THE FORT CALLED CRÈVECŒUR
For ten days the air was snapping with cold, and the river beside the
Peoria village remained frozen. In the hearts of the Peorias lingered
the chill of fear, for in spite of his denunciation of Monso they could
not banish their doubts of the French chief; and the dreaded Iroquois
invasion, which had haunted them for years, was very present in their
thoughts as the Frenchmen passed among them.
When Indians once see fear betrayed in public, they never forget; and
now for some of La Salle’s men the Peorias had only contempt, for not
all of those who had shown fear at the words of Nicanopé had fled to the
woods. Others of the French, such as Ako, the _coureur de bois_, were of
a different breed. Bold, strong, experienced in woodcraft by many years
in the wilds, they commanded at least consideration from the Indian
warriors.
As for the three gray-robed friars, they did no harm and there was a
curious mystery about their ceremonies that pleased the Indians’
childlike hearts. One of these friars—Father Hennepin—looked far more
like a man who loved the world and the joys of life. He strutted about
the village with all priestly meekness smothered by his interest in his
surroundings. Very conscious was he of his own greatness, and well
satisfied that without him the little band of French would be in sore
straits.
It was with different feelings that the Peorias looked upon La Salle and
Tonty. They feared them greatly and still retained their suspicions, but
with their fear and suspicion there was also respect and awe. They
recognized in them the qualities an Indian loves—strength, utter
fearlessness, and a determination that breaks down all obstacles. About
each of these men there was mystery which baffled the wits of the
Indians and excited their interest even more than did the medicine men
of their own tribes.
Of the past of these two remarkable men the Indians knew nothing; they
could not read the tale of danger and hardship that had marked the years
of La Salle, or the story of the pitfalls and snares laid by his enemies
for his destruction. They could not know that at Fort Frontenac, when La
Salle was on his way to their country, one of his men had put poison in
his food. Nor did they know of the incident at the Miami portage, where
one of his followers, walking behind, had raised his gun to shoot his
leader in the back and was prevented only by the quick arm of a comrade.
They knew that six of the men had deserted and gone off into the woods,
but they did not know that on that same day in their own village another
of his treacherous knaves had again tried to poison him.
They knew nothing of the early experiences of Henry de Tonty, of the
seas he had sailed and the fights he had fought by land and water in the
service of the King of France. Nor did they yet know the faith with
which he served his leader and friend La Salle. But a sure instinct told
the red men that here were two men whom they would love as friends or
fear as enemies.
One chill day followed another. Most of the young men were still off on
the hunt and warpath. Those who remained at home mended their weapons,
smoked, and idly watched the women at work on mats and robes—but never
for a moment let go the thought or sight of the white strangers in their
midst.
In the middle of January the ice melted, the air dropped its sting, and
the friendly earth appeared from beneath the snow. La Salle and the
friar Hennepin stepped into a canoe and paddled down the river to a
point half a league below the village. Soon Tonty and the rest of the
band joined them. On the left-hand side of the river, two hundred paces
from the edge of the water, rose a small hill. In front of it there was
a stretch of low swampy ground, and on either side were deep ravines.
The inquisitive Indians who slipped along the shore to watch the
movements of the white men saw them at work digging a ditch behind the
hill to connect the two ravines. Around the edge of the hill a line of
earth was thrown up, making a wall which sloped down into ditch and
ravine and marsh. Then a palisade of logs was erected twenty feet high.
Inside this stockade in two corners the busy Frenchmen built lodgings
for themselves, a cabin for the three friars in the third corner, and a
storehouse in the fourth. Along the rear wall the forge was set up, and
in the very midst of the inclosure were the quarters of La Salle and
Tonty. To this stronghold beside the Illinois River, La Salle gave the
name of Fort Crèvecœur.
Another work that astonished the Indians still more went on at the bank
of the river. Here the men felled great trees, hewed them into timbers,
sawed planks, and began to build a mighty canoe such as the men of the
tribe had never seen. With a forty-foot keel and a twelve-foot beam, no
Peoria could doubt that it would make its way safely down the Great
River that ran through the land of their enemies.
Many times did the Indians wonder in their hearts whether or not the
French chief believed in the tales of terror that Nicanopé had spoken.
They saw him little at the village now, for he and his men had moved
down to the new Fort Crèvecœur; but there was never a time when Indian
figures, none too busy at home, did not peer through the bushes or sit
boldly by, fascinated by the busy doings at the fort and primitive
shipyard.
Far to the south, meanwhile, a band of the young men were on their way
home from the warpath. Many leagues ahead of them hurried one of the
band, a young warrior sent on to tell the village of their approach.
Over the plains and through tangled woods he plodded on weary feet. He
was less than three leagues from the village now, but he was tired and
very hungry. As he trudged along, he came upon a figure somewhat strange
to his eyes. But he had seen the traders who came now and then down the
rivers from Canada and he knew this man for a Frenchman. He saw, what
was more pleasing to his needs, that the stranger carried four wild
turkeys. Far spent with hunger, he called to him and asked for food.
The white man handed him one of the wild turkeys. With eager hands the
Indian lighted a fire, swung over it a kettle which he carried with him
and proceeded to cook the fowl. While the fire licked the sides of the
kettle the strange white man asked him of his journey and inquired about
the Great River that ran through the countries of the South. The young
warrior picked up from the fire a charred bit of wood and with it drew,
on a piece of bark, a careful diagram which showed the course of the
river and the streams that fell into it. Then he gave the names of these
streams and told of the tribes that dwelt along them, and the white man
wrote them down in his own language on the bark.
Everywhere along the Mississippi the young Indian had traveled in a
pirogue, and never was there a fall or rapids to obstruct his way. Not
even were there sandbars, save near the mouth in the heat of
summer-time. The two men talked of these things for some time, while the
Indian rested and appeased his hunger. Finally the Frenchman gave to the
red man a hatchet and asked him to say to no one that he had met him.
With his lips thus sealed by the white man’s gift and his stomach made
glad by the white man’s game, the young Indian turned aside and
accompanied his new friend with some awe to the newly built fort,
instead of passing on to the village.
Early on the morning of the next day, in the village of the Peorias, a
group of Indians were gathered in the lodge of one of the chiefs. They
were feasting in great joy upon the meat of a bear—a delicacy much
prized among them. Suddenly a form darkened the entrance to the lodge
and La Salle strode in among the squatted Indians. He paused in their
midst and looked about before he spoke. A smile of triumph was on his
lips.
“Perhaps you do not know,” he said, “that the Maker of all things takes
especial care of the French. In answer to my prayers he has revealed to
me the truth concerning the Great River, which your frightful tales
prevented me from learning.”
Then he went on to tell the astounded Indians of all the windings of the
Mississippi, of the smooth current upon which a canoe might ride to its
mouth. He described each river that entered it from the east and from
the west, and named each tribe that dwelt on its borders. Nowhere was
there fall or rapids to obstruct one’s way, and only where the river
broadened out at the mouth were there shallows and sand and mud-bars.
Each twist and turn, each rocky cliff and entering stream he seemed to
know as if he had spent months in paddling up and down the river in an
Indian pirogue.
The bear meat was forgotten. The Indians sat silent, their hands clapped
to their mouths in amazement. What great power or “medicine” did this
man possess that enabled him to watch what occurred in secret nightly
councils, and to see and describe hundreds of leagues of the course and
valley of the Great River he had never visited? Like children caught in
mischief, they confessed that all he said was true and that they had
deceived him only to keep him in their midst.
La Salle departed from the lodge, leaving them with troubled minds. How
strange and wonderful were these men of fair faces and flowing hair. And
what did their presence bode for the Indian? Were they their friends, or
were they at heart friends of the Iroquois? Who knew how near to their
villages were bands of painted warriors of the Five Nations? Yet, though
suspicion lay heavy upon their hearts, they looked with covetous eyes
upon the hatchets and knives, the kettles and weapons that the white men
brought.