WE MEET WITH DANGER
It was late in the afternoon of the second day when we arrived at the
forks of the Chicago river. There was a drizzle of rain in the air,
and never saw I a more desolate spot; a bare, dreary plain, and away
to the eastward a glimpse of the lake.
A hut of logs, a mere shack scarcely fit for shelter, stood on a
slight eminence, giving wide view in every direction, but it was
unoccupied, the door ajar. Barbeau, in advance, stared at it in
surprise, gave utterance to an oath, and ran forward to peer within.
Close behind him I caught a glimpse of the interior, my own heart
heavy with disappointment.
If this miserable place had been the headquarters of M. de la
Durantaye, evidently it was so no longer. Not a vestige of occupancy
remained, save a rotten blanket on the floor, and a broken bench in
one corner. Rude bunks lined two walls, and a table hewed from a log
stood in the center of the dirt floor. On this was a paper pinned to
the wood by a broken knife blade. Barbeau grasped it, and read the
writing, handing it back to me. It was a scrawl of a few words, yet
told the whole story.
"Francois Cassion, under commission of Governor la Barre, arrived
with party of soldiers and Indians. At his orders we accompany the
force to Fort St. Louis.
"De la Durantaye."
"Perhaps it is as well," commented De Artigny lightly. "At least as
far as my good health goes; but 'tis like to make a hard journey for
you, Madame."
"Is it far yet until we attain the fort?"
"A matter of twenty-five leagues; of no moment had we a boat in which
to float down stream, but the trail, as I remember, is rough."
"Perchance there may be a boat," interrupted Barbeau. "There was the
wreck of an Indian canoe a mile below here on the Des Plaines, not so
damaged as to be beyond repair, and here is a hatchet which we will
find useful." He stooped and picked it up from under the bench. "One
thing is certain--'tis useless to remain here; they have left the
place as bare as a desert. 'Tis my choice that we make the Des Plaines
before dark."
"And mine also; are you too greatly wearied, Madame?"
"I? Oh, no! to escape this desolate place I will go gladly. Have men
really lived here?"
"Ay, more than once," replied De Artigny. "'Tis said the _engagés_ of
Père Marquette built this hut, and that it sheltered him an entire
winter. Twice I have been here before, once for weeks, waiting the
arrival of the _Griffin_, alone with Sieur de la Salle."
"The _Griffin_?"
"The ship which was to bring us provisions and men. 'Twas a year later
we learned that she went down in the sea, with all aboard. How long
was M. de la Durantaye on station here?" he turned to Barbeau.
"'Tis three months since we came from St. Ignace--a dreary time
enough, and for what purpose I could never guess. In that time all we
have seen has been Indian hunters. I cannot bear to remain even for
another night. Are we ready, Madame? Shall we go?"
The Des Plaines was a narrow stream, flowing quietly through prairie
land, although bordered along its shores by a thin fringe of trees. We
moved down along its eastern bank for perhaps a half league, when we
came to the edge of a swamp and made camp. De Artigny built a fire,
and prepared my tent of boughs, while Barbeau waded out around a point
in search of the wrecked canoe. He came back just at dusk towing it
behind him through the shallow water, and the two men managed to drag
it far enough up the bank to enable the water to drain out. Later,
aided by a flaming torch, we looked it over, and decided the canoe
could be made to float again. It required two days' work, however,
before we ventured to trust ourselves to its safety.
But the dawn of the third day saw us afloat on the sluggish current,
the two men plying improvised paddles to increase our speed, while I
busied myself in keeping the frail craft free from water by constant
use of a tin cup. This oozed in through numerous ill-fitting seams,
but not fast enough to swamp us in midstream, although the amount
gained steadily on me in spite of every effort, and we occasionally
had to make shore to free us of the encumbrance.
Yet this voyage south along the Des Plaines was far from unpleasant,
despite the labor involved and the discomfort of the leaking canoe.
The men were full of cheer and hope, some of it possibly assumed to
strengthen my courage, but no less effective--Barbeau telling many an
anecdote of his long service in strange places, exhibiting a sense of
humor which kept us in continuous laughter. He was, indeed, a typical
adventurer, gay and debonair in presence of peril, and apparently
without a care in the world. De Artigny caught something of the
fellow's spirit, being young enough himself to love excitement, and
related in turn, to the music of the splashing paddles, numerous
incidents of his wild exploits with La Salle and De Tonty along the
great rivers of the West.
It all interested me, these glimpses of rough forest life, and I
questioned them both eagerly, learning many a truth the histories fail
to tell. Particularly did I listen breathlessly to the story of their
adventurous first voyage along the Illinois, following the trail of
raiding Iroquois, amid scenes of death and destruction. The very
horrors pictured fascinated me even, although the grim reality was
completely beyond my power of imagination.
'Twas thus we passed the hours of daylight, struggling with the
current, forcing our way past obstacles, seeking the shore to drain
off water, every moment bringing to us a new vista, and a new peril,
yet ever encouraged by memory of those who had toiled along this
stream before us. At night, under the stars and beside the blaze of
campfire, Barbeau sang rollicking soldier songs, and occasionally De
Artigny joined him in the choruses. To all appearances we were
absolutely alone in the desolation of the wilderness. Not once in all
that distance did we perceive sign of human life, nor had we cause to
feel the slightest uneasiness regarding savage enemies.
Both men believed there was peace in the valley, except for the
jealousy between the white factions at Fort St. Louis, and that the
various Algonquin tribes were living quietly in their villages under
protection of the Rock. De Artigny described what a wonderful sight it
was, looking down from the high palisades to the broad meadows below,
covered with tepees, and alive with peaceful Indians. He named the
tribes which had gathered there for protection, trusting in La Salle,
and believing De Tonty their friend--Illini, Shawnees, Abenakies,
Miamis, Mohegans--at one time reaching a total of twenty thousand
souls. There they camped, guarded by the great fort towering above
them, on the same sacred spot where years before the Jesuit Marquette
had preached to them the gospel of the Christ. So we had no fear of
savages, and rested in peace at our night camps, singing aloud, and
sleeping without guard. Every day Barbeau went ashore for an hour,
with his rifle, tramping along beside us through the shadowing forest
screen, seeking game, and always coming back with plenty. We would
hear the sharp report of his gun breaking the silence, and turn the
prow of our canoe shoreward and pick him up again.
Owing to the leaking of our canoe, and many difficulties experienced,
we were three days in reaching the spot where the Illinois and the Fox
rivers joined their waters, and swept forward in one broad stream. The
time of our arrival at this spot was early in the afternoon, and, as
De Artigny said Fort St. Louis was situated scarce ten miles below,
our long journey seemed nearly ended. We anticipated reaching there
before night, and, in spite of my fear of the reception awaiting us,
my heart was light with hope and expectation.
I was but a girl in years, excitement was still to me a delight, and I
had listened to so many tales, romantic, wonderful, of this wilderness
fortress, perched upon a rock, that my vivid imagination had weaved
about it an atmosphere of marvel. The beauty of the view from its
palisades, the vast concourse of Indians encamped on the plains below,
and those men guarding its safety--the faithful comrades of La Salle
in explorations of the unknown, De Tonty, Boisrondet, and all the
others, had long since become to my mind the incarnation of romantic
adventure. Wilderness born, I could comprehend and appreciate their
toils and dangers, and my dreams centered about this great, lonely
rock on which they had established a home. But the end was not yet.
Just below the confluence of the rivers there was a village of the
Tamaroas, and the prow of our canoe touched the bank, while De Artigny
stepped ashore amid a tangle of low-growing bushes, that he might have
speech with some of the warriors, and thus learn conditions at the
fort. With his foot on the bank, he turned laughing, and held out his
hand to me.
"Come, Madame," he said pleasantly, "you have never seen a village of
our western tribes; it will interest you."
I joined him gladly, my limbs feeling awkward under me, from long
cramping in the boat, yet the climb was not difficult, and he held
back the boughs to give me easy passage. Beyond the fringe of brush
there was an open space, but as we reached this, both paused, stricken
dumb by horror at the sight which met our view. The ground before us
was strewn with dead, and mutilated bodies, and was black with ashes
where the tepees had been burned, and their contents scattered
broadcast.
Never before had I seen such view of devastation, of relentless,
savage cruelty, and I gave utterance to a sudden sob, and shrank back
against De Artigny's arm, hiding my eyes with my hand. He stood and
stared, motionless, breathing heavily, unconsciously gripping my arm.
"_Mon Dieu_!" he burst forth, at last. "What meaneth this? Are the
wolves again loose in the valley?"
He drew me back, until we were both concealed behind a fringe of
leaves, his whole manner alert, every instinct of the woodsman
instantly awakened.
"Remain here hidden," he whispered, "until I learn the truth; we may
face grave peril below."
He left me trembling, and white-lipped, yet I made no effort to
restrain him. The horror of those dead bodies gripped me, but I would
not have him know the terror which held me captive. With utmost
caution he crept forth, and I lay in the shadow of the covert,
watching his movements. Body after body he approached seeking some
victim alive, and able to tell the story. But there was none. At last
he stood erect, satisfied that none beside the dead were on that awful
spot, and came back to me.
"Not one lives," he said soberly, "and there are men, women and
children there. The story is one easily told--an attack at daylight
from the woods yonder. There has been no fighting; a massacre of the
helpless and unarmed."
"But who did such deed of blood?"
"'Tis the work of the Iroquois; the way they scalped tells that, and
besides I saw other signs."
"The Iroquois," I echoed incredulous, for that name was the terror of
my childhood. "How came these savages so far to the westward?"
"Their war parties range to the great river," he answered. "We
followed their bloody trail when first we came to this valley. It was
to gain protection from these raiders that the Algonquins gathered
about the fort. We fought the fiends twice, and drove them back, yet
now they are here again. Come, Adele, we must return to the canoe, and
consult with Barbeau. He has seen much of Indian war."
The canoe rode close in under the bank, Barbeau holding it with grasp
on a great root. He must have read in our faces some message of alarm,
for he exclaimed before either of us could speak.
"What is it?--the Iroquois?"
"Yes; why did you guess that?"
"I have seen signs for an hour past which made me fear this might be
true. That was why I held the boat so close to the bank. The village
has been attacked?"
"Ay, surprised, and massacred; the ground is covered with the dead,
and the tepees are burned. Madame is half crazed with the shock."
Barbeau took no heed, his eyes scarce glancing at me, so eager was he
to learn details.
"The fiends were in force then?"
"Their moccasin tracks were everywhere. I could not be sure where they
entered the village, but they left by way of the Fox. I counted on the
sand the imprint of ten canoes."
"Deep and broad?"
"Ay, war boats; 'tis likely some of them would hold twenty warriors;
the beasts are here in force."
It was all so still, so peaceful about us that I felt dazed, incapable
of comprehending our great danger. The river swept past, its waters
murmuring gently, and the wooded banks were cool and green. Not a
sound awoke the echoes, and the horror I had just witnessed seemed
almost a dream.
"Where are they now?" I questioned faintly. "Have they gone back to
their own country?"
"Small hope of that," answered De Artigny, "or we would have met with
them before this, or other signs of their passage. They are below,
either at the fort, or planning attack on the Indian villages beyond.
What think you, Barbeau?"
"I have never been here," he said slowly, "so cannot tell what chance
the red devils might have against the white men at St. Louis. But they
are below us on the river, no doubt of that, and engaged in some hell
act. I know the Iroquois, and how they conduct war. 'Twill be well for
us to think it all out with care before we venture farther. Come, De
Artigny, tell me what you know--is the fort one to be defended against
Iroquois raiders?"
"'Tis strong; built on a high rock, and approachable only at the rear.
Given time they might starve the garrison, or drive them mad with
thirst, for I doubt if there be men enough there to make sortie
against a large war party."
"But the Indian allies--the Algonquins?"
"One war whoop of an Iroquois would scatter them like sheep. They are
no fighters, save under white leadership, and 'tis likely enough their
villages are already like this one yonder, scenes of horror. I have
seen all this before, Barbeau, and this is no mere raid of a few
scattered warriors, seeking adventure and scalps; 'tis an organized
war party. The Iroquois have learned of the trouble in New France, of
La Salle's absence from this valley; they know of the few fighting men
at the Rock, and that De Tonty is no longer in command. They are here
to sweep the French out of this Illinois country, and have given no
warning. They surprised the Indian villages first, killed every
Algonquin they could find, and are now besieging the Rock. And what
have they to oppose them? More than they thought, no doubt, for
Cassion and De la Durantaye must have reached there safely, yet at the
best, the white defenders will scarcely number fifty men, and
quarreling among themselves like mad dogs. There is but one thing for
us to do, Barbeau--reach the fort."
"Ay, but how? There will be death now, haunting us every foot of the
way."
De Artigny turned his head, and his eyes met mine questioningly.
"There is a passage I know," he said gravely, "below the south banks
yonder, but there will be peril in it--a peril to which I dread to
expose the lady."
I stood erect, no longer paralyzed by fear, realizing my duty.
"Do not hesitate because of me, Monsieur," I said calmly. "French
women have always done their part, and I shall not fail. Explain to us
your plan."