_Days of Darkness._
The Melancholy Encampment.--The Fleet at
Pensacola.--Singular Resolve of De Soto.--Hostility of
the Natives.--Beautiful Scenery.--Winter Quarters on the
Yazoo.--Feigned Friendship of the Cacique.--Trickery of
Juan Ortiz.--The Terrible Battle of Chickasaw.--Dreadful
Loss of the Spaniards.
For twenty-three days the Spaniards remained in their miserable
quarters, nursing the sick and the wounded. As nearly all their
baggage had been consumed in the flames, they were in a condition of
extreme destitution and suffering. Parties, of those who were least
disabled, were sent on foraging expeditions, penetrating the country
around to a distance of about twelve miles. They found the villages
deserted by the terror-stricken inhabitants. But they obtained a
sufficient supply of food to meet their immediate wants. In the
thickets and ravines they found the bodies of many Indians, who had
died of their wounds, and had been left unburied by their companions.
They also found in many of the deserted hamlets, wounded Indians, who
could go no farther, and who were in a starving and dying condition.
De Soto kindly ordered that their wounds should be dressed, and that
they should be fed and nursed just as tenderly as his own men. Several
captives were taken. De Soto inquired of them if another attack were
meditated. They replied that all their warriors were slain; that none
were left to renew the battle; that their chief had sent his son to
watch the movements of the Spaniards, and had summoned his warriors
from a great distance for their extermination. Nearly all were to be
slain. The survivors were to be held as slaves. All their possessions
and especially the magnificent animals they rode, were to be divided
as the spoils of the conqueror. They said that their chief, upon the
arrival of De Soto with his advance guard, was holding a council with
his officers, to decide whether they should immediately attack those
who had already arrived, or wait until the whole army was within their
power. The passion and imprudence of one of their generals had
precipitated the conflict.
The loss of the natives was even greater than De Soto had at first
imagined. The thousands of Indian warriors who were within the
spacious houses, shooting their arrows through windows, doors and
loopholes, were many of them cut off from all escape, by the devouring
flames. Bewildered, blinded, stifled by the smoke, and encircled by
the billowy fire, they miserably perished.
While De Soto was thus encamped around the smouldering ruins of
Mobila, he heard of the arrival of his fleet at Pensacola, then called
the bay of Achusi. As he was but about one hundred miles from that
point, an easy march of a few days would bring him to reinforcements
and abundant supplies. The tidings of their arrival at first gave him
great satisfaction. His determined spirit was still unvanquished. He
immediately resolved to establish his colony on the shores of
Pensacola Bay, whence he could have constant water communication with
Cuba and with Spain. Having obtained a fresh supply of military stores
and recruits from the ships, he would recommence his pursuit after
gold.
While one cannot but condemn his persistence in a ruinous course, the
invincible spirit it develops wins admiration. Indeed if we accept the
facts of the affair at Mobila, as above described, and those facts
seem to be fully corroborated by a careful examination of all the
reliable annalists of those days, impartial history cannot severely
condemn De Soto in that dreadful occurrence. But it cannot be denied
that he would have acted much more wisely, had he followed the counsel
of Isabella, previously given, and withdrawn from scenes thus fraught
with violence, cruelty and blood.
As De Soto was conversing with some of his officers, of his plan of
still prosecuting his journey in search of gold, he was told, not a
little to his dismay, that his soldiers would not follow him. It was
said that they were all thoroughly disheartened, and anxious to return
to their homes, and that immediately upon reaching their ships, they
would insist upon reembarking, and abandoning a land where they had
thus far encountered only disasters.
The thought of returning to Cuba an impoverished man, having utterly
failed in his expedition, surrounded by ragged and clamorous
followers, and thus in disgrace, was to De Soto dreadful. Not making
sufficient allowance for the difference in those respects between
himself and his followers, he found it difficult to credit the
representations which had been made to him. He therefore dressed
himself in a disguise, and secretly wandered about by night among the
frail huts of the soldiers, and soon found, by listening to their
conversation, his worst fears confirmed. It became clear to his mind
that immediately on his return to the ships, his present followers
would disband and shift for themselves, while it would be in vain for
him to attempt to raise another army.
Speaking of the distress with which these considerations oppressed the
mind of De Soto, Mr. Irving well says, referring in confirmation of
his statement, both to the account given by the Portuguese Narrative,
and that by the Inca:
"Should his present forces desert him, therefore, he would
remain stripped of dignity and command, blasted in
reputation, his fortune expended in vain, and his
enterprise, which had caused so much toil and trouble, a
subject of scoffing rather than renown. The Governor was a
man extremely jealous of his honor; and as he reflected upon
these gloomy prospects, they produced sudden and desperate
resolves. He disguised his anger and his knowledge of the
schemes he had overheard, but he determined to frustrate
them by turning back upon the coast, striking again into the
interior, and never seeking the ships nor furnishing any
tidings of himself, until he had crowned his enterprise
gloriously by discovering new regions of wealth like those
of Peru and Mexico.
"A change came over De Soto from this day. He was
disconcerted in his favorite scheme of colonization, and had
lost confidence in his followers. Instead of manifesting his
usual frankness, energy and alacrity, he became a moody,
irritable, discontented man. He no longer pretended to
strike out any grand undertaking, went recklessly wandering
from place to place, apparently without order or object, as
if careless of time and life, and only anxious to finish his
existence."
On the morning of the 15th of November, 1540, the troops, much to
their consternation, received orders to commence their march to the
north, instead of to the south. The established habits of military
discipline, and the stern manner of De Soto, repelled all audible
murmurs. Each soldier took with him two days' provision, which
consisted mainly of roasted corn pounded into meal. It was not doubted
that in the fertile region of that sunny clime they would find food by
the way. But winter was approaching which, though short, would
certainly bring with it some days and nights of such severe cold that
an unsheltered army would almost perish.
After traversing a very pleasant country for five days, without
meeting any adventure of any especial interest, they came to a river
wide and deep, with precipitous banks, which is supposed to have been
the Tuscaloosa, or Black Warrior. The point at which they touched this
stream, upon whose banks they had already encamped, was probably near
the present site of Erie, in Greene County. Here they found upon the
farther banks of the river, a populous village called Cabusto. De Soto
as usual sent a courier with a friendly message to the chief, saying
"that he came in friendship and sought only an unobstructed path
through his realms."
The chief returned the defiant reply--
"We want no peace with you. War only we want; a war of fire and
blood."
As De Soto, troubled by this message, moved cautiously forward, he
found an army of fifteen hundred natives drawn up on the banks of the
stream to prevent the passage; while the opposite banks were occupied
by between six and seven thousand warriors, extending up and down the
river for a distance of six miles. There was nothing for the Spaniards
to do but to press forward. To turn back, in sight of their foes, was
not to be thought of. After a pretty sharp skirmish, in which the
Spaniards attacked their opponents, the natives sprang into their
canoes, and some by swimming crossed the river and joined the main
body of the Indians upon the opposite bank.
Here they were obviously prepared, to make a desperate resistance.
Night came on, dark and chill. The Spaniards bivouacked on the open
plain, awaiting the morning, when, with but about seven hundred men,
they were to assail eight thousand warriors, very strongly posted on
bluffs, with a deep and rapid river flowing at their feet. The Indians
gave the Spaniards no repose. During the darkness they were
continually passing the river at different points in their canoes, and
then uniting in one band, with hideous outcries assailing the weary
travellers. The military genius of De Soto successfully beat them off
through the night. He then intrenched himself so as to bid defiance to
their attacks, and employed one hundred of his most skilful workmen in
building, under the concealment of a neighboring grove, two very large
flat boats.
Twelve days passed before these barges were finished. By the aid of
men and horses, they were brought to the river and launched. In the
morning, before the dawn, ten mounted horsemen and forty footmen
embarked in each boat, the footmen to ply the oars as vigorously as
possible in the rapid passage of the river to a designated spot, where
the horsemen were immediately to spur their steeds upon the shore, and
with their sabres open a passage for the rest of the troops. De Soto
was anxious to pass in the first boat, but his followers entreated him
not to expose his life, upon which everything depended, to so great a
peril.
The moment the boats were dimly seen by the watchful natives, a signal
war-whoop rang along the bank for miles. Five hundred warriors rushed
to the menaced spot, to prevent the landing. Such a shower of arrows
was thrown upon the boat that every man was more or less wounded. The
moment the bows touched the beach, the steel-clad horsemen plunged
upon the foe, and cut their way through them with blood-dripping
sabres. Other native warriors were however hurrying to the assistance
of their comrades. In the meantime the boats had with great rapidity
recrossed the river, and brought over another detachment of eighty men
with De Soto himself at their head. After a sanguinary conflict the
Spaniards obtained complete possession of the landing place. Though
unimportant skirmishes were kept up through the day, the remaining
troops were without difficulty brought across the river. At nightfall
not an Indian was to be seen. They had all withdrawn and fortified
themselves with palisades in a neighboring swamp.
The Spaniards found opening before them a beautiful and fertile
country, well cultivated, with fields of corn and beans, and with many
small villages and comfortable farm-houses scattered around. They
broke up their boats for the sake of the nails, which might prove of
priceless value to them in their future operations. Leaving the
Indians unmolested in their fortress, they journeyed on five days in a
westerly direction, when they reached the banks of another large
river, which is supposed to have been the Tombigbee.
Here De Soto found hostile Indians arrayed on the opposite bank, ready
to oppose his passage. Anxious to avoid, if possible, any sanguinary
collision with the natives, he tarried for two days, until a canoe had
been constructed by which he could send a friendly message across to
the chief. A single unarmed Indian was dispatched in the canoe with
these words of peace. He paddled across the river, and as soon as the
canoe touched the shore the savages rushed upon him, beat out his
brains with their war-clubs, and raising yells of defiance,
mysteriously disappeared.
There being no longer any foe to oppose the passage, the troops were
easily conveyed across on rafts. Unassailed, they marched tranquilly
on for several days, until, on the 18th of December, they reached a
small village called Chickasaw. It was pleasantly situated on a gentle
eminence, embellished with groves of walnut and oak trees, and with
streams of pure water running on either side. It is supposed that this
village was on the Yazoo river, in the upper part of the State of
Mississippi, about two hundred and fifty miles northwest of Mobile.
It was midwinter, and upon those high lands the weather was intensely
cold. The ground was frequently encumbered with snow and ice, and the
troops, unprovided with winter clothing, suffered severely. De Soto
decided to take up his winter quarters at Chickasaw, there to await
the returning sun of spring. There appears to have been something
senseless in the wild wanderings in which De Soto was now persisting,
which have led some to suppose that care, exhaustion, and sorrow had
brought on some degree of mental derangement. However that may be, he
devoted himself with great energy to the promotion of the comfort of
his men. Foraging parties were dispatched in all directions in search
of food and of straw for bedding, while an ample supply of fuel was
collected for their winter fires.
There were two hundred comfortable houses in this village, and De Soto
added a few more, so that all of his men were well sheltered. So far
as we can judge from the narratives given, the native inhabitants,
through fear of the Spaniards, had abandoned their homes and fled to
distant parts. De Soto did everything in his power to open friendly
relations with the Indians. He succeeded, through his scouts, in
capturing a few, whom he sent to their chief laden with presents, and
with assurances of peace and friendship.
The Cacique returned favorable replies, and sent to De Soto in return
fruit, fish, and venison. He, however, was very careful not to expose
his person to the power of the Spaniards. His warriors, in gradually
increasing numbers, ventured to enter the village, where they were
treated by De Soto with the greatest consideration. He had still quite
a large number of swine with him, for they had multiplied wonderfully
on the way. The Indians, having had a taste of pork, found it so
delicious that they began to prowl around the encampment by night to
steal these animals. It is said that two Indians who were caught in
the act were shot, and as this did not check the thievery, a third had
both his hands chopped off with a hatchet, and thus mutilated was sent
to the chief as a warning to others.
It is with great reluctance that we give any credence to this
statement. It certainly is not sustained by any evidence which would
secure conviction in a court of justice. It is quite contrary to the
well-established humanity of De Soto. There can be no possible excuse
for such an act of barbarity on the part of any civilized man. If De
Soto were guilty of the atrocity, it would, indeed, indicate that his
reason was being dethroned.
The chief had taken up his residence about three or four miles from
the village. Four of the Spanish soldiers one night, well armed, stole
from their barracks, in direct violation of orders, and repairing to
the dwelling of the Cacique, robbed him of some rich fur mantles, and
other valuable articles of clothing. With that even-handed justice
which has thus far characterized De Soto, he who had ordered two
Indians to be shot for stealing his swine, now ordered the two
ringleaders in this robbery of the Indian chief to be put to death.
The priests in the army, and most of the officers, earnestly implored
De Soto to pardon the culprits. But he was inflexible. He would
administer equal justice to the Indian and the Spaniard. The culprits
were led into the public square to be beheaded. It so happened that,
just at that time, an embassage arrived from the Cacique with
complaints of the robbery, and demanding the punishment of the
offenders. Juan Ortiz, the interpreter, whose sympathies were deeply
moved in behalf of his comrades about to be executed, adopted the
following singular and sagacious expedient to save them:
He falsely reported to the Governor that the chief had sent his
messengers to implore the forgiveness of the culprits--to say that
their offence was a very slight one, and that he should regard it as a
personal favor if they were pardoned and set at liberty. The
kind-hearted De Soto, thus delivered from his embarrassment, gladly
released them.
On the other hand, the tricky interpreter sent word to the Cacique
that the men who had robbed him were in close imprisonment, and that
they would be punished with the utmost severity, so as to serve as a
warning to all others.
Many circumstances led De Soto to the suspicion that the chief was
acting a treacherous part; that he was marshalling an immense army in
the vicinity to attack the Spaniards; that his pretended friendliness
was intended merely to disarm suspicion, and that the warriors who
visited the village were spies, making preparation for a general
assault. In this judgment subsequent events proved him to be correct.
Early in the month of March there was a dark and stormy night, and a
chill north wind swept the bleak plains. The sentinels were driven to
seek shelter; no one dreamed of peril. It was the hour for the grand
assault. Just at midnight the Cacique put his martial bands in motion.
They were in three powerful divisions, the central party being led by
the chief in person. These moccasoned warriors, with noiseless tread,
stealthily approached their victims. Suddenly the air resounded with
war-whoops, blasts of conch shells, and the clangor of wooden drums,
rising above the roar of the storm, when the savages, like spirits of
darkness, rushed upon the defenceless village. They bore with them
lighted matches, made of some combustible substance twisted in the
form of a cord, which, being waved in the air, would blaze into flame.
The village was built of reeds, with thatch of dried grass. The torch
was everywhere applied; the gale fanned the fire. In a few minutes the
whole village was a roaring furnace of flame.
What pen can describe the scene which ensued of tumult, terror, blood,
and woe! What imagination can conceive of the horrors of that night,
when uncounted thousands of savages, fierce as demons, rushed upon the
steel-clad veterans of Spain, not one of whom would ask for quarter!
every one of whom would fight with sinewy arm and glittering sabre to
the last possible gasp.
Nothing could throw the veteran Spaniards into a panic. They always
slept prepared for surprise. In an instant every man was at his post.
De Soto, who always slept in hose and doublet, drew his armor around
him, mounted his steed ever ready, and was one of the first to dash
into the densest of the foe. Twelve armored horsemen were immediately
at his side. The arrows and javelins of the natives glanced harmless
from helmet and cuirass, while every flash of the long, keen sabres
was death to an Indian, and the proud war-horses trampled the corpses
beneath their feet.
The fierce conflagration soon drove all alike out into the plain.
Many of the Spaniards could not escape, but perished miserably in the
fire. Several of the splendid horses were also burned. Soon all were
engaged hand to hand, fighting in a tumultuous mass by the light of
the conflagration. There was, perhaps, alike bravery on either side.
But the natives knew that if defeated they could flee to the forests;
while to the Spaniards defeat was certain death, or captivity worse
than death to every one.
De Soto observed not far from him an Indian chief of herculean
strength, who was fighting with great success. He closed in upon him,
and as he rose in his saddle, leaning mainly upon the right stirrup,
to pierce him with his lance, the saddle, which in the haste had not
been sufficiently girded, turned beneath him, and he was thrown upon
the ground in the midst of the enemy. His companions sprang to the
rescue. Instantly he remounted, and was again in the thickest of the
foe. The battle was fierce, bloody, and short. So many of the horsemen
had perished during their long journey that many of the foot soldiers
were protected by armor. At length the savages were put to flight.
Pursued by the swift-footed horses, they, in their terror, to add
speed to their footsteps, threw away their weapons, and thus fell an
easy prey to the conqueror.
The Spaniards, justly exasperated in being thus treacherously
assailed by those who had assumed the guise of friendship, pursued the
fugitives so long as they could be distinguished by the light of the
conflagration, and cut them down without any mercy. A bugle-blast then
sounded the recall. The victors returned to an awful scene of
desolation and misery. Their homes were all in ashes, and many of the
few comforts they had retained were consumed. Forty Spaniards had been
slain, besides many more wounded. Fifty horses had perished in the
flames, or had been shot by the natives. Their herd of swine, which
they prized so highly, and which they regarded as an essential element
in the establishment of their colony, had been shut up in an enclosure
roofed with straw, and nearly every one had perished in the flames.
This disaster was the most severe calamity which had befallen them.
Since landing at Tampa Bay, over three hundred men had fallen from the
attacks of the natives. De Soto was thrown into a state of the deepest
despondency. All hope seemed to be extinguished. World-weary, and in
despair, he apparently wished only to die. Distress was all around
him, with no possibility of his affording any relief. Sadly he buried
the dead of his own army, while he left the bodies of the natives
thick upon the plain, a prey for wolves and vultures. The smouldering
ruins of Chickasaw were abandoned, and an encampment was reared of
logs and bark at a distance of about three miles; where they passed a
few weeks of great wretchedness. Bodily discomfort and mental
despondency united in creating almost intolerable gloom.
Terribly as the natives had been punished they soon learned the extent
of the calamity they had inflicted upon the Spaniards. Through their
spies they ascertained their diminished numbers, witnessed their
miserable plight, and had the sagacity to perceive that they were very
poorly prepared to withstand another attack. Thus they gradually
regained confidence, marshalled their armies anew, and commenced an
incessant series of assaults, avoiding any general action, and yet
wearing out the Spaniards with the expectation of such action every
hour of every night.
In the daytime, De Soto sent out his horsemen to scour the country
around in all directions for a distance of ten or twelve miles. They
would return with the declaration that not a warrior was to be found.
But before midnight the fleet footed savages would be swarming around
the encampment, with hideous yells, often approaching near enough to
throw in upon it a shower of arrows. Occasionally these skirmishes
became hotly contested. In one of them forty Indians were slain,
while two of the horses of the Spaniards were killed and two severely
wounded.
In their thin clothing the Spaniards would have suffered terribly from
the severe cold of the nights, but for the ingenuity of one of their
number, who invented a soft, thick, warm matting or coverlet which he
wove from some long grass that abounded in the vicinity. Every soldier
was speedily engaged in the manufacture of these beds or blankets.
They were made several inches in thickness and about six feet square.
One half served as a mattress, and the other folded over, became a
blanket. Thus they were relieved from the cold, which otherwise would
have been almost unendurable.
The foraging parties succeeded in obtaining a supply of corn, beans,
and dried fruit. Here De Soto was compelled to remain, to heal his
wounded, for the remainder of the month of March. He was very anxious
to escape from the hostile region as soon as possible. As an
illustration of the scenes which were occurring almost every night
during this sad encampment, we may mention the following.
The night was cold and dark. The defiant war-cries of the savages were
heard in all directions and no one could tell how great their numbers,
or upon what point their attack would fall. Several camp-fires were
built, around which horsemen were assembled ready to meet the foe from
whatever point, in the darkness, he might approach. Juan De Gusman was
the leader of one of these bands. He was a cavalier of high renown. In
figure, he was delicate, almost feminine, but he had the soul of a
lion.
By the light of the blazing fagots, he discerned a numerous band of
Indians stealthily approaching. Leaping upon his horse, and followed
by five companions, and a few armored footmen, he plunged into the
midst of them. He aimed his javelin, at apparently the leader of the
savages, a man of gigantic stature. The Indian wrenched the lance from
his hand, seized him by the collar, and hurled him from his saddle to
the ground. Instantly the soldiers rushed in, with their sabers, cut
the savage to pieces and after a short conflict in which a large
number of the natives were slain, put the rest to flight.
It may seem strange that so few of the Spaniards were killed in these
terrible conflicts, in which they often cut down hundreds and even
thousands of their foes. But it should be remembered that their coats
of mail quite effectually protected them from the flint pointed arrows
of the Indians. The only vulnerable point was the face, and even this
was sometimes shielded by the visor. But the bodies of the natives,
thinly clad, were easily cut down by the steel blades of the
cavaliers.