# Père Marquette/Chapter 12

There is little doubt that fear of the Iroquois, who had been restlessly encroaching on their neighbors' hunting grounds, made the Illinois particularly eager for such protection as the power of France could give them. Although the Iroquois had so concentrated their rage upon the Hurons that only scattered remnants of that once numerous tribe survived, yet the original quarrel—which had started as was usual in a hunting feud—had included the Algonquins, who, having been the thrice foolish aggressors, had suffered bitterly for their folly. So, at least, says Père Charlevoix, that courtly Jesuit who was sent by the Duc d'Orléans to write a report of New France, and to gather what information he could concerning the manners and customs of its inhabitants.
Père Charlevoix collected his material—as did Froissart—from observation and from ​hearsay; and his lively, if not always trustworthy, narrative has been a source of supply to all the historians who have succeeded him. One volume is dedicated to His Most Serene Highness, Monseigneur le Duc de Penthièvre; and another to Madame la Duchesse de Lesdiguières, that charming and distinguished Frenchwoman who wrote delicate verse and loved cats. The beautifully drawn, if somewhat incomprehensible, maps are occasionally inscribed with the names of great French noblemen, and the books are models of extravagant typography. They show even more plainly than do the Relations the keen interest which France took in her Canadian colonies and the surrounding savages, in the trade established, and in the explorations that opened up new and great possibilities for the future.
Père Charlevoix could find no words too strong to express his admiration for the courage, intelligence, and simplicity with which Père Marquette and Joliet had conducted their expedition. Especially he marveled at the skill which kept their canoes afloat on the roughened waters of the Mississippi, a feat beyond his ​power or that of his Indian guides. They were compelled to take to a raft, and had plenty of trouble with that. The great river fascinated his imagination. He wrote about it again and again, as though striving to expand his readers' minds to fit this mighty theme. Two things were clear to his understanding: the impetus to French trade afforded by an accurate knowledge of its course, and the impracticability of living within reach of its waters at flood time. The farther south he went, the greater this danger appeared to him. He could conceive of no barrier strong enough to hold back the swollen current, fed by so many tributaries; and he warned colonists to keep at a safe and respectful distance from a stream which would outrun them in the race for life.
No consideration of the glories or of the perils to come vexed the soul of Père Marquette when he and Joliet bade farewell to the friendly Illinois villages on a quiet summer afternoon. Their job was a simple thing—to find the river, which they had done; and to keep on it as long as they could, which they were doing. It must be granted that they had enjoyed marvelous ​good fortune. No serious obstacle had presented itself, no danger that was not easily overcome. Day after day the travelers placed themselves anew under the protection of the Blessed Virgin, and day after day she shielded them from harm. They landed often and explored the lonely, beautiful shores. A tranquil pleasure, akin to that of a botanist (although he knew no botany), filled Père Marquette's heart. He examined and described every fruit and flower he saw, and they were many. Mulberries, indeed, he greeted as old friends, and pronounced to be as fine as they were in France, although no silkworms profited by the heavy foliage. Chincapins—not yet ripe—interested him greatly. But for persimmons he had no praise, which is hardly surprising if he ventured to eat them in July. The names of these things were of course unknown to him; but they are generally recognizable from his descriptions. There was one plant, however—a species of cactus—which puzzled him as much as it puzzles us to-day. "Its root resembles a bunch of small turnips held together by delicate fibers. It has the flavor of a carrot." (Never was there so bold a taster of unfamiliar ​products!) "From this root springs a leaf as wide as my hand, half a finger thick, and deeply spotted. From this leaf spring other leaves like the sockets of chandeliers in French salons. The flowers grow in clusters. They are bell-shaped and bright yellow."
Before reaching the mouth of the Missouri the canoes passed the famous painted rocks, so familiar in later reports. They seem to have thrilled Père Marquette with a horror amounting to fear. The great height and strange outlines of the rocks and the crude vigor of the paintings had in his eyes something monstrous and unnatural. He could not believe that Indians had climbed that perpendicular wall, and he could not believe that Indians had designed those huge and fearsome beasts. "They are as big as calves," he wrote, "and have antlers like deer. Their faces are rather like the faces of men, with tigrish mouths and red eyes, hideous to behold. Their bodies are covered with scales, and their tails are so long that they pass over their heads and down between their legs, terminating like the tails of fishes. The colors used are red, green, and black."
​It is to be regretted that the sketch made by Père Marquette of these monsters has disappeared. He was a fair draftsman, and he claimed to have caught a good likeness. A partial copy of his drawing ornaments a map made some years later by order of the intendant, Duchesneau. Other missionaries described the paintings in much the same terms, though Père Charlevoix considered that they owed their origin to a caprice of nature which so often molds rocky heights into rude effigies of men and beasts. The savages recognized this resemblance, and went to great pains to improve on it, utilizing the mass of stone as a particularly precious and august manitou, to which they made offerings of arrows, spears, and pelts. Père Jean François de St. Cosmé, a Jesuit priest who was subsequently killed by Indians, wrote in 1699 that incessant rains had dimmed and blurred the colors, although the monsters were still objects of veneration. Traces of them remained for another half century, when they gradually disappeared. Parkman was infinitely amused by the proposal of some enthusiasts in his day to repaint the figures as described by Père Marquette. The difficulty of ​the task, rather than its utter and complete inexpedience, induced them to abandon the design; and when the historian passed that way in 1867, the rock once deified by Indians bore a huge and harmless advertisement of "Plantation Bitters." Even this he felt was better—because genuine—than a fake manitou, which had no longer a raison d'être, and the original of which had been regarded by the pious missionary as a symbol of deadly sin.
Nothing can be more vivid than the brief paragraph in which Père Marquette describes the Missouri River; the speed and fury with which it emptied itself into the Mississippi, the tangled masses of trees and bushes which it tossed to and fro on its current, the rapids which came near to swamping his canoe, the agitation of the greater stream under the impetuous onslaught of the lesser. Pekitanouï, which signifies "muddy water," was the appropriate name given to the Missouri, and by this name it went until 1712; although in the letters of the Récollet missionaries it is generally spoken of as the "River of the Osages," and on early French maps it appears indiscriminately as the "Rivière des ​Osages," the "Rivière des Emissourites," and the "Rivière des Oumessourites"—a wide and perplexing choice. The Ohio enjoys the same variety of titles. On Père Marquette's map it is the "Ouabouskiaou" (he had a passion for vowels), and on others the Ouabache. But the intelligent Iroquois called it Ohio, or "Beautiful River," and so we know it to-day.
Joliet was keen to explore the Missouri, for he had learned from the Indians that great prairies lay along its banks, prairies stretching unbrokenly for ten and fifteen leagues. There were villages, too, in plenty, and Père Marquette sighed that he could not visit them. Ever and always his mind was full of the possible converts who dwelt in the darkness of idolatry, and ever and always he comforted himself with the thought, "I will return and teach them." Had he lived to be a hundred instead of dying at thirty-eight, he could never have reached in the flesh the savages he embraced in the spirit. The knowledge that thirty-seven villages of the Chaouanons, or Shawanoes, lay on the east bank the Mississippi, and that he was compelled to pass them by, distressed him sorely; the more ​so because the Chaouanons were a comparatively gentle and harmless people, indifferent fighters, and living in perpetual fear of the Iroquois. Père Marquette likens them to a flock of sheep, innocent of wrong-doing, but incapable of protecting themselves. Therefore the Iroquois periodically burned their villages, and took as many prisoners as they pleased. The only safety of the assaulted ones lay in flight; and they must have become adepts in the art of running away, of vanishing, Indian fashion, into the depth of familiar and friendly forests which hid them from pursuit.
Three days after escaping the perils of the Missouri, the adventurers encountered the demon against which they had been warned at every stage of their journey. Its home was a deep and narrow chasm close to the shore and walled in by perpendicular rocks twenty feet high. Through this chasm the water forced its way, to be repeatedly checked and hurled back with great force and a furious din. The savages believed that the spirit which dwelt under these churning waves was a thing of evil. It resented the presence of men and threatened their destruction. The noise ​and commotion, the leaping waters which in storm or flood time must have been terrible to behold, were to them the menace of an angry god whom no offerings could propitiate and no ingenuity could outwit.
The presence of iron ore on the river's banks attracted Joliet's attention, and the Canadians sought carefully for every indication of mines. They also noted the beds of sticky and brightly tinted clay, purple, violet, and red, which furnished the dyes used by Indians to color their dress, their decorations, their weapons, and themselves. Squaws were permitted to wear dyed ornaments, like the scarlet eelskin ribbons which Père Chauchetière found so pretty and becoming; but the privilege of using cosmetics, like the privilege of having suppressed desires, was re served exclusively for the braves, who availed themselves of it as freely as do civilized women to-day. Père Le Jeune admitted that when he first saw the painted warriors at Tadoussac, he could think of nothing but French harlequins at carnival time. The natural color of the Indians, the uniform reddish tint, "not unlike that of beggars in the south of France who are half-​roasted by the sun," he thought extremely handsome; and he marveled the more that they should disfigure themselves with patches and stripes of red and blue, "as though they were masquerading." "The colors used are bright and strong like those of our masks," he wrote to his Provincial. "The least conspicuous braves had one black bar like a wide ribbon reaching from ear to ear, and three little black stripes on each cheek."
Red was the color of battle, and the savages would no more have thought of taking the war path without daubing themselves with red paint than civilized soldiers would think of fighting in mufti. Père Le Moyne says that the Hurons and Algonquins admitted other tints, each warrior having his own set of colors and his own set of patches and stripes, which he retained for life. Père Mathurin Le Petit describes the Natchez as being so liberally supplied with this precious red clay that they painted, not only themselves, but their arrows, their tomahawks, and even the poles ornamented with red plumes which they carried like pennons into the fray. The dye was equally vivid and permanent, as ​Père Marquette discovered when he tried a little of it on his paddle, and it lasted for fifteen days. The mildness of the summer weather—too hot, indeed, at noontide—the comparative gentleness of the current, and the beauty of the low-lying lands on either side of the river would have made this part of the voyage an unbroken delight to the explorers had it not been for the mosquitoes. These terrible little pests grew more numerous and more alert day by day and night by night. "We have entered their territory," wrote Père Marquette; "we are intruders in their abode." At night the Canadians protected themselves Indian fashion by building fires and smoking the insects away; but in the daytime—being compelled to hug the shore—they had no chance of escape. The most they could do was to paddle steadily on, suffering in silence, and keeping a sharp lookout for danger.
Mosquitoes occupy a prominent place in the Relations. They were considered to be the worst feature of the swarming insect life in the American woods. The large flies stung furiously, and the pain of the sting lasted for days. The gnats were too small to be seen, but managed to make ​themselves felt. But the mosquitoes were so persevering and so poisonous that hardened woodsmen were made ill by their bites. The only harmless things were the butterflies and fireflies, the latter more beautiful and brilliant than the glowworms of France. Père Brébeuf, bravest of men and most stoical of martyrs, was of the opinion that mosquitoes ranked with hunger, fatigue, and "the stench of tired-out savages"—four things difficult to endure. Père Le Moyne, who was of a humorous turn, wrote that it was "a pleasure sweet and innocent beyond conception" to sleep on the bare ground, under such shelter as the trees afforded, while drenching rain washed the mosquitoes from his suffering body.
Eight days after Père Marquette and Joliet had left the hospitable Illinois they sighted their next Indians, a score or so of braves armed with guns and lining the river bank. The Canadians dropped their paddles and picked up their muskets, ready to meet the attack; but the priest, holding aloft the calumet, called out in the Huron tongue some words of peaceful greeting. The response was unintelligible; but the savages, who ​seemed more disconcerted than angry, made signs to the canoes to draw in to the shore. This was done, and, after some hesitation on both sides, five of the seven white men landed warily, leaving two of the party to guard their precious possessions. Back of the bushes that fringed the bank lay a row of wigwams, and into one of these they were invited to enter. Confiding in the sacred rites of hospitality, they obeyed, and were at once offered such food as the savages had on hand—dried buffalo meat softened with bear's grease, and some wild white plums which Père Marquette thought delicious. A handful of fruit, a dish of tender young squash, a freshly roasted ear of corn, these were the rarest of delicacies, and were always mentioned in the missionaries' letters with an enthusiasm which speaks volumes for their ordinary fare.
Joliet, who had a wide acquaintance with wandering Indian tribes, failed to recognize his hosts, who vouchsafed no information about themselves, and are given no name in the report. They spoke—imperfectly—the Huron tongue, and the squaws dressed with the comparative neatness of Huron women; but the braves wore ​their hair long, and tattooed their bodies after the fashion of the Iroquois. They traded with both French and Spaniards, which accounted for their possession of guns, and also for their knives, porcelain beads, and the heavy glass flasks in which they carried powder. They told Joliet that he was within ten days' journey of the sea; and, although this experienced traveler had learned to place little reliance upon distances as measured by Indians, it was heartening to hear something definite, even if that something were not true. He and Père Marquette gave what gifts they could afford to their entertainers, and started with fresh courage. A spirit of hopefulness diffused itself over the party. Their hearts were light, their canoes spun rapidly down the river. Perhaps, after all, the final goal was near.
Lofty and beautiful forests had succeeded the prairies; but the incessant bellowing of buffaloes showed that beyond the woods lay open spaces, and the hunting that Indians loved. Small game was plentiful. The Canadians shot quail, and a brilliant little paroquet, red, green, and yellow. Everything was going well, and that sense of security which is apt to be the forerunner ​of danger filled all hearts. Suddenly from the wooded shore came piercing and discordant yells. Wigwams could be dimly discerned under the heavy trees, and savages armed with bows and tomahawks (happily no guns) swarmed to the water's edge. To turn back was impossible; so, commending themselves anew to the care of the Mother of God, the adventurers stopped paddling and snatched their arms, while Père Marquette waved the precious calumet, and tried vainly to make himself heard above the din. Some of the Indians leaped into canoes and sought to surround the intruders; others with drawn bows lined the shore; and a few young athletes essayed to swim out to the white men, but were beaten back by the heady current. A club whizzed past Père Marquette's head and fell harmless into the water. It was a disturbing moment.
Joliet signed to his men to hold their fire. His keen and practised eye had observed one thing clearly. The savages were apprehensive. The very noise and uproar showed that what they wanted to do was to frighten the supposed intruders, and save their village from assault. He ​knew that the first shot would be the signal for battle, and that while six good marksmen could make fearful havoc, the final victory would not be theirs. The massed attack of the heavy wooden canoes would overturn their lighter barks, and fling their occupants into the river. He saw that although the bows were bent, and the strings taut, the arrows were not launched. Then he looked at his friend. The little priest stood upright and very still. The hand that held the calumet did not tremble. His face wore a smile as friendly and assured as though he were being welcomed by his converts of St. Ignace. Joliet had no confidence in Indians, but he had perfect confidence in Père Marquette. If the missionary felt that all was right, all would be right without doubt. One does not have a genius for making friends in order to die at the hands of an enemy.
Meanwhile, a small group of braves, older men who had been steadily regarding the calumet, moved to the river's edge and entered a canoe, laying down their arms as a token of amity. They paddled a few rods and made signs to the strangers to approach. This Joliet did, not because he wanted to, but because it seemed ​doubly dangerous to refuse. Slowly and apprehensively the seven voyagers landed and looked about them. The silent savages returned their scrutiny, holding their bows in readiness. Père Marquette composedly addressed himself to the seemingly friendly braves. He and Joliet tried one tongue after another, but none were intelligible to these Mitchigameans, a small and warlike tribe who lived in a few scattered villages on or near the St. Francis River, and who were subsequently, according to Père Charlevoix, adopted by the stronger and better equipped Illinois. In fact, an old warrior who understood, though he could hardly be said to speak, that language, was unearthed to confer with the white men. Through him the priest offered the customary gifts, and informed the chiefs that he and his friend were following the Mississippi to the sea. A truce being thus established, the Indians offered their visitors a supper of fresh fish and sagamité, and invited them to spend the night in one of the lodges, promising to escort them the next day to a more populous village eight leagues down the river. Joliet would have dispensed with both the hospitality and the es​cort had he been given the choice, and even Père Marquette admitted that he passed "an anxious night."
The morning, however, brought renewed hope and confidence. The travelers embarked early, and ten savages in a strong, clumsy canoe accompanied them. Word must have been sent during the night to the neighboring Indians, who were not Mitchigameans, but belonged to the Akansas or Arkansas tribe. Before the village was reached, two canoes were sent out to meet and greet the strangers. In one of them stood a formidable warrior holding the calumet. He gravely presented to Père Marquette and to Joliet a cake of Indian corn baked in the ashes, and sang "very agreeably" while they ate it. On landing they perceived that preparations had been made for a ceremonious reception. Clean rush mats had been spread on the floor of the chief's lodge. Around in a solemn circle sat the older braves; back of them the young men; and back of them as many boys, squaws, and children as could force an entrance. Through an interpreter who was fairly familiar with the Illinois tongue, Père Marquette made an address, punctuated as usual ​by gifts. He told his audience of the Christian creed which it behooved them to embrace, and of the great French king who had sent him, and others like him, to teach them this holy faith. He asked how far away was the sea, how navigable was the river, and how well disposed were the tribes that dwelt upon its banks.
With commendable politeness the chief replied that the priest's words were grateful to his spirit, and begged him to remain in the village and tell his people of the great unknown God. He then said that the sea was not more than ten days' journey, and that the Canadians in their light canoes could cover the distance in half that time. But he warned them that every step would be increasingly dangerous, that the Indians were hostile and well armed, that the white men were not of their country nor of their speech, and that it was highly improbable that they would be allowed to proceed on their way. In proof of his words he admitted that his village was surrounded by unfriendly tribes, that his people were debarred from trading with white men, and that they were compelled to part with their hides to other Indians in exchange for knives, hatchets, ​and beads. They dared not venture up or down the river, nor far into the interior to hunt the wild cattle, because their enemies were strong and well armed. They feared to provoke hostility against which they had no adequate defense.
The poverty of these savages was apparent to the experienced eyes of their guests. True the day was spent in feasting—that was imperative—but the food, except for some ears of ripe corn, was unpalatable and served without ceremony. Platters of sagamité and dog's flesh succeeded each other for hours, and all present scrambled, though not rudely, for a portion. The braves, handsome and well formed, wore only loincloths. Their hair was short, their ears and noses pierced and hung with beads. The women made a valiant attempt to cover themselves with pieces of mangy skin. They dressed their hair in long braids, but had no ornaments. Beads were too precious to be wasted on them. The wigwams were made of bark, and raised several feet above the soft and spongy earth. The only signs of abundance were the fields of maize, which grew thick, green, and beautiful. The only art was ​pottery, great earthen jars, well made and well shaped, in which the corn was cooked. This pottery was superior to that of any Northern tribe. Specimens of it are to be found to-day in American museums.
The Arkansas Indians had not always been the feeble remnant described by Père Marquette. They are said to have been descendants of the Aztecs; and their ancestors are supposed to have come from Mexico, via the Rio Colorado, and the headwaters of the Platte or the Arkansas River. They had been formidable warriors in their day; but too few in numbers to cope with hostile tribes. Later explorers have much to say in their praise. Père Charlevoix christened them "les beaux hommes," and pronounced them to be the tallest and best-made natives of America. Père Zénobe Membré, a Récollet missionary who accompanied La Salle on many expeditions, visited one of their villages in 1682, and wrote enthusiastically to his superior of their many good qualities. The squaws, indeed, were timid, and took to the woods if a white man showed his face; but the braves were "gay, civil, and freehearted. . . . The young men, though the most ​alert and spirited we had seen, were nevertheless so modest that not one of them would take the liberty of entering our cabin; but all stood quietly at the door. They are graceful and erect. We could not but admire their beauty. Nor did we lose the value of a pin while we were among them."
This reads like a fancy sketch. Père Marquette's experience was less happy, and more in accord with Indian life and character. During the night some of the braves proposed that the seven white men should be slain, and their possessions—of no great value save for the coveted guns and canoes—be divided among the murderers. To this the chief would by no means consent. The strangers were his guests; he had fed them, he had smoked with them the pipe of peace, he had made himself responsible for their safety. Early in the morning he came with the interpreter to the wigwam in which they slept, and warned them of their danger, promising that he would protect them as long as they remained in the village. He emphasized his words by gravely dancing the calumet dance in their presence; and to make ​assurance doubly sure he presented to them the sacred pipe which was the counterpart of the one they already possessed.
The Frenchmen and Canadians held a council of war. The time had come for them to decide whether they should risk all by a further advance, or return with the certain knowledge they had gained. It was a difficult decision to reach. Joliet and Père Marquette had set their hearts upon following the Mississippi to the sea. This had been their cherished hope from the beginning. This would be the one perfect conclusion of their adventure. But they were not adventurers only. They were trusted agents sent by their civil and religious authorities to ascertain the course of the great river which had hitherto been a matter of hearsay to the colonists of New France. This they had accomplished. Their maps and carefully kept records would clear the way for all subsequent navigators. They knew now that the Mississippi did not flow into the Vermilion Sea but into the Gulf of Mexico. They knew what opportunities for trade it offered, and what dangers lined its way.
Not for a minute did Joliet believe the Indians ​who kept repeating that they were within ten days' journey of the sea. He was right in his mistrust. Seven hundred miles lay between them and this hoped-for goal. The season was far advanced. It was still mild and warm in the latitude they had reached; but the autumnal storms of the South were as much to be feared as the frost and snow which awaited them in the North. It was evident that none of the languages they spoke would be of any service to them among the strange tribes they might encounter. And far more dangerous than the probable hostility of the savages was the assured hostility of the Spaniards, who, if less murderous, were more intelligent, who would in all likelihood detain them as prisoners, and who would certainly destroy any papers which facilitated the encroachments of the French.
It will be observed that the spirit of the missionary and the spirit of the explorer—even when united in one man—were wholly and very properly dissimilar. In those devout days the simple and primitive conception of a missionary was a man who went at his own risk to convert the heathen to Christianity. He did not expect to ​be comfortable, and he did not expect to be safe. Neither his country nor his church expected him to be comfortable or safe. They offered him no protection; and, if they regretted his barbarous death, it was no part of their program to punish his murderers. He was supposed to seek, rather than avoid, the crown of martyrdom. Sometimes he did seek, or at least welcome, it valiantly. When Père Brébeuf wrote to his superior: "The will of God be done in all things. If He appoints us now to die, ah, what a good hour for us!" he did no more than express the supreme emotion of his soul. He kissed the stake to which he was to be bound, an action akin to that of Father Campion saluting the dark hill of Tyburn where he knew that he would one day suffer a death of agony. Père Lalemant, who was given a chance of escape, refused to leave Père Brébeuf, and died in torments by his side.
These men had a single duty to perform. Their business was to stick to their posts and take what was coming to them. They were gallant and passionate lovers of souls, and so, in truth, was Père Marquette. He was not without a shadowy dream of martyrdom, though the day for such ​dark glories had passed. But it was not as a possible martyr, nor, primarily, as a priest, that he had been sent on his present errand. The task that had been assigned to him and to Joliet was one of practical utility. They knew that they had no right to imperil its success for the sake of adventure. They were not free men like La Salle and Tonty, who could go wherever danger led them. They were servants of the Church and of the State, acting under orders, responsible for the lives of their men and for the safe delivery of their papers. Reluctantly they turned their backs upon the resplendent vision of the sea, and prepared to return to Quebec.