THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI
For several days the canoes of La Salle’s party passed wet banks and
thick canebrakes. No longer were to be seen the otter and the flattailed
beaver, for they had been driven out or devoured by the alligators that
now infested the river. As the canoes slid past these huge monsters,
sometimes nearly twenty feet in length, the Frenchmen sat snugly in the
center of their barks for fear of following the way of the beaver.
At length the Arkansas guides indicated a small cove into which a little
brook flowed. It was the beginning of the inland trail to the Taensas;
and so the whole party landed and pitched camp on the shore of the bay.
La Salle asked Tonty to take with him the two guides, a Frenchman, and
one of the New England Indians and proceed up the brook toward the
villages.
The men paddled their canoe as far as the water would permit, then
packed it upon their shoulders, and under the guidance of the Arkansas
Indians picked their way across the swampy country. Finally they reached
a lake lying in the form of a crescent, and crossing it in their canoe
they came upon an Indian town. The men in the canoe drew in their
paddles and stepped out on the shore of the lake. Tonty looked in
amazement at the Indian village before him, for in all of his wanderings
over the continent he had never seen houses like these. Instead of
lodges made of bark or mats or skins fastened to a framework of poles,
here were great houses built with thick walls of sun-dried mud and
dome-shaped roofs of canes.
To the Arkansas guides, however, the village presented no strange scene.
They were in familiar country; and when they reached the shore they
began a weird Indian song. Back in the village the Taensas who heard
them knew they were friends, and came out to welcome them. They led the
visitors first to the lodge of the chief, which was a building forty
feet in length with walls two feet thick and ten or twelve feet high,
surmounted by a domed roof that reached to a height of about fifteen
feet.
They passed through the doorway and stood in the semi-darkness of a
large room. In the center of the room a torch, made of dried canes, was
burning. Its light gleamed upon shields of burnished copper that hung on
every wall and lit up dimly hides painted with all manner of pictures.
In the flickering light of the torch white-robed figures stood out from
the dusk of the room. They were old men of the tribe, sixty of them, and
they stood facing an alcove where, on a couch, with his three wives
beside him, sat the chief. He was dressed like the old men, in a white
robe made from the bark of the mulberry tree; and pearls as big as peas
hung from his ears.
There were girls and women in the room, and here and there a child with
its mother; but over all the group was a respectful quiet, a dignified
reverence for the chief who sat upon the couch gazing curiously at Tonty
and his companions. The old men, standing with their hands upon their
heads, burst out in unison with a cry, “Ho-ho-ho-ho,” and then seated
themselves upon mats laid on the floor. The visitors also were given
mats to sit upon.
One of the Arkansas guides rose and began to address the chief. He told
him that the white men had come to make an alliance with him, but just
now they were sorely in need of food. Then he swung from his own body a
buffalo skin and presented it to the chief. Tonty, too, delighted him
with the gift of a knife—for the knives and hatchets of the Taensas were
rude instruments made of flint.
The chief ordered food to be sent to the men who were waiting over on
the Mississippi and a banquet to be prepared for their guests. It was a
dignified feast, at which slaves waited upon the chief. They brought him
dishes and cups, made of pottery with the fine art in which his people
excelled. No one else used his dishes or drank out of his cup.
A little tottering child started to cross the floor between the chief
and the flaming torch. With a quick reproof his mother seized him and
made him walk around the torch. Such was the respect which they paid to
the living chief; and when a chief died it was their custom to sacrifice
perhaps a score of men and women, that they might accompany him to the
country beyond the grave and serve him there.
When the feast was over and the visitors came out from the lodge of the
chief, they saw across the way a building somewhat similar in shape and
size. It was the sacred temple of the tribe. Into the mud walls that
inclosed it were stuck spikes on which were hung the skulls of enemies.
On the roof, facing the rising sun which the Taensas worshiped, were the
carved figures of three eagles. Inside the temple were preserved the
bones of departed chiefs. An altar stood in the middle of the room, and
here the sacred fire was kept burning. Two old medicine men sat beside
it, unwinking and grave, guarding it by day and by night.
The chief was highly pleased with his visitors. If the man who had sent
Tonty to his village had been an Indian, it would have been beneath the
chief’s dignity to call upon him. But he sent word to La Salle by Tonty
that he would pay him a visit, and on the next day he set out. He sent
before him a master of ceremonies with six men to prepare the way. They
took with them a beautifully woven mat for him to rest upon, and with
their hands they swept the ground over which he would pass. As he came
down the little creek in his dugout canoe his followers beat upon drums
and his wives and the other women in the party sang songs of praise. He
landed and approached La Salle’s camp, dressed in his white robe and
preceded by two men carrying white plume fans and a third bearing two
shields of shining brass. The two chiefs met and exchanged presents; and
after a quiet call the dignified Taensas chief returned to his village
on the lake.
When La Salle’s men pushed their canoes out from the shore of the cove,
well laden with provisions from the Taensas, they left behind their
Arkansas guides and four of the New England Indians who were fearful of
the dangers below. But there were now two new members of the party, for
the Taensas had given to Tonty and his Mohegan companion two slave boys,
captured from the Coroas farther south.
They had not gone far when they observed upon the river a single canoe,
to which a number of the party gave chase. The canoe of Tonty,
outstripping the others, had nearly reached the strange bark when they
saw a band of perhaps a hundred Indians, armed with bows and arrows, on
the shore ready to defend their comrade in the canoe. Tonty, after
consulting with La Salle, offered to take a pipe of peace to the band of
savages. He crossed to the shore, presented the calumet for the Indians
to smoke, and made a gift of a knife to one of the old men who seemed to
be a chief. The Indians were of the nation of Natchez, and they showed
their desire for peace by joining hands. This presented some difficulty
to Tonty, but he bade his men join hands in his place, and the treaty of
peace was concluded. Soon the rest of the party came ashore, and La
Salle, taking with him a few of his men, made a visit to the village
which lay three leagues from the river.
The Natchez were a powerful people related to the Taensas, and, like
them, they worshiped the sun and maintained a sacred temple. La Salle
spent the night in their village; and while he slept a swift runner
hurried through the darkness to the village of the Coroas to ask the
chief to come and visit their guest. The chief of the Coroas set out at
once and traveled all night to reach the Natchez village and pay his
respects to La Salle. For several days the white leader visited with the
Natchez, and when he rejoined Tonty on the shore of the river the Coroa
chief came with him. He accompanied the white men down the river to his
own village, six leagues below, where his tribe gave the strangers a
friendly reception. Here Tonty’s little Coroa slave seized the
opportunity to escape to his people. But the boy who had been given to
the Mohegan was not so fortunate and remained with the party of
explorers.
Thus far peace had attended the journey of La Salle; but it was not to
be so always. Without stopping they passed the village of the Humas and
the high bank where a red pole, or _baton rouge_ marked the boundary
between the territory of the Humas and the tribes to the south. As they
approached the village of the Quinipissas, they heard the sound of drums
and war cries, and a party sent out by La Salle to reconnoiter was
received with a volley of arrows. La Salle decided not to stop; and
picking up his men, passed on down the river.
At length, early in April of the year 1682, the party reached the
long-dreamed-of mouth of the river; and La Salle, on the 9th of the
month, full of joy, took possession, in the name of the King of France,
of all the lands watered by the rivers that flowed into the basin of the
Mississippi. No white man before them had traveled from Canada to the
Gulf. As they saw the cross rise in the swampy land near the sea and the
arms of their king held up to the southern sky, the hearts of La Salle
and Tonty, of Father Membré and every Frenchman there beat high with
pride.
And the dusky New England Indians—devoted to their leader and
far-wandered in a valley which meant nothing to them—rejoiced also, as
every Indian rejoices and feels pride in the end of a long journey, be
it for vengeance, for game, or for adventure. As for the young Coroa
lad, who stood in their midst, the only representative of the people of
the Mississippi, he was too young and his people and his race were too
young to understand what had happened in their valley.
The voyagers now turned the prows of their canoes to the north and began
the slow ascent of the river. They were so nearly out of provisions that
La Salle determined to stop at the Quinipissa village for food, in spite
of their former hostility. Coming upon four women of the tribe, he sent
one of them home to her people with presents and a message of peace.
Keeping the other three as hostages, he waited across the stream from
the village. Soon there came Quinipissas who invited him to cross over
to their side. La Salle did so and pitched camp a short distance from
the village. The Indians brought him food and he released the three
women, but still kept a careful guard.
That night watches were posted with unusual care. Crevel, one of the
Frenchmen, was the last to keep guard. It was now within a half-hour of
dawn. Already faint lights were beginning to shine, when he heard a
noise in the canes. He spoke to a comrade who said it was only some
dogs. But Tonty had heard their words and called to them to be on guard,
and La Salle, in whose eyes was little sleep, leaped up with the cry,
“To arms.” In a moment the camp was ready for an attack.
At the same instant came the war cries of the Quinipissas on all sides
of them. Guns flashed and arrows flew in the spreading light. When the
sun came up and the Quinipissas looked upon their slain warriors they
turned and fled, with the whites after them until recalled by La Salle.
The New England Indians came excitedly back to camp waving scalps which
they had taken from the enemy.
Later in the morning La Salle with half of his men went to the edge of
the village and broke up the Indians’ pirogues under their very eyes.
Then with no one hurt, the party of explorers put off upstream in their
canoes. Coming again to the country of the Coroas they were welcomed to
the village, but there was a strange new feeling in the air. The French
saw Quinipissas among them, and learned that they were allies. The young
Coroa captive soon had told the story of the battle to his people. When
the voyagers sat down to eat they found themselves surrounded by more
than a thousand warriors. They ate with their arms within quick reach,
for no one knew when massacre might be attempted. Taking counsel,
however, the Indians finally allowed their visitors to proceed up the
Mississippi in peace.
When they reached the village of the Taensas, the chief in his white
cloak was as dignified and kind as ever, and rejoiced greatly at the
scalps which the Mohegans showed him. Again they passed the villages of
the Arkansas. And now La Salle fell sick—so seriously that, in alarm
lest he should not reach Canada, he sent Tonty ahead to carry the good
news of the trip to the French settlements. Tonty with four men hurried
northward. He had passed the Ohio and was drawing near the Illinois
Valley when one day thirty Illinois warriors burst out of the woods with
drawn bows, taking the party for Iroquois. But just in time one warrior
recognized Tonty and cried out, “It is my comrade! They are Frenchmen!”
After a short stop at the Tamaroa village, Tonty pushed on to the white
settlements.
By the time La Salle, slowly recovering from his illness, joined Tonty
at Mackinac, word had come to the white men about the Lakes that the
cross and the arms of France had been raised at the mouth of the
Mississippi. And the Illinois tribes in the upper valley, still afraid
to return to their deserted homes, took heart when they heard of the
safe return of La Salle and the Man with the Iron Hand from their long
trip to the sea. For they had not forgotten La Salle’s promise to build
a fort to protect them from the Iroquois, and make it safe for them to
return to the valley they had lost.