NEWS FROM LA SALLE
Spring and summer passed quietly along the Illinois River. Tonty and his
combined army had not yet returned from the Iroquois war; and those who
had stayed at home to protect the fort and villages found no invaders to
molest them. Boisrondet, the commissary of the fort, was busy with the
fields of the French. The Indians, too, planted their crops and tended
them. The braves visited the little garrison from time to time, hunted
and fished some, gambled with cherry-stones more, and basked in the sun
most of all.
September was half gone, and still there was nothing to break the
monotony. The fourteenth of the month was Sunday, and perhaps in the
fort the black-robed Father Allouez, sick and confined to his room, took
some notice of the day. But to the Indians, one day was like another. It
so happened that a group of them early in the afternoon were in the
fields down the river from the fort. Suddenly one of their number, a
Shawnee named Turpin, looking off to the stream sparkling in the sun,
saw an Indian dugout approaching. In a moment he was at the water’s edge
scanning with eager eyes the occupants of the bark. They came nearer,
were even with him, passed by upstream; but he recognized no one of
them. There was a strapping big Frenchman, two men in priestly robes,
two other white men, and several strange Indians. Where had these men
come from? No one knew of their going down the river.
When the strangers had passed, Turpin slipped across the fields and
again came to the bank of the river higher up. This time the men in the
dugout called to him. They were of the party of La Salle, they said. For
a while the Indian studied them intently. Then catching the name La
Salle, he was off on the dead run to the fort. Up the steep pathway he
went as if on wings, and burst into the palisaded entrance with the cry
that La Salle was coming.
Out of the inclosure with a bound jumped Boisrondet and the blacksmith,
and down the side of the rock and around the base to the bank of the
river they went faster than the Indian had come. Another Frenchman and a
group of Indians were ahead of them, however, and were already leading
the white men to the fort. Full of surprise and joy Boisrondet and his
comrade embraced the strangers, who were five in number. The quick eye
of Boisrondet ran over all of them, then looked back toward the river.
“But where is La Salle?” he asked. Of the two men who replied, one was a
heavy-built, honest-faced man, the other a priest. The priest was the
Abbé Cavelier, an own brother of La Salle; his companion was Henri
Joutel, a trusted follower of the lost chief. La Salle, they said, had
accompanied them part of the way and had left them at a place about
forty leagues from the village of the Cenis; and when he left them he
was in good health.
If there was anything peculiar about their reply Boisrondet did not at
the time seriously note it. Nor did he notice the silence of the
gray-robed friar who stood beside the speakers. He was too full of joy
at news from his chief, and listened with ready ear as they added that
they had orders from La Salle to go on to France to report his travels
and bring aid.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when, after their exchange of
greetings, the whole party climbed to the fort towering high above the
landscape. Volleys from the guns of the garrison saluted them, and the
commander, Bellefontaine, came forward to greet them. Then the strangers
crossed over to the little chapel to give thanks on that September
Sabbath for their safe arrival among friends.
Father Allouez, who lay sick in his room, received with alarm the news
that a party of La Salle’s men had arrived at the fort. Was La Salle
among them? With great relief he learned that he was not. Allouez sent
word that he would like to talk with some of the party; and so La
Salle’s brother and the quiet Father Douay, together with Joutel,
entered the sick man’s chamber.
At first they talked of other matters—of affairs in far-away France, of
the stamping-out of the heresy of Calvinism, and of the twenty years’
truce with the Emperor. At length the sick man asked them of La Salle.
As they had told Boisrondet, so they now told Allouez that La Salle was
well when they parted from him—and they added that he also had planned
to come to the Illinois country and perhaps would be there before long.
Thereupon the look of foreboding deepened upon the face of Allouez. As
they left the sick-room the three men asked themselves why the priest
seemed so displeased at the coming of La Salle.
The arrival of the five men of La Salle’s party was a welcome break in
the monotony of life in the little colony; and glad would the garrison
and the Indians alike have been to have had them stay. But they were
anxious to go on—in particular the Abbé Cavelier, who seemed to be
impatient of delay. He asked Boisrondet for a canoe and men to take them
on to the Lakes, for the Arkansas guides who had brought them up the
river must now return with their canoe to their own people. Yes,
Boisrondet replied, he had a canoe, but the difficulty was to find
capable men for guides. On Wednesday, however, three canoe-men arrived
from Mackinac and agreed to conduct the party to that post.
Four days after their arrival at the fort the visitors were again on
their way to the Lakes and Canada with Shawnee Indians to carry their
provisions. When they reached the Lake of the Illinois the waves were
tossing to an alarming height and storms kept them on shore for a week
or more. At last, giving up in despair, they turned about, buried their
supplies in a cache, and walked across country back to the fort.
Already the Indian warriors from Tonty’s party were straggling back full
of the good news of an overwhelming defeat of the Seneca Nation of
Iroquois. Tonty, with his Frenchmen and their Indian allies, had taken a
valiant part in the great raid in July, and now was on his way homeward.
The colony took on new life, as with each incoming group the joy of the
Indians increased.
At length, on October 27, Tonty himself came down the river and climbed
the path to Fort St. Louis. Guns roared, the men at the fort crowded
around him, and admiring Indians hung upon his footsteps. But these five
strangers! Tonty’s eyes fell upon the long robe and the priestly face of
the Abbé Cavelier. La Salle’s brother here in his fort! Well did he know
the face, and little did he like its owner; but he had been one of the
lost party. What, then, of La Salle? Quick and intense came the
questions from the iron-handed commander.
Again the Abbé and Joutel told their story. La Salle had come from the
far southwest coast with them almost to the villages of the Cenis
Indians who lived west of the Arkansas, and there he had left them; and
when he left them he was in good health. Beside the little group stood
Father Anastasius Douay with silent lips. Nor did the mariner Teissier
or young Cavelier, the nephew of La Salle and the Abbé, add anything to
the story.
Tonty paid small heed to their silence; for in his mind was the one
great thought that La Salle was alive and might reach the fort at any
time. Four years before, his beloved leader had gone from the fort on
the Illinois to Canada and across to France; and three years before, he
had sailed from France for the mouth of the Mississippi. In all that
time, alternating between hope and the gloomy despair which lately had
so often fallen upon his soul, Tonty had waited hoping each day for news
from his lost chief. Now it had come.
Little had Tonty liked the priestly elder brother of his friend; for in
the days of the past the Abbé Cavelier, with his captious ways, his
complainings and his intrigues, had been a source of much annoyance to
La Salle. But let such things be forgotten now, for the man came
bringing news—good news of the lost chief. And so within the walls of
Fort St. Louis, in the far wilderness of this Indian country, Tonty
listened as the Abbé and Joutel told the story he so long had waited to
hear, the tale of the adventures of three anxious and exciting years.