WHITE AND RED SAVAGES
At the main camp on that fatal 19th of March, La Salle had left Joutel
with four others—the Abbé, young Cavelier, Pierre Talon, and another
young boy called Barthelemy. From time to time during the day Joutel had
lighted fires on rising ground near the camp so that La Salle, if he
lost his way, could return easily. He was alone on one of these little
hills toward evening, looking down upon the horses grazing in the field
near by, when some one came running up to him in great excitement. It
was L’Archevêque, a man who had always been kindly disposed toward
Joutel. There was very bad news to tell, he said, confused and almost
beside himself.
“What is it?” asked Joutel in quick alarm.
“La Salle is dead,” he replied, “and also Moranget, his nephew, and two
others.” He added that they had been murdered and that the assassins had
sworn to come on and kill Joutel as well.
Joutel stood dazed, scarcely knowing what to say or do. Should he fly to
the woods and trust to Providence to guide him to civilization? Having
come away from camp without his gun, life was scarcely more secure in
the wilds than in the camp with the murderers. But, added L’Archevêque,
the conspirators had decided on the way home not to kill Joutel unless
he offered resistance. After all, perhaps it was better to risk death in
the company of white men than in the wilderness alone; and so the two
men turned back to the camp.
There they found the Abbé Cavelier in a corner praying, and Father Douay
still overwhelmed and not daring to speak to Joutel for fear of the
murderers. The murderers had come wildly into camp and had seized the
belongings of La Salle. Duhaut had assumed the place of leader.
“You may kill me if you wish,” said the Abbé, “but give me a half-hour
to prepare for the end.”
But the white savages had had enough of killing. If all would yield to
the new leaders they might keep their lives. There was nothing else to
do. Those who were not in the plot stood guard that night; and in the
long hours Joutel and the Abbé, young Cavelier and Douay, made a solemn
agreement to stand by each other until death—which now seemed very near
to them.
The next morning, under Duhaut’s direction, the forlorn band of thirteen
packed up their camp supplies and continued their journey toward the
Cenis village. A common tie—the need of escape from the wilderness—held
them together. Yet even that tie was honeycombed with fears and hates
and distrusts. Joutel, his soul rising in rebellion, wanted to kill the
murderers in their sleep, but the Abbé dissuaded him.
With the guidance of Indians they soon crossed the Trinity River, and as
they drew near to the town of the Cenis, four of the number—Joutel,
Liotot, Hiens, and Teissier—were sent in advance to buy food. They
camped at night outside the village; and the next morning they were met
and escorted into the town by chiefs and elders dressed in great pomp
with painted goatskins over their shoulders, crowns of feathers on their
heads, and streaks of black and red paint on their faces.
The Cenis lived in round huts, shaped like old-fashioned beehives and
made of a circle of poles bent over and lashed together at the top. The
poles were interlaced with willow rods, and covered over with a thick
thatch of grass. In the middle of the floor the Indians built their
lodge-fire, which the several families living in the hut used in common.
Joutel’s three companions soon left him to trade with the villagers
while they went back to camp. Alone in the village of people whom his
experiences on the shores of the Gulf had taught him to fear, Joutel
drove his little bargains and listened and nodded his head to the chiefs
as they told him of the war they were getting ready to make upon their
enemies.
Fearful lest they should steal his merchandise, Joutel did not sleep
well one night. He was tossing upon his robes about one o’clock when he
heard some one move near him. Looking up, he saw, by the light of the
fire in the center of the lodge, a man who was naked except for the
tattoo marks upon his body. This stranger came and sat down by him,
without saying a word. In his hands were a bow and two arrows. Joutel
watched him a moment, then spoke. The man did not answer. Joutel reached
for his pistol; whereupon the man rose, walked over to the fire, and
again sat down.
Utterly puzzled, Joutel rose from his bed and followed the man, studying
him intently all the while. The man returned his gaze, then threw his
arms about Joutel, embraced him, and spoke to him with French words. He
was Ruter, one of La Salle’s sailors who had deserted him, two years
before, for the woods and the wild life of the Indian camps. Another
deserter, Grollet, had been afraid to come with him to the grass house
where Joutel slept, for fear of La Salle.
For two years these white men had lived like the red men, they had
married Indian women, and they had fought in the Indian wars. There was
little now to distinguish Ruter from his dusky companions—except that
long-buried yearning for his own people which made him come to Joutel
and listen eagerly to his tale of adventures. The story of La Salle’s
death seemed to affect him deeply, and for a long time in the passing
night the two men talked beside the fire in the Indian lodge. Later,
Grollet also came to see and talk to Joutel.
For several days Joutel stayed in the village. Then messengers came from
the camp to say that the leaders had decided to return to the fort on
the Bay of St. Louis and there build a ship and sail for the West
Indies. With what provisions he had secured, Joutel went back to the
camp of the murderers, where he and the Abbé took counsel together. It
was intolerable to continue life in the same camp with those who had
killed La Salle, and so they made up their minds to leave their
murderous companions and go on with those who had not been in the plot,
toward the Mississippi River. They told Duhaut they were too fatigued to
make the trip back to the Gulf and would remain with the Cenis, to which
Duhaut finally agreed.
Hiens and several others, who had been sent to the village for horses on
which to carry supplies back to the fort, had not yet returned. While
they were waiting, one of the French deserters, who knew of the true
plans of the Abbé and Joutel, told them to Duhaut and added that he
believed the Mississippi to be not far off to the northeast; whereupon
Duhaut changed his plan and decided that he too would go to the
Mississippi.
News of Duhaut’s decision soon reached Hiens at the Cenis village, and
in a few days he came back to the camp, accompanied by Ruter and others.
Hiens walked directly to Duhaut and declared that it was not safe to go
to the Mississippi and on to the white settlements. As for himself, he
would not go, and he demanded his share of the goods. When Duhaut
refused, Hiens raised his gun and fired, saying, “You wretch! You
murdered my master!” Duhaut fell dead. Almost at the same instant Ruter,
the half-savage deserter, opened fire upon Liotot and mortally wounded
him. Thus did the murderers of La Salle and Moranget come to their end.
Hiens was now in command of the party, which had decreased to eleven.
The old buccaneer had promised the Cenis to go to their wars with them
and, with Ruter and Grollet and three or four other Frenchmen, started
out with the exultant Indian warriors, leaving the Abbé and his party in
the village with the women and old men. Late in May the warriors
returned, flushed with a great victory which the guns of the white
allies had enabled them to win.
The Abbé and Joutel and their little group now asked leave to separate
and try to make their way across to the Mississippi. Hiens gave his
consent with much reluctance. As for himself he did not care to risk his
life going back to civilized people; and the wild savage life in the
Indian villages held him with a strong fascination. He divided supplies
and merchandise with those who were leaving, gave them six horses to
carry their goods, and with much advice set them on their way. Thus they
took their departure—a band of seven—to make the last long march toward
the settlements of white men. Hiens and L’Archevêque, Meusnier, and
Pierre Talon cast in their lot with the Indians.
* * * * *
Innumerable were the adventures of the seven travelers. Town after town
they passed, stopping often to smoke the pipe of peace, trade
merchandise, and gather news of the way. One morning De Marie, while
bathing in the river near an Indian village, was drowned before the
Indians could rescue him. The six moved on, Indian guides leading them,
until at last with a great feeling of joy they came to the establishment
of Couture on the Arkansas.
Couture was the last man in America to whom they related the story of La
Salle’s death. The Abbé decided to keep it a secret from both the
Indians and from Tonty, and not even to tell it in Canada, but to take
the news across the seas with them to the court of France. Dreading that
young Barthelemy would disclose their secret, they left him with
Couture. The young boy told many things to the men at the Arkansas post.
And now Couture was pouring out the whole tale to the commander of Fort
St. Louis on the Illinois.