude had consumed was now giving Henri the advantage. The blade of Henri’s sword nicked de Rochefort’s arm, then his cheek. Other officers at first tried to stop them but then assumed that the duel would end when one or the other was wounded. Jean-Claude was always volatile, but tonight his temper, combined with alcohol and the insult to his pride, had sent him into a frenzy. Henri had the skill and ability to outlast his foe, however, and the other officers knew it. He withstood the mighty, slashing blows that deflected
