THE SECRET COUNCIL
Night came on cold and still. In the river the floating particles of ice
grew into a solid sheet until the stream was covered from shore to
shore. La Salle, having retired with his men to the quarters assigned,
set guards about the lodges and dropped off to sleep. In their own long
lodges the Indians rolled up in blankets and dreamed perchance of the
warpath and the triumphant return of warriors bearing the scalps of the
Iroquois.
In the darkness off to the northeast half a dozen Indians quietly filed
along the trail toward the village. They were loaded down with burdens.
Into the village they slipped stealthily and came to the lodge of the
chief. Soon furtive figures of Indian men were creeping from this lodge
and that until the chiefs and warriors had gathered in a secret night
council with the strangers from the northeast.
La Salle and his men slept on in peace, while Nicanopé and Omawha and
their friends sat in a circle and listened to the words of the nocturnal
visitors. Monso, a Mascoutin chief, was the spokesman, and with him were
five or six Miamis. The burdens they bore were kettles and hatchets and
knives, as presents to accompany the story they had come so secretly to
tell to the Illinois. And this was their message. La Salle was a friend
of the Iroquois. Even now he was on his way to the enemies of the
Illinois on the Great River beyond. He would give these foes arms and
ammunition and come back with them from the west while the Iroquois
closed in from the east. Thus, surrounded and trapped, the Illinois
would meet their ruin. Their only hope was to prevent La Salle from
going farther and from joining their enemies on the Mississippi.
Monso told his message with effect; and fear fell upon the men of the
Peoria village as they pondered over the warning which had come to them
in this weird night council. Beneath the dirt floor of the lodge they
buried the presents which Monso had brought. The strangers, having given
their disquieting news, slipped out into the dark and disappeared as
quietly as they had come; while the Peoria men crept back to their
lodges and tried to forget the alarm which Monso had brought into the
village.
At the secret council in which Monso and the Miamis told their story
there was one who did not share the fear of his fellows; but he said
nothing. The chief Omawha sat quietly throughout the council and passed
out with his brother chiefs without a word. But in the early morning he
came in secret to La Salle and unfolded to him the story of the night.
As on the face of the river that had frozen over since the arrival of
the French, there had come by morning a change in the mood of the
Illinois Indians. Yesterday they were happy and friendly, full of smiles
and good words for La Salle and his dark-skinned companion and the score
and more of their men. To-day they were cold and suspicious. They
believed Monso and feared—feared for their homes and for the lives of
every man, woman, and child of the tribes. The dread of the Iroquois
rose fresh in their minds as they saw in the powerful Frenchmen the
allies of their enemies. The cold sun of winter rose to its highest in
the sky and started on its journey down to the west. Something must be
done and at once or they were lost.
Nicanopé sent word to the lodge of La Salle that he was preparing a
feast for him and his men. Presently through the streets of the Indian
town stalked the strange procession of white men on their way to the
feast. From the entrance of every lodge curious Indians watched the
visitors pass. Most of them, perhaps, followed the movements of La
Salle—long of limb and steadfast of face, with keen eyes, and hair that
flowed down over his collar. But many eyes strayed from him to his
dark-faced, black-haired companion, who appeared to be second in command
and whose right arm as he walked hung by his side with a peculiar
heaviness. This man was Henry de Tonty; and in all the Western world
there beat no braver heart than his. Nor did the gallant La Salle have
truer friend and follower in the troublous days that were at hand.
Besides these two men there were perhaps thirty Frenchmen—some of them
weatherbeaten with many years’ experience in the wilds, and some of them
young and not long arrived from distant France. Here also were three
long-robed and sandaled friars, not gowned in black like Marquette and
the lately departed Allouez, but in gray gowns and hoods. One was young
and short and vigorous; one was old, yet full of spirit. The third
walked with a pompous tread, and a complacent pride sat upon his round
face.
Into the lodge where the feast was to be given the white men filed and
seated themselves with the chiefs and men of the Illinois tribes. Less
than twenty-four hours had passed since the midnight visitors from the
Miami village had told their tale in low voices in the same lodge. It
was not alone a feast that was to be celebrated; for in the minds of the
Illinois was the determination that these bold men should be stopped by
some means from going on to incite their Western enemies. As they looked
upon the two leaders and their company, hostile were their thoughts,
though their eyes did not show it. Yes, La Salle and his men must be
stopped. And so as they squatted on mats on the earthen floor of the
lodge and waited for the feast, the chief Nicanopé rose and began to
speak.
He had not brought the white men there, he said, so much to feast their
bodies as to cure them of the strange madness which possessed them of
going on down the Mississippi. No one went there except to his death.
Terrible tribes who by force of numbers could overwhelm the French dwelt
along the shores. The waters of the river were full of huge serpents and
deadly monsters. Even if their great canoe saved them from these perils,
the channel of the river ran over rapids and fell in torrents over steep
precipices, and finally shot down into a great abyss where it was lost
under the earth, and no living man knew where it went. Such would be the
awful fate of the French if they pursued their journey farther.
The Peorias squatted in silence as they listened to the chief’s warning.
Surely the white men would not venture into such dangers. They watched
the faces of La Salle and his followers for some flicker of fear. Upon
the countenances of La Salle and Tonty no shadow moved. Here and there
among their men were _coureurs de bois_—men who had lived in the Western
country and who understood the words of Nicanopé. They translated them
in whispers to their comrades. Uneasy looks crossed the faces of these
less experienced adventurers, and the keen eyes of the Peorias caught
flashes of fear and dismay on the face of many a French voyager. Their
own hearts rejoiced at these signs of alarm, but their faces showed
nothing save calm unconcern.
But in the words of La Salle they found little comfort when in turn he
rose to reply. For the kindness of Nicanopé in warning them, he thanked
him most cordially. But he was not daunted. If the dangers were great so
much greater would be their glory. Frenchmen were happy, he said, to
perish in carrying the name of their great chief to the ends of the
earth. He believed that the story of deadly perils related by Nicanopé
was prompted either by the friendly desire of the Illinois to have the
white men remain in their village or else by some evil spirit who had
whispered words of distrust. If the Illinois were in truth friendly to
him, let them tell him frankly of the things which disturbed them.
Otherwise he must believe that the friendship they had first shown came
only from their lips.
Nicanopé, discouraged at the failure of his ruse, made no reply, but
presented his guests with food. When they had eaten sagamite and venison
and buffalo meat in silence, La Salle once more rose and continued his
speech. He was not surprised to find the other tribes jealous of the
advantages about to be enjoyed by the Illinois from their relations with
the French, nor was he surprised that the other tribes should start
false rumors; but he was astonished that the Illinois should believe
those tales and hide them from him who had been so frank. Then he turned
and directed his words to the astounded Nicanopé:—
“I was not asleep, my brother, when Monso last night in secret told his
tales against the French and said that I was a spy of the Iroquois.
Under this very lodge the presents with which he tried to persuade you
of the truth of his story are still buried. Why did he take his flight
so quickly? Why did he not speak to you by daylight if he spoke the
truth?”
The Illinois sat silent, but with agitated minds. Amazement and awe
filled their wary eyes. What manner of man was this who, though asleep
in his lodge, divined the hidden secrets of their midnight council? What
great medicine gave him power over the things of the night as well as
the day? Could he read their thoughts? The ringing voice of the white
man continued:—
“Do you not know that, had I wished, in your confusion at my arrival, I
could have killed you all? What need had I of Iroquois allies? Could I
not this very hour with my soldiers slaughter all your chiefs and old
men while your young men are off on the hunt? Look at our burdens. Are
they not tools and merchandise for your benefit rather than weapons with
which to attack you? Run after this liar Monso. Bring him back and let
him face me whom he has never seen, yet whose plans he pretends to
know.”
There was a short pause. Nicanopé had no word to say. Monso was gone and
a snow had fallen upon his tracks. They could not trace him and bring
him back. Their plans had failed. The leader of the French was to them
now a man of wonder as well as fear. Only Omawha of all the Illinois
understood, but he said not a word. Red men and white passed out from
the feast and returned to their lodges. The wooded hills across the
frozen river swallowed the winter sun and early twilight closed down
upon the white landscape.
By the lodges given up to the Frenchmen, La Salle set a guard, and then
lay down to sleep. Tonty, after a last look at the village, turned in
among the robes. In the other lodges, stretched upon mats and wrapped in
buffalo skins, Indian men lay sleeping or thinking of the strange
happenings of the night and day that were gone. If any had watched, as
mayhap they did, they would have seen a second nightly gathering—this
time in the shadows of the Frenchmen’s lodges. Six figures stealthily
exchanged words and signs; and then without noise crept past the
farthest lodge and out across the snow toward the village of the Miamis
whence Monso had come. They were some of those Frenchmen upon whose
faces the observant Indians had seen signs of fear at the words of
Nicanopé.
An hour went by, when a new light began to touch the sky and the woods.
Out from the lodge of La Salle the tall figure of the leader stepped
into the cold morning air. He looked about in surprise. Not one of his
men was to be seen on guard. With quick, fierce stride he visited one
after another of the lodges. In one of them he found only a single
Frenchman, whose companions had not taken him into their plot.
Tonty, awaking, found his leader beside him with serious news upon his
lips. Six of their men—cowards and knaves—had preferred the dangers of
exposure and starvation to the dangers which Nicanopé had described.
They had taken advantage of their position as guards to desert their
leader in the hope of reaching the village from which Monso had come.