THE FORT CALLED CRÈVECŒUR

For ten days the air was snapping with cold, and the river beside the Peoria village remained frozen. In the hearts of the Peorias lingered the chill of fear, for in spite of his denunciation of Monso they could not banish their doubts of the French chief; and the dreaded Iroquois invasion, which had haunted them for years, was very present in their thoughts as the Frenchmen passed among them.

When Indians once see fear betrayed in public, they never forget; and now for some of La Salle’s men the Peorias had only contempt, for not all of those who had shown fear at the words of NicanopÉ had fled to the woods. Others of the French, such as Ako, the coureur de bois, were of a different breed. Bold, strong, experienced in woodcraft by many years in the wilds, they commanded at least consideration from the Indian warriors.

As for the three gray-robed friars, they did no harm and there was a curious mystery about their ceremonies that pleased the Indians’ childlike hearts. One of these friars—Father Hennepin—looked far more like a man who loved the world and the joys of life. He strutted about the village with all priestly meekness smothered by his interest in his surroundings. Very conscious was he of his own greatness, and well satisfied that without him the little band of French would be in sore straits.

It was with different feelings that the Peorias looked upon La Salle and Tonty. They feared them greatly and still retained their suspicions, but with their fear and suspicion there was also respect and awe. They recognized in them the qualities an Indian loves—strength, utter fearlessness, and a determination that breaks down all obstacles. About each of these men there was mystery which baffled the wits of the Indians and excited their interest even more than did the medicine men of their own tribes.

Of the past of these two remarkable men the Indians knew nothing; they could not read the tale of danger and hardship that had marked the years of La Salle, or the story of the pitfalls and snares laid by his enemies for his destruction. They could not know that at Fort Frontenac, when La Salle was on his way to their country, one of his men had put poison in his food. Nor did they know of the incident at the Miami portage, where one of his followers, walking behind, had raised his gun to shoot his leader in the back and was prevented only by the quick arm of a comrade. They knew that six of the men had deserted and gone off into the woods, but they did not know that on that same day in their own village another of his treacherous knaves had again tried to poison him.

They knew nothing of the early experiences of Henry de Tonty, of the seas he had sailed and the fights he had fought by land and water in the service of the King of France. Nor did they yet know the faith with which he served his leader and friend La Salle. But a sure instinct told the red men that here were two men whom they would love as friends or fear as enemies.

One chill day followed another. Most of the young men were still off on the hunt and warpath. Those who remained at home mended their weapons, smoked, and idly watched the women at work on mats and robes—but never for a moment let go the thought or sight of the white strangers in their midst.

In the middle of January the ice melted, the air dropped its sting, and the friendly earth appeared from beneath the snow. La Salle and the friar Hennepin stepped into a canoe and paddled down the river to a point half a league below the village. Soon Tonty and the rest of the band joined them. On the left-hand side of the river, two hundred paces from the edge of the water, rose a small hill. In front of it there was a stretch of low swampy ground, and on either side were deep ravines.

The inquisitive Indians who slipped along the shore to watch the movements of the white men saw them at work digging a ditch behind the hill to connect the two ravines. Around the edge of the hill a line of earth was thrown up, making a wall which sloped down into ditch and ravine and marsh. Then a palisade of logs was erected twenty feet high. Inside this stockade in two corners the busy Frenchmen built lodgings for themselves, a cabin for the three friars in the third corner, and a storehouse in the fourth. Along the rear wall the forge was set up, and in the very midst of the inclosure were the quarters of La Salle and Tonty. To this stronghold beside the Illinois River, La Salle gave the name of Fort CrÈvecoeur.

Another work that astonished the Indians still more went on at the bank of the river. Here the men felled great trees, hewed them into timbers, sawed planks, and began to build a mighty canoe such as the men of the tribe had never seen. With a forty-foot keel and a twelve-foot beam, no Peoria could doubt that it would make its way safely down the Great River that ran through the land of their enemies.

Many times did the Indians wonder in their hearts whether or not the French chief believed in the tales of terror that NicanopÉ had spoken. They saw him little at the village now, for he and his men had moved down to the new Fort CrÈvecoeur; but there was never a time when Indian figures, none too busy at home, did not peer through the bushes or sit boldly by, fascinated by the busy doings at the fort and primitive shipyard.

Far to the south, meanwhile, a band of the young men were on their way home from the warpath. Many leagues ahead of them hurried one of the band, a young warrior sent on to tell the village of their approach. Over the plains and through tangled woods he plodded on weary feet. He was less than three leagues from the village now, but he was tired and very hungry. As he trudged along, he came upon a figure somewhat strange to his eyes. But he had seen the traders who came now and then down the rivers from Canada and he knew this man for a Frenchman. He saw, what was more pleasing to his needs, that the stranger carried four wild turkeys. Far spent with hunger, he called to him and asked for food.

The white man handed him one of the wild turkeys. With eager hands the Indian lighted a fire, swung over it a kettle which he carried with him and proceeded to cook the fowl. While the fire licked the sides of the kettle the strange white man asked him of his journey and inquired about the Great River that ran through the countries of the South. The young warrior picked up from the fire a charred bit of wood and with it drew, on a piece of bark, a careful diagram which showed the course of the river and the streams that fell into it. Then he gave the names of these streams and told of the tribes that dwelt along them, and the white man wrote them down in his own language on the bark.

Everywhere along the Mississippi the young Indian had traveled in a pirogue, and never was there a fall or rapids to obstruct his way. Not even were there sandbars, save near the mouth in the heat of summer-time. The two men talked of these things for some time, while the Indian rested and appeased his hunger. Finally the Frenchman gave to the red man a hatchet and asked him to say to no one that he had met him. With his lips thus sealed by the white man’s gift and his stomach made glad by the white man’s game, the young Indian turned aside and accompanied his new friend with some awe to the newly built fort, instead of passing on to the village.

Early on the morning of the next day, in the village of the Peorias, a group of Indians were gathered in the lodge of one of the chiefs. They were feasting in great joy upon the meat of a bear—a delicacy much prized among them. Suddenly a form darkened the entrance to the lodge and La Salle strode in among the squatted Indians. He paused in their midst and looked about before he spoke. A smile of triumph was on his lips.

“Perhaps you do not know,” he said, “that the Maker of all things takes especial care of the French. In answer to my prayers he has revealed to me the truth concerning the Great River, which your frightful tales prevented me from learning.”

Then he went on to tell the astounded Indians of all the windings of the Mississippi, of the smooth current upon which a canoe might ride to its mouth. He described each river that entered it from the east and from the west, and named each tribe that dwelt on its borders. Nowhere was there fall or rapids to obstruct one’s way, and only where the river broadened out at the mouth were there shallows and sand and mud-bars. Each twist and turn, each rocky cliff and entering stream he seemed to know as if he had spent months in paddling up and down the river in an Indian pirogue.

The bear meat was forgotten. The Indians sat silent, their hands clapped to their mouths in amazement. What great power or “medicine” did this man possess that enabled him to watch what occurred in secret nightly councils, and to see and describe hundreds of leagues of the course and valley of the Great River he had never visited? Like children caught in mischief, they confessed that all he said was true and that they had deceived him only to keep him in their midst.

La Salle departed from the lodge, leaving them with troubled minds. How strange and wonderful were these men of fair faces and flowing hair. And what did their presence bode for the Indian? Were they their friends, or were they at heart friends of the Iroquois? Who knew how near to their villages were bands of painted warriors of the Five Nations? Yet, though suspicion lay heavy upon their hearts, they looked with covetous eyes upon the hatchets and knives, the kettles and weapons that the white men brought.