enters. With the first sensation of terror gone, the multitude breaks
forth into mighty demonstration. Throngs of men give vent to their
emotions in wild whoops and shouts, accompanied by rude music on cane
flutes. They leap, they dance, and by every conceivable means manifest
their excited joy. On the public square, the dusky maidens gather, and
with shrieks and shouts, dance with unabated glee. No demonstration to a
returning conqueror could exceed that now accorded to DeSoto and his men,
as they proudly ride within the walls of Maubila. Hideous cries from
thousands of throats, mingled with the unmusical notes of many reeds, made
the scene one of terror.
Silently, but with much ostentation, they ride upon the public square
beneath the wide-spreading oaks. At a given signal, all dismount. A canopy
underspread with rich matting, had been prepared for DeSoto and the chief.
They slowly repair thereto and are seated. With the suddenness of a flash,
Tuskaloosa leaps to his feet, his eye glittering with pent-up anger, and
in stentorian tones he demands that he receive the honor due him within
his own walls, and that he be no longer treated as a common prisoner.
DeSoto is taken quite off his guard. He is as silent as the tomb. An awful
hush falls suddenly on the scene. Wheeling on his heel, the indignant
monarch steps forth and leisurely retires to one of the buildings. DeSoto,
usually very resourceful, is now at his wits' end. Hoping to placate the
stormy chief, he sends an invitation to join him at breakfast, but the
offer is not only sternly declined, but Tuskaloosa notifies the Spaniard
that the sooner he betakes himself without his dominions, the better it
will be for him. A crisis had come and DeSoto must face it.
BATTLE OF MAUBILA
Signs now grow more ominous and rapidly, and DeSoto begins to fear the
worst. This is his greatest dilemma. He would avoid a clash if he could,
and fight only if he must. The occasion has become tense, and he thinks
and plans fast. The Indians have largely vanished from sight in rather a
mysterious way, and those now huddled on the square are in close
conference. A Spanish spy whispers to DeSoto that a thousand warriors,
well armed, are concentrated in one of the large buildings, while in
another is a large supply of Indian munitions of war. The crisis is graver
than he had apprehended. The Spaniard dreaded Indian treachery the more
because it might exceed that of his own. That which he has just learned is
startling, and shows that he has not been mistaken in his suspicions.
Meanwhile DeSoto keeps up negotiations with the chief, but receives only
rebuff. Meanwhile, also, he is sending secret orders to his men to be
ready at any moment and for any emergency. He now realizes his error in
allowing Tuskaloosa to get beyond his grasp. That which he now wishes is
to have him once more in his possession, and to this end he is working.
His flattery is profuse, his promises to the chief extravagant. His
principal hope lies in gaining the possession once more of his person. He
plies his ingenuity by cajolery, and by all the arts known to the
flatterer, but the foxy Indian had himself recently learned some lessons
of Spanish character, and he is as anxious to keep himself beyond the
reach of DeSoto, as DeSoto's anxiety is to gain possession of him. In one
of the buildings, Tuskaloosa is holding a council with his leading
spirits, as message after message comes from DeSoto. The Indian is not so
unskilled in the art of deception, that he does not see through the thin
guise of the purpose of the Spaniard. "Surely in vain the net is spread in
the sight of any bird." While the negotiations are thus pending, while the
parleying and dallying are going on, an Indian warrior dashes from the
assembled host, and with stentorian voice attended with grim expressions
of heated hostility, denounces the Spaniards as robbers, thieves and
murderers--denounces DeSoto for holding in captivity the beloved chief,
who is as free as the Spaniards, and as good as the Spanish leader
himself, meanwhile making as though he would shoot with an arrow into the
Spanish ranks. Truth is hard, and sometimes hurts. DeSoto is inclined to
disregard all this. The fact is, there was a mutual and balanced fear
between the two parties. Each feared the other; each was equally doubtful
of an issue joined.
What might have been the result had not a most untimely occurrence taken
place, cannot be imagined, but a Spanish cavalier standing near the
warrior who gave vent to the speech just referred to, irritated beyond
control, clove him asunder with a heavy sword, and his bowels gushed out
in sight of all present. This is the touch of the match to the magazine.
Like the muffled roar of a distant storm, the savages quickly gather, and
in fury rush on the Spaniards, who stand with entire self-collection as
though nothing was occurring. Checked by this marvelous coolness, the
Indians hesitate, and with the utmost precision, the Spaniards march
outside the walls, excepting fifteen, who alarmed by the outbreak, flee
into a room of one of the buildings and close fast the door.
Once beyond the gate, the Spaniards wheel in defiance and show battle.
Their eyes flash terror, their attitude is one of ferocity. DeSoto has
less than a hundred men, as the infantry has not yet arrived. Soon it
appears, however, and gives fresh nerve. Save the unfortunate killing of
the warrior, nothing has been yet done to indicate an approaching battle,
though the signs thicken fast. The low thud of hurrying feet within the
walls, while all else is silent, betokens trouble. The Spaniards have but
a minute or so to wait, before indications of hostility are manifest. The
camp equipage has been left by the Spaniards on the square, as well as the
Indian prisoners, who had been used all the way from Coosa as burden
bearers. The baggage is burned and the prisoners are freed. The iron
collars are taken from their necks, and the chains from their wrists, and
bows and clubs are placed in their hands to avenge themselves of their
oppressors. The fifteen who fled into one of the buildings are still cut
off, and the situation is ominously acute.
The delay is only temporary, for soon the savages pour through the gateway
with demoniacal yelling, while a thousand swift arrows plow the air. Five
Spaniards of the little band fall dead, and DeSoto receives a wound.
Regardless of the flowing blood, he leads his command to meet the shock of
the foe. Surprised at courage so unusual, the savages falter, then rush
back within the gate and make it fast. They now turn to the destruction of
the fifteen penned within the room, and seek to force the door, but as
each savage shows himself the enclosed men shoot him down. Some of the
best of DeSoto's fighters are shut within that room--among them are five
of DeSoto's bodyguard, some crossbowmen, two priests, and a friendly
Indian. Their doom seems certain, but they are fighting like bayed tigers.
Unable to force the door, the Indians climb to the top of the walls, and
begin to tear up the roof in order to reach them, but again as an Indian
comes within view he is killed. The dead are heaped before the door, they
lie in a pile on the roof.
Meanwhile there is no slack in the fighting at the front. The Spanish
assault the walls, but are driven back, though in perfect order.
Encouraged by this, and believing the battle already won, the Indians
again throw open the big gate and rush with fury on the Spaniards. Indians
know little of the value of a retreat in order to rally, and are stunned
by the steadiness and nerve with which they are met. Now begins the battle
in downright earnestness.
DeSoto is at great disadvantage both in numbers and in supplies of
munitions. Moscoso lingers with the reserves. He is much in need, should
be here, but delays. With strained vision, DeSoto looks for his
lieutenant, but he comes not. The fight is now hand to hand. The Indians
are perhaps fifty to one against the Spaniards, but order and discipline,
powder and ball, crossbow and sword, horse and armor prevail against the
odds. DeSoto leads his troops in person. His men are animated by his
dauntless presence and the terror of his execution. He fights like a
common trooper. The blood still oozes from his wound, but he fights on
still. The Spaniards not only hold their own, but force the savages back.
At this juncture Moscoso arrives. The Indians rush again within the walls
and make fast the gate. DeSoto now plans for the final onset. His heavy
ordnance is to be brought into prompt execution. On the spot he organizes
his detachments, and while the arrows are flying, he assigns to each body
its task in the closing scene of the drama. Coolness like this is almost
superhuman, but DeSoto is not cooler than his men.
The axes begin to ring on the gate. Nerved now to desperation by this, the
Indians fight with more ferocity than ever. With resounding blows the axes
fall on the doomed gate. From the summit of the walls and from the
portholes the arrows are rained down on the Spaniards, but striking their
encased armor glide off. Huge pebbles, the size of a man's fist and
larger, fall like hailstones upon their helmets, but to no effect. The
gate begins to give way, it reels, it falls with a creaking crash, and the
Spaniards sweep within. Indians and Spaniards alike fight like demons.
DeSoto still leads, hewing down man after man with his broadsword. His men
follow with equal execution.
Torches in hand, the walls are being fired. The thick plastering is
knocked off and in many places, the fires begin. Ladders are improvised,
the walls are scaled, and near the summit the torch is applied. The
fifteen pent-up men are released, jump with exhilaration into the fray,
and do deadlier work than the others. The fires begin to climb the walls.
They toss high in air their forked tongues. In a swaying column the smoke
darkens the heavens.
For nine long hours the battle has raged without cessation, and the end is
not yet. Yells, orders, shrieks, the clang of steel, the stroke of axes,
the roar and crackle of flames mingle in common confusion. DeSoto rushes
on a big warrior, raises his lance to drive it through him and receives a
long arrow in his thigh. He cannot stop to extricate it now, and while it
is protruding, and is much in his way, he fights on like a demon
unchained. Rising in his saddle he sways his sword about his head and
yells, "Our Lady and Santiago!" and plunges anew into the storm of battle.
Spurring his horse into the thickest of the fight, he lays many a warrior
low.
The Indians begin to break away. They rapidly disappear. The fires become
intense, unbearable. It is a circle of flame leaping from eighty buildings
of dried wood, all at once. The fires rage. The dead braves lie in heaps
both within and without the wall. The blood stands in puddles over a wide
area. At last there are no Indians to fight. They have fled in confusion
to the woods, and DeSoto is master of the situation.
October 18, 1540, remains to this time the date of the bloodiest Indian
battle that was ever fought. The sun goes down on a city which in the
early hours of the day resounded with the sound of cane lutes, and the
voices of many dancers. The mighty buildings which met the astonished gaze
of the Spanish conqueror, are now a mass of charred ruins. The autumn
grass, green and luxuriant in the morning, is now red with gore. The
populous city of ten hours before is deserted. The great trees, rich in
foliage, are now blasted and seared. Where peace and prosperity were,
havoc is now enthroned. DeSoto had won; his greatest obstruction is now
out of his way, but fresh, and now unconjectured, troubles await him for
which he is ill prepared.
AFTERMATH OF THE BATTLE
The morning following the battle of Maubila the autumnal sun broke in
radiance over the desolate scene. The high oaken walls were gone, the
great buildings had vanished, the ancestral oaks that stood about the
grounds now looked like bare sentinels with arms of nakedness--scarred,
barkless and leafless, the greenswarded square of the morning before was a
sheet of black. When the morning before DeSoto first beheld it, Maubila
was a busy hive of humanity, but it was now as silent as the desert. The
buzz of conversation was no more, the cane lute was silent, the shout of
the warrior had died away, the voices of the Indian maidens were hushed.
The warriors were now stiff in death--the maidens had perished. From the
smouldering ruins of the burned city, still crept a slow smoke, while
around the borders of the horizon it shrouded the fronting woods. Nothing
was wanting to complete the scene of desolation, nothing to finish the
picture of horror.
About the grounds lay heaps of the dead, many burned to blackness, while
around the walls without, bodies were scattered like leaves. The wide
paths leading to the city from different directions, were paved with the
dead, while along the neighboring streams they lay, still grasping their
bows and tomahawks. Wounded unto death, they had dragged their bodies in
burning thirst to the streams, had slaked their intense desire for water,
and had lain down to die. Squaws and babies were intermingled with brave
warriors, while maidens in their tawdry regalia, worn to greet the
Spaniard and his men, were stretched in death. The leaves, grass, and low
underbrush about the once proud city, were painted in the blood of its
brave defenders, now no more.
To DeSoto it was a victory dearly bought. He had won by dint of discipline
and of orderly evolution, by means of powder and bullet and encasing
armor, but he had paid a heavy toll. It was the beginning of his own end,
and that of the expedition which he led. Eighty-two Spaniards of the small
band were either dead, or a little later, died of their wounds. Forty-five
horses had been killed, and much of the clothing of the men had been
consumed in the flames, together with medicines, relics, and much other
valuable property. There was not an unwounded man in the party save among
the priests, who did not share in the fight. Some of the men bore as many
as eleven wounds, and in not a few instances, the arrows were still buried
in the flesh, made difficult of extrication because of the triangular
shape of the stones with which the arrows were tipped. Every surgeon was
dead excepting one of the staff, and he the least skillful. Following the
example of the men under Cortez in Mexico, the Spaniards cut away the fat
part of the thighs of the slain Indians, and bound the flesh about their
wounds. The camp was removed sufficiently away from the scene to escape
the stench of the dead, the Spanish slain were buried, and DeSoto was left
to plan for the future. Forgetful of his own wounds, he was intent on the
comfort of his men. He would seek to cheer them with visions of fortune
yet to be realized, and with promises never to be fulfilled.
In the solitude of thought, DeSoto kept well within himself. He realized
the seriousness of the situation, was half inclined to abandon the quest
for gold, but his proud spirit revolted against acknowledgement of
failure. Yet a serious breach had been made in his ranks, his resources
were impaired beyond recuperation, winter was coming on, he knew not the
condition of the country ahead, nor did he know what the temper of his
troops would be after the reaction from the battle. He talked to no one,
for the very excellent reason that he did not know in whom to confide. The
Spaniard is wary, suspicious. Every one suspects every other. Daring as
DeSoto was, he was not without a modicum of precaution. As he had westward
gone, the tribes had increased in intelligence and in formidableness. What
lay before him toward the further west, he knew not. He could not sustain
another Maubila. After all, would it be wise or not, to seek again the
fleet in Tampa Bay? Here was a perplexity with which to wrestle. He must
act, and that soon, but how, was the question that harassed his mind.
One ray of hope pierced the gloom of the silent and morose Spaniard--the
Indian tribes westward and northward, on learning of the fate of Maubila,
sent envoys of peace to DeSoto, attended with assurances of good will and
of friendship. Stricken with terror by the feat of the valiant white
invader, they were anxious to placate him in advance. Whatever may have
been their sentiments before, they were now sycophantic enough. Among the
Indian visitors it was said by some that the Chief Tuskaloosa had fled
during the battle, but the general opinion was that he had perished. These
same Indian envoys told DeSoto that the great chief had long been planning
for the extinction of the Spanish host, and that his plot was deeply laid,
which news served to encourage the Spaniard with the belief that he had
committed no blunder in overthrowing him. These envoys gave partial nerve
to DeSoto in his growing perplexity and despondency.
While the commander sat alone in his tent meditating on what course he
should pursue, his men nursed their wounds, and with returning relief,
they became the same volatile spirits as before. Up to this time, their
confidence in their leader had been supreme. While they did not comprehend
his unusual moroseness, and while no one would venture to approach him
with any degree of familiarity, they confided in his judgment, and lolled
the days away in utter indifference of the future. Sprawled on their rough
pallets of leaves and straw, or else stretched on the grass beneath the
wide trees, they would while away the time gambling. Their cards had been
destroyed by the fire, but they improvised others. They were inveterate
gamblers. Throughout the entire march these reckless fellows gambled at
every halt. Money, jewelry, horses, clothing, and even Indian mistresses
were staked in the games. With nothing now to beguile the tedium of the
camp, they whiled away the days in gaming, while the demure commander sat
alone in his tent doubtful as to what to do next. Heartened by the reports
of the envoys, DeSoto finally almost resolved to push westward, but an
unexpected dilemma arose for which he was least prepared. Idleness was
demoralizing his men, and an unlooked-for trouble was in store for him,
the news of which almost stunned him, when he learned it. Far severer and
sorer than any yet encountered, it went to his heart like cold steel, when
once it was realized.
MURMURING AND MUTINY
Nearly eight months now lie behind the expedition, and they had been
months of almost superhuman endurance. Exposure to rain and cold, groping
through tangled swamps, and wading or swimming numerous creeks and rivers,
undergoing hunger, fatigue, and sickness, kept in constant anxiety, by day
and by night, lest they be attacked by a stealthy foe, climbing high hills
and mountains without the semblance of a road, or even a path, fighting
frequently without any knowledge of the force opposed, utterly cut off
from communication with home, or with the outside world, and utterly
without any compensation for all endured--when were the trials of a body
of men greater? Their ranks were now thinned, most of their luggage was
gone, they were worn out by long marches, many of their comrades were
sleeping in graves in a land of wilderness, and yet not a grain of the
much-sought gold has been found. Many had staked their fortunes on the
quest, and these young, blooded Castilians were now beginning to show
signs of hostile restlessness.
DeSoto discovered all this, and he had so often cheered them with dazzling
phantoms, while he had only poverty and distress to offer, that he knew
not whither to turn in an extremity so dire. A difficulty now faced him
that required greater courage than that needed to resist Indian arrows,
for his men were quietly fomenting rebellion. They had learned from Indian
visitors to the camp, that a fleet of Spanish ships, under Maldinado, was
lying off the present location of Pensacola, awaiting the return of
DeSoto. This was corroborated by other reports from the coast. This
impelled a determination on the part of the men, to break away and seek
the shores of the south. DeSoto would himself have turned southward at
this juncture, but for his humiliating failure. The vision of his
sumptuous home in distant Spain rose often before him, and in his dreams
he had pictured a palace rivalling that of royalty, in consequence of his
discovery of gold, but he was destined never to see that home again.
The worst at last came. His apprehensions were fully confirmed when he
learned that under the leadership of some of his most trusted men, a
conspiracy was hatching to leave him to his fate, and make their way
southward, some proposing to sail home, others to join a new expedition to
Peru. In order to satisfy himself fully, DeSoto quietly slid about the
camp at night, and by a process of eavesdropping gain what he might. Among
his men were some who had deserted Pizarro at a juncture, and DeSoto began
to prepare for the worst. This was the severest trial of his eventful
life. He had no means of knowing who were his friends, or indeed whether
he had any. The crisis was extreme.
Turning the matter over in his mind, DeSoto finally resolved on a
desperate course. He had been planning to found a Spanish settlement in
this particular region, and had gone so far as to send an Indian agent to
Ochus, where the plans of colonization were being arranged. Goaded to the
extreme of desperation, he proposed to make a bold show of authority and
force. It was now just a month since the battle, and all his men had so
far recovered from their wounds that they were again able to take up the
line of march. Reserving his plan to himself, on the morning of November
18, he suddenly issued an order to get ready to move at once. His men did
not know what direction he would go, but to their astonishment, he turned
northward. He accompanied his order with a threat to kill any man who
undertook to disobey. This was quite unusual, indeed, nothing like it had
before occurred, and it took the men quite off their guard. Before the
troops could confer or consult, every man was in his saddle and strung out
on the line of march. By this means DeSoto surprised the men instead of
their surprising him. He was really without authority in a step so
arbitrary. The expedition was entirely voluntary, but DeSoto saw that
unless he could by a single stroke, shatter the rising revolt, he should
be totally undone.
Giving up the idea of a colony, DeSoto moved toward the northwest, beyond
the confines of the present County of Clarke, and through the territory of
Marengo and Greene, as they now are, and, after five days, reached the
Black Warrior River about where the village of Erie now is. Here he
encountered resistance. The news of the disaster at Maubila had spread to
the remotest settlements, arousing the Indians to vengeance, and at Erie,
they appeared 1,500 strong, painted, and bearing clubs and bows. As though
nothing was before them, the Spaniards moved steadily on, the Indians
falling back, while they filled the air with their arrows. On reaching
the river, the Indians in haste filled their waiting canoes and rowed
rapidly across, and such as could not find place in the boats, plunged in
and swam the stream. On the opposite side, the Indians met a large
reinforcement that had gathered to dispute the passage of the river by
DeSoto. The Spaniards began leisurely to fortify, giving but slight heed
to the wild demonstrations on the opposite side, which the Indians
observing, quietly dispersed and disappeared, save a number who were left
to watch the object of the Spaniards.
Detailing a hundred men to cut timbers and construct rafts, DeSoto quietly
rested till the arrangements were complete, when he began to cross with
his force, giving no attention to the showers of arrows from the foe.
Struck by his cool determination, the Indians fled precipitately.