DOWN THE GREAT RIVER
A black-robed priest, a young fur trader, five Frenchmen, and a young
Indian boy sat in two birch-bark canoes on the broad current of the
Mississippi River one summer evening. Having eaten a hurried supper
beside a camp-fire on the bank, they paddled on down the darkening river
so that the fire might not betray them to Indian enemies. Night overtook
them and they anchored their canoes in midstream. Leaving one man on
guard, the rest of the party made themselves as comfortable as possible
in the narrow boats and tried to get some sleep.
The sentinel sat silent in his canoe, but with every sense alert.
Through the long hours of night he watched with keen eye for unnatural
shadows in the dim light of moon or stars and listened for sound of
paddle or stir of wild animals. The adventurers were in a strange
country and they knew not what dangers might lurk beside them while they
slept.
The Indian boy, into whose valley the strangers had come, knew the ways
of the night upon river and shore, but he was now in strange company. It
may be that he, too, was awake, thinking over in his childish heart the
curious ways of these white men. The Peoria village where he had so
lately made his home was many leagues up the river. What lands were they
coming to? When would the monsters of the river, of whom his people had
told him, swallow them, canoes and all, into a terrible death?
When a certain constellation crossed the zenith the sentinel reached
over and waked one of his comrades, then joined the others in sleep. At
length the darkness began to lift, as to the left the faint light of
dawn crept up over the rocky bank of the river. Soon the Frenchmen
awoke, took to their paddles, and began another day’s journey.
Each stroke of the paddles carried the Indian boy farther from his home
and nearer the monsters of the great river. By training a keen observer,
he looked up at a steep wall of rock and caught sight of two strange and
fearsome figures. Terror possessed him, for he knew he was in the
presence of the dread beings of which his people had warned him. There,
painted on the rocks in red, black, and green colors, were two monsters
as large as buffalo calves. They had faces like men, but with horrible
red eyes, and beards like those of bull buffalo; and on their heads were
horns like the horns of deer. Scales covered their bodies; and their
tails were so long that they wound about the body and over the head and,
going back between their legs, ended in the tail of a fish.
It was as if the Indian boy were alone with an evil spirit, for no
Indian was near him. He could ask the white men no questions. They, too,
now saw the dread animals; and with much pointing and excitement began
to talk among themselves, but in a tongue the Indian boy could not
understand. Not daring to look long at the pictured rock, he turned his
face away and sat in his narrow seat uncomforted and filled with that
mystic awe which only people of his own race could feel. The white men
talked on as the canoes swept smoothly downstream.
Suddenly as they talked a dull roar met their ears, growing louder as
they descended the river until they saw a great opening in the bank at
the right and a broad river pour in from the northwest to join them. It
was the Missouri coming down from the mountains a thousand miles away
and hurling into the Mississippi a mass of mud and debris, huge
branches, and even whole trees. The two canoes dodged here and there,
while the men at the paddles, alert now and forgetful of painted
dragons, drove their craft now to the right, now to the left, swerved to
avoid a great tree, or paddled for their lives to outrace a mass of
brush. Vigorous work alone saved them.
Out of danger, the adventurers fell to wondering from what lands came
the mighty stream. The stout-hearted Marquette vowed to stem its
powerful current at some future day and follow its waters to their
source, thinking that he might thus find another stream which would take
him westward into the great Vermilion Sea that lay on the road to China.
But the Indian boy did not easily forget the monsters on the rocks, and
he still looked about him with apprehensive glances.
It was not many leagues farther down the stream that the voyagers came
to another of the fearful dangers of which the Peorias had warned them—a
place in the river where, according to Indian legend, there lived a
demon who devoured travelers and sucked them down into the troubled
depths. As they approached the dreaded spot, they saw a fierce surging
of the waters, driven with terrific force into a small cove. Rocks rose
high out of the stream; and against these the river dashed mightily,
tossing foam and spray into the air. Balked in their course, the waters
paused, then hurled themselves down into a narrow channel.
To the Indian mind, which saw life and humanity, good spirits and bad,
in all of nature, there was an evil spirit in these turbulent waters. It
was with the eyes of his own race that the Indian boy now watched the
high-tossed spray. But the two canoes passed by in safety and soon came
to smoother waters.
Presently the voyagers drew near the broad mouth of the Ohio, in whose
valley, raided from time to time by fierce tribes of the Iroquois, were
the villages of the Shawnee Indians. Along the shores were canes and
reeds that grew thick and high. Mosquitoes began to gather in swarms
that made life miserable for the men as they toiled in the heat of the
day. But following the way of the Indians of the Southern country, they
raised above their canoes tents of canvas which sheltered them in part
from both the mosquitoes and the burning sun.
So sailing, they came one day unexpectedly upon a group of armed
Indians. Up rose Marquette and held high the pipe of peace, while Joliet
and his comrades reached for their guns to be ready should an attack be
made. This time, however, they were safe; for the Indians were only
inviting them to come ashore and eat. The voyagers landed and were led
to the village, where the Indians fed them upon buffalo meat and white
plums.
It was evident that these Indians were acquainted with white men, and
that they bought goods of traders from the East; for they had knives and
guns and beads and cloth and hatchets and hoes, and even glass flasks
for their powder. Venturesome Englishmen from the Atlantic Coast had
perhaps sold them these things in exchange for furs. With the Spanish
firmly settled in the Southwest, and the English—long-time enemies of
France—pushing in from the East, it was high time that the French came
down the river, if the Great Valley of the Mississippi were ever to be
brought under the flag of France.
The Indians now told Marquette and Joliet that the great sea to the
south was only ten days’ journey away; and so with renewed energy the
band of eight set out once more in their canoes. Huge cottonwoods and
elms now lined either shore, and bright-plumaged birds darted from limb
to limb; while in the hidden prairies beyond could be heard the
bellowing of wild buffalo.
As they drew near a village of Michigamea Indians, whose lodges were
almost at the water’s edge, the voyagers heard the savage yells of
warriors inciting one another to an attack. Soon they swarmed along the
shore with bows and arrows, and with hatchets and great war clubs. In
vain did Marquette hold up the calumet of peace. Downstream the Indians
climbed into their long dugouts and pushed up to attack the strangers
from below; while upstream other young warriors launched their wooden
canoes and swept down the river with hoarse cries of battle. Hemmed in
by the two war parties in boats, and with armed enemies howling along
the river bank, death seemed very near to the Frenchmen. The warning
words of the Peoria chief had told them of just such an end.
Perhaps the twinkling lights of the Canadian river towns and the smiling
face of France had never seemed so far away as now in these untraveled
stretches of the Great Valley. And the Indian lad—before him lay either
death or captivity. In just such scenes as this he had passed from tribe
to tribe. It may be that his young mind now carried him back to the
village where the smoke rose from the lodges of his own people, where
his own mother had unloosed the thongs that bound him to the cradle of
his papoose days, and taught him to run over the green prairies and in
the cool woods with the other lads, learning to draw a bow and trap wild
creatures of the forest and roll about in the sun, naked and healthy and
happy.
But this was not a time to think of other days. A handful of young
braves threw themselves into the river to seize the small canoes of the
white men; but finding the current too strong, they put back to the
shore. One raised his club and hurled it at the black-robed priest.
Whirling through the air it passed over the canoes and fell with a
splash into the river. Nearer and nearer closed the net of enemies about
them, until from every side bows began to bend and arrows drew back,
tipped with death.
Suddenly their weapons dropped. Older men among them, perhaps
recognizing for the first time the pipe of peace which Marquette still
held, restrained the impetuous young braves. Coming to the water’s edge
as the white men drew nearer, two chiefs tossed their bows and quivers
into the canoes and invited the strangers to come ashore in peace.
With signs and gestures Indians and white men talked. In vain did
Marquette try, one after another, the six Indian languages which he
knew. At length there came forward an old man who spoke a broken
Illinois tongue. Through him Marquette asked many questions about the
lower river and the sea. But the Indians only replied that the strangers
could learn all they wished at a village of the Arkansas Indians, about
ten leagues farther down the stream. The explorers were fed with
sagamite and fish; and, not without some fear, they spent the night in
the Indian village.
The next morning they continued their journey, taking the old man with
them as an interpreter; and ahead of them went a canoe with ten Indians.
They had not gone many leagues when they saw two canoes coming up the
river to meet them. In one stood an Indian chief who held a calumet and
made signs of peace. Chanting a strange Indian song, he gave the white
men tobacco to smoke and sagamite and bread made from Indian corn to
eat. Under the direction of their new guides the Frenchmen soon came to
the village of the Arkansas, which lay near the mouth of the river of
that name.
Here under the scaffold of the chief they were given seats on fine rush
mats. In a circle about them were gathered the elders of the tribe; and
around about the elders were the warriors; and beyond the warriors in a
great crowd were the rest of the tribe eager to see and hear the strange
men who had come down from the north. Among the young men was one who
spoke the Illinois tongue better than the old man, and through him
Marquette talked to the tribe. In his talk he told of the white man’s
religion, and of the great French chief who had sent them down the
valley of the Mississippi.
Then he asked them all manner of questions about the trip to the sea.
Was it many days’ journey now? And what tribes were on the way?
It was only on occasions like this that the Indian boy understood what
was said, for usually his companions in the canoes spoke the melodious
but to him wholly unintelligible French. He now listened to the Illinois
tongue with keen interest. The young interpreter was telling of their
neighbors to the north and east and south and west. Four days’ journey
to the west was the village of an Illinois tribe, and to the east were
other friendly people from whom they bought hatchets, knives, and beads.
But toward the great sea to the south, where the white men wished to go,
were their enemies. Savage tribes with guns barred them from trade with
the Spaniards. All along the lower river the fierce tribes were
continually fighting; and woe betide the white men if they ventured
farther, for they would never return.
As the Indians told of the dangers of the river below the mouth of the
Arkansas River, large platters of wood were continually being brought
in, heaped with sagamite, Indian corn, and the flesh of dogs. Nor did
the feast end before the close of day.
Meditating upon the warnings of their hosts, the white men made ready
for the night. When they had retired on beds raised about two feet from
the ground at the end of their long bark-covered lodge, the Indians held
a secret council. Some of the warriors had looked with envious eyes upon
the canoes, clothes, and presents of the whites. Why not fall upon the
strangers by night, beat out their brains with skull-crackers or Indian
war clubs, and make away with the plunder? To some of the covetous
Indians it was a tempting plan. The whites were defenseless and hundreds
of leagues from their friends. Who was there to avenge their death?
But to the chief, who had welcomed the visitors with the pipe of peace,
the bond of friendship was sacred. He broke up the schemes of the
treacherous braves, dismissed the council, and sent for the white men.
Then with the pipe of peace in his hand he danced before the strangers
the sacred calumet dance; and as he closed the ceremony he gave into the
hands of Marquette the calumet. It was a token, sacred among all
Indians, that peace should not be broken, and that the whites would be
unharmed.
The Frenchmen, however, did not sleep much. Joliet and the priest sat up
far into the night and counseled together as to whether they should go
on to the sea or turn back. They were now very near to the sea, they
thought—so near that they were confident that the river continued
southward to the Gulf of Mexico, instead of turning to the west or east
to the Vermilion Sea or the Atlantic Ocean. Indeed, they believed that
in two or three days they might reach the Gulf.
But in the country between the mouth of the Arkansas and the mouth of
the Mississippi skulked fierce and murderous tribes; while not far away
were the Spaniards. Should they fall into the hands of enemies and lose
their lives, who would tell to France the story of their marvelous
journeyings? Their beloved nation would lose all knowledge of their
expedition and therefore all claim to the Great Valley by right of their
exploration. Then, too, there seemed little more to be learned in
traveling the balance of the way to the mouth. Joliet was anxious to
report to his government the story of the expedition, and Marquette was
full of eagerness to tell his brother priests of the Indians whom he had
met and the great work that lay open to their missionary efforts.
As a matter of fact, the voyagers were many a long day’s journey from
the river’s mouth. But happy in the thought that they were nearly there,
Joliet and the priest at last determined to turn back upstream and carry
to New France the wonderful tale of their pioneer voyage down the great
untraveled river.