THE IROQUOIS COME
The level stretch of land along the north bank of the Illinois River,
where lay the lodges of the Kaskaskias, swarmed with hundreds of Indian
braves who were eager to be off into the woods and across the plains.
What was so stupid as life among the lodges with the women and old men
when the far-off wilds called them, when streams might carry their
pirogues into lands where their enemies lay sleeping and unwatchful,
when the trails to north and south and east and west might lead them
into woods and fields where bountiful game would fall before their
arrows? Why should the white chief make so serious objection? Other
bands had set off some days before in spite of his protests.
No one had seen signs of the Iroquois, and the alarm raised so often
began to lose its terror. Besides, was Tonty such a good prophet after
all? He had told them that La Salle would return by the end of May, and
now May had long been gone and sure tidings had come that La Salle was
dead.
It was not yet fall. Across the river the leaves of the trees, still
fresh and green, were turning and rippling in the winds. Even the sound
of their whispering said to the Indians: “Soon we will be dropping off
and the frosts will come. Hunting is good. Come away into the woods.”
And they went.
September found not half the warriors left in the village; but Tonty and
his three young men were still there. The two gray-robed Recollets—one
short and sturdy and young, and the other who had seen the seasons
change as often as the old men in the village—withdrew to a cabin in the
midst of a field some distance from the town. La Salle had not come
back; nor had the round-faced priest, who strutted so pompously down to
the water’s edge in February and paddled off with Ako and the Picard
toward the sunset.
The Indians hoped Tonty would continue to stay with them. More than four
months he had lived in their midst, and now it was twice that time since
he had first come into their valley. He dealt with them honestly and
without fear, and he had taught them many new ways. The Illinois were
archers whose fame had spread throughout the length and breadth of the
valley of the Mississippi; but Tonty had shown them how to use the guns
that spat fire and dropped a foe while the bow was bending—the guns that
made the Iroquois so dreaded.
In spite of privation and discouragement, desertions and loss of
friends, Tonty gave no sign that he had lost heart. If only the Indians
could hear again the reassuring words of the lamented Chassagoac and
forget the warnings of his still suspicious brother, Nicanopé, they
could learn to trust the French and to love this white leader like a
brother.
Once Tonty had set off in a canoe to see if he could learn at the
settlement at Mackinac some news of his chief who all people said was
dead. The Indians protested against his departure, but in vain. He did
not go far, however, for the river was at that time so low that he ran
upon shoals and was obliged to return to the village.
Toward the middle of September came the hoped-for rains, and one day
Tonty and his men drew their canoe out of the water, turned it upside
down, and began to renew its coat of gum ready for another trial of the
river. Some of the Indians watched him as he worked with his curious
left-handed movements. Others were too busy entertaining a friendly
Shawnee who was paying a visit to the village. As night came on, the
Shawnee departed, making his way toward the south and west. The rounded
roofs of the village caught the arrows shot by the setting sun and then
sank into dusk. Under each roof Indian men stretched out upon buffalo
hides and lost themselves in dreams. The women arranged the lodges for
the night and then lay down beside brown little papooses whose round
eyes had long been closed. So the quiet night settled down upon the
village. Three times would the oaks along the river sow their leaves to
the winds of winter before another such peaceful night would come upon
the village and its people.
The next day Indians of the village saw the Shawnee come hurrying back,
cross the river, and rush hot-foot into the town. “The Iroquois!” he
panted to the excited chiefs. Two leagues off to the southwest, on the
banks of the Aramoni, a tributary of the Illinois River, he had
discovered an army of five or six hundred Iroquois coming to attack the
village. Turmoil fell upon the Kaskaskias. Where were their warriors?
More than half of them were scattered to the four quarters of the
valley. Only four or five hundred remained. And where were the guns
which Tonty had so carefully trained them to use? Gone for the most part
with the absent warriors. Only a few were left, with ammunition for
three or four shots apiece. The rest of the braves had only bows and
arrows and war clubs. Tonty had been right, but it was no time now to
lament.
A reconnoitring party sent out to spy upon the enemy soon came back in
great excitement. About five hundred Iroquois were encamped along the
Aramoni. They had guns and pistols and sabers. Most of them had shields
of wood or of leather, and some wore wooden breastplates. And with the
Iroquois were a hundred Miamis, armed with bows and arrows. The anger of
the Illinois rose with their fear. The Miamis, their neighbors and kin,
should smart for this afterward. But the spying party had still further
news to tell. Among the moving figures of the enemy they had seen one
arrayed in a black robe and a Jesuit’s cowl. Calmer eyes would have seen
that it was only an Iroquois chief decked out in a black coat and hat.
But the heated imagination of the scouts saw a French priest; while in
another figure they made sure they saw La Salle himself.
If the village had been in a turmoil before, now it was in a fury. Their
worst fears, then, had come true: the French were all traitors. Even
Tonty had deceived them and had his own reasons for trying to get out of
the village before the Iroquois came. Like angry bees the Indians
swarmed to the lodge of Tonty. “Now,” said one of their chiefs, “we know
you for a friend of the Iroquois. The winds of rumor have told us no
lies. We are lost, for the enemy are too many for us and you and the
Frenchmen are their friends.”
In the midst of the furious, gesticulating crowd of warriors Tonty stood
calm. “I will show you that I am not a friend of the Iroquois,” he
replied. “If need be, I will die with you. I and my men will help you
fight your battle.”
Their anger turned to joy as they thought that with such a leader the
good spirits might yet give them victory. There was much to do before
the battle. With swift hands they gathered together a supply of corn;
and when night came ghostly figures moved to and fro as they embarked
the women and children in their long pirogues. Each wooden canoe would
hold thirty or more, and there were hundreds to crowd the little fleet.
With a guard of fifty or sixty men the boats slipped out, one after
another, upon the dark waters. Noiseless paddles dipped in and out as
the barks, filled with provisions and the closely huddled figures, shot
down the stream. They passed the black mouth of the Aramoni, and after
several hours came to a spot six leagues below the village. Here, in a
place made almost inaccessible by the river on one side and a swamp on
the other, they landed and set up camp.
In the Kaskaskia village there was no rest that night. The young braves
were preparing for the battle of the morrow. By long rows of camp-fires,
kettles were hung. Dogs were killed and cooked, for the occasion was one
deserving of so great a ceremony. By turns they feasted and danced in
the flickering light of the fires—weird dances, punctuated with howls
and whoops. The flames of the camp-fires cast the shadows of the dancers
across the open space and against the walls of the lodges like ghostly,
ever-changing spirits; and into the night air rose chants, rhythmic and
uncanny. All the long night through the Indians kept up their rites to
work themselves into a proper spirit for the attack upon the Iroquois—a
fight against odds wherein they needed the help of every manitou or
spirit that could aid them.
Gradually the fires die out as in the east a faint light begins to
spread. The day has come at last, the day which for years the Illinois
have dreaded. They gather with fresh war paint and ready weapons—bows
and arrows, heavy-headed clubs, or skull-crackers, and the few guns that
are left. Tonty is there with two of his men. L’Espérance is to remain
in the village to guard the papers of La Salle; and the two friars,
ignorant of the excitement, are a league away in their retreat in the
fields.
Together the warriors crowd to the river bank, Tonty and Boisrondet and
Renault in the lead, with the naked and painted Indians howling and
whooping about them. Their pirogues cross the stream in a trice. Through
the strip of oaks, over the hill and out across the open meadow, the
warriors, white and red, dash on to the conflict. They approach the
ranks of the Iroquois, but halt in an open field in sight of the enemy.
Tonty will make a last effort at peace and is given a wampum necklace as
a truce offering. Handing his gun to a friend, he walks across the
intervening space attended by a single Illinois. The Indians watch him
closely as he nears the foe. There is a sharp, deadly volley from the
Iroquois. Tonty stops, and sending back the Indian who is with him, goes
on alone. Arrow and ball fly about him, but he reaches the lines
unscathed. Iroquois warriors swallow him from the view of the anxious
Illinois. Only the Indian who has crossed half the open space with him
sees the knife of an Iroquois flash out and bury itself in the side of
the white chief. Then the staggering figure is lost even to his view. A
moment later his hat is raised upon the end of a gun high above the
heads of the foe.
With a cry of rage the whole force of the Illinois breaks again into a
charge, furious to avenge such treachery. The young Boisrondet and
Renault are in the lead, their hair flowing back in their speed, their
set faces full of the lust of battle and revenge. The twisting, howling
figures of five hundred Indians hurl themselves upon the ranks of the
enemy. Then like fiends they fight. The report of the Iroquois guns is
like the cracking of twigs in the forest to the new-found courage of the
Illinois. Their war cries rise above it sharp and shrill. Swift arrows
fly like driving hail. Heavy war clubs crash on Iroquois shield or on
painted head and body. Even the vaunted Iroquois cannot hold against
them. Their left side weakens, then yields, and gives back for half a
league across the meadow.
Then goes up the sudden cry that Tonty is alive. Out of the press of
battling foes he comes motioning them to hold. Gradually the din and the
tumult cease. The Illinois withdraw and count their losses. Tonty
reaches them, weak with the loss of blood from a gaping wound in his
side, but he carries in his hand a wampum peace offering from the
Iroquois.