One morning early in the year 1684, Robert Cavalier, Sieur de la Salle,
a gentleman in the King’s service, stood waiting in an antechamber of
the royal palace at Versailles (Ver-sālz′). Behind the closed door,
which was guarded by two of the King’s Musketeers in their showy
uniforms, his Majesty Louis the Fourteenth was giving a private audience
to the Count de Frontenac. This gentleman, late the governor of New
France (Canada), was the friend and adviser of _The Adventurer_, as La
Salle had been mockingly nicknamed by the idlers of the French court.
La Salle, who was headstrong and somewhat overbearing in character, more
used, moreover, to command than to obey, frowned as he walked up and
down the room, and glanced impatiently from time to time towards the
king’s cabinet, where his fate hung in the balance. Months had passed
since he had arrived in France from North America, with a great scheme
already planned, and lacking only the consent of the king and his
ministers. He had danced attendance at court until he was weary, rugged
soldier that he was; now filled with hope when the ministers plied him
with false promises, now sunk in despair when his enemies placed
obstacles in his way. “Would I were back in the wilds of America, with
Tonti of the Iron Hand and my red brothers,” he muttered, downcast and
discouraged.
But at length the door opened, the tapestry was pushed aside, and
Frontenac appeared. His eyes beamed with satisfaction. “Your application
is granted,” he said, pressing La Salle’s hand. “His Majesty commissions
you to plant a colony at the mouth of the great river where you have
already raised the flag of France. Go, my friend; thank his gracious
Majesty, and then hasten your preparations for departure.”
[Illustration: La Salle.]
La Salle lost no time in obeying these directions. His heart throbbed
with pride and satisfied ambition. For this was his dream: to colonize
the beautiful wilderness watered by the lower Mississippi; to found a
city on the banks of the mighty stream whose mouth it had been his good
fortune to discover.
But this dream was never to be realized by him. It was the destiny of La
Salle not to colonize Louisiana, but to become the discoverer of Texas.
After much trouble La Salle succeeded in perfecting the arrangements for
his voyage. His little fleet was composed of four vessels: the _Aimable_
(Ā-mah′-bl), the _Joli_ (Zho-leé), the _Belle_, and the _St. Francis_.
In these embarked over three hundred souls, including women, workmen,
priests, and soldiers.
They sailed from Rochelle, France, on the 24th of July, 1684. The
passage across the Atlantic was tedious and stormy; it was embittered by
constant quarrels between La Salle and Beaujeu (Bo-zhuh′), the naval
commandant of the squadron; and the fleet was crippled by the loss of
the _St. Francis_, the store-ship, which was captured by the Spaniards.
But toward the end of September the remaining vessels, in tolerable
condition, entered the Gulf of Mexico. Here La Salle began a sharp
lookout for the wide mouth of the river he aimed to enter.
He was full of confidence in himself, for he had spent years of his life
tracking the savage wilderness of the north with his Indian guides, and
he had the keen eye and the ready memory of the practiced scout.
But he had no exact chart of the pathless and unknown waters around him;
the calculation of the experienced landsman stood him in little stead at
sea. He lost his way, and sailing to the westward of the river known to
us as the Mississippi,—but called by La Salle the St. Louis,—he came, on
the 1st of January, 1685, in sight of the low-lying shores of Texas.
[Illustration: The Flag of France.]
Some weeks later, the fleet anchored in the Gulf outside the beautiful
land-locked bay of San Bernard (now Matagorda Bay); and La Salle, flag
in hand, and attended by soldiers and priests, set foot on the new land,
taking formal possession of it in the name of the King of France.
To the colonists, so long confined within the small ships and
overwearied by the monotony of the voyage, it was a joy simply to feast
their eyes on the green of the trees that lined the shore, and to
breathe the fresh air that blew down, flower-scented, from the far
western prairies. They longed to run like children on the sandy beach,
to feel under their feet the firm turf. But La Salle’s experience among
the Indians had taught him caution. He took the utmost care in landing
his colonists, and in forming his temporary camps. Two temporary camps
were established, one on Matagorda Island, where the lighthouse now
stands; the other on the mainland, near the present site of Indianola.
His own heart, meantime, was heavy. He had missed his coveted and
beloved river, though he still believed that the San Bernard Bay might
be one of its mouths. The _Aimable_, in attempting to enter the harbor,
had grounded upon a sandbank and gone to pieces. The Indians, who had
swarmed to the coast in great numbers to greet the pale-faced strangers,
had already become troublesome. They had, indeed, murdered two of the
colonists, named Ory and Desloges. This was the first European blood
shed upon Texas soil. The stock of provisions was running low, and
finally, to crown all, Beaujeu, from the beginning hostile to La Salle,
had hoisted sail, with scant warning, and returned to France, leaving
the eight cannons and the powder belonging to the expedition, but
carrying away with him all the cannon balls.
A less sturdy spirit might have been wholly disheartened; but La Salle,
whatever he felt, gave no signs of weakness. He explored the country
round about, and at the end of a short time he marked out the foundation
of a fort beside a small stream which empties into the bay. He called
the river _Les Vaches_ (Cow River[1]), from the number of buffaloes
which grazed along the banks. The spot[2] chosen for the site of the
fort was a delightful one; the rolling prairies which stretched away
northward were covered with rich grass and studded with belts of noble
timber; southward lay the grey and misty line of the bay; birds of gay
plumage sang in shadow of the grapevines that trailed from overhanging
trees to the water’s edge; the clear stream reflected the blue and
cloudless sky of southern Texas. Here the colonists set to work. La
Salle with his own hands aided in hewing and laying the heavy beams of
wall and of blockhouse. The curious savages, tall Lipans and scowling
Carankawaes, hung about the place, peering forward with jealous eyes,
and picking off the unwary workmen with their deadly arrows. But a day
came at last when the little fortress, with its chapel, lodgings, and
guardhouse, was completed. Amid the cheers of the colonists the flag of
France loosened its folds to the wind; a hymn of thanksgiving and praise
arose from the chapel; and La Salle, giving to the fort the name of St.
Louis, dedicated it to France in the name of the King.
Several expeditions followed, in 1685 and 1686, the building of Fort St.
Louis. La Salle not only cherished the hope of finding his lost river;
he was lured northwestward by rumors obtained from the Cenis, the
Nassonites, and other friendly Indians, of rich silver mines in the
interior. He wished also to communicate, if possible, with his old
friend, the Chevalier Tonti of the Iron Hand, whom he had left with a
colony on the Illinois River. Tonti, having lost a hand in battle, used
one made of iron; hence his title.
These journeys were both painful and perilous; the footsore explorers
were obliged to swim swollen rivers; they traversed dangerous swamps and
unknown forests; they encountered and fought with hostile Indians; they
suffered the pangs of hunger and thirst; they were shaken with chills
and parched with fever. It is marvelous, indeed, that a spark of courage
should have remained in their hearts.
On returning to the fort after one of these expeditions, during which
the commandant had lain for months helpless with fever in the lodge of a
Cenis chief, he found matters there in a bad way. The last remaining
vessel, the _Belle_, had been wrecked on a shoal in the bay. Food was
scarce; ammunition was almost exhausted; and between death from sickness
and losses in Indian skirmishes, the inmates were reduced to less than
forty persons.
[Illustration: La Salle’s Map of Texas.]
Despite all this, however, as the wayworn explorers drew near the walls,
their ears were greeted with sounds of mirth and revelry. The Sieur
Barbier and “one of the maidens”—as the chronicler relates—had just been
married in the little chapel. The wedding party welcomed their chief
with joyous shouts. We can well imagine how, removing his worn cap, he
saluted the youthful pair with a stately bow. And the same evening, when
the colonists gathered in the log-built hall of the commandant’s own
quarters to make merry over the first European wedding on Texas soil,
with what courtly grace did the Sieur de la Salle tread a measure with
the blushing bride!
This was in October, 1686. On the 12th of January the following year, La
Salle appeared in the open square of the Fort, dressed in his faded red
uniform and equipped for traveling. His people pressed around him,
listening with anxious hearts to his farewell words. For he was about
starting once more across vast and unknown regions in search of
Tonti—and help.
One by one he called to his side those whom he had chosen to accompany
him. They numbered twenty—exactly half of the remnant of his colony.
Among them were two of his own nephews and his brother, Cavalier; the
faithful priest, Father Anastase; Joutel, the young historian of the
colony; Liotot (Lee-o-to); L’Archevêque (Larsh-vāke′); Duhaut (Du-ho′);
and Nika (Nee-ka), an Indian hunter who had followed La Salle to France
from Canada.
Sieur Barbier was placed in command of the garrison; and, after an
affectionate farewell, La Salle passed through the gate, which he was
never to enter again, and plunged a last time into the forest.
Two months later, near the crossing of the Neches River, Moragnet
(Mo-rä-nyā), La Salle’s nephew, who had been for some time on bad terms
with L’Archevêque and Duhaut, was murdered by them while he was
sleeping. Nika, who was with the party (which had been sent out after
fresh buffalo meat), was killed at the same time. The murderers, fearful
of La Salle’s just vengeance, determined to take his life also. They
placed themselves in ambush; L’Archevêque, who was only sixteen years
old, was detailed to lead their chief into the trap.
When La Salle appeared, in search of his nephew, he was fired upon and
instantly killed (March 16, 1687).
Thus perished, by treacherous hands, the gallant and stout-hearted La
Salle—the soldier, explorer, and dreamer. He was buried in the lonely
spot where he fell. Father Anastase scooped out a shallow grave for his
friend and benefactor, and pressed the grassy turf upon his breast. And
so, within the borders of Texas—though the exact spot is unknown—repose
the mortal remains of its discoverer.
Joutel with several of the band succeeded after many adventures in
reaching one of Tonti’s settlements on the Arkansas River. Thence they
made their way to Canada.
The assassins and their followers remained with the Indians, where, one
after another, they nearly all met the same bloody and violent death
they had meted out to their victims.
Five years later L’Archevêque with one companion was recaptured by the
Spaniards from the savages and sent to Madrid.[3]
Tonti of the Iron Hand had waited long and anxiously for news of his
friend. In 1684 he had gone in a canoe down the Mississippi to its mouth
to meet the expedition from France. The expedition did not appear, and
he returned to his post on the upper Mississippi. He questioned the
Indian runners from the south and west as they passed his camp on their
hunting raids. He could learn nothing of La Salle or his companions.
That intrepid captain seemed to have vanished into the unknown west. At
last, in 1689, he journeyed southward again in quest of his friend.
Vague rumors reached him of men who had passed through his own forts and
tarried to tell the story of La Salle’s death. But he would not believe
them. He entered Texas and traveled as far as the wigwams of the
friendly Cenis. From them he learned the fate of the man he loved; and
the rugged soldier turned aside his head and wept.[4]