Authors: Mike Blakely
The day of departure from Fort St. Louis was a day of heart-wrenching sadness, for Jean and Goupil had to leave their friend, Father Membre. He was to stay behind to care for the sick and dying at the fort while the healthiest colonists made the journey with La Salle.
Goupil embraced the priest and said, “We will send relief by sea the moment we reach Canada.”
Membre smiled sadly. “You mustn't make such grand promises, my friend. Send only your prayers. That is all I ask of you, and all I can promise in return. Go in faith.”
What followed were two months of marching through landscapes of open plains, woods, marshes, hills, and swamps; crossing countless flooded rivers; hacking through canebrakes and thickets of underbrush. Rain chilled the men day and night, and turned the whole wild world to mud.
Jean, like the others, possessed only bits and pieces of clothing. His pants were from his home in Petit-Goave, now patched liberally on the knees and seat with deer skin. His shirt was fashioned from salvaged sailcloth. His shoes were raw buffalo hide, which he was obliged to keep forever wet if he did not want them to harden around his feet like iron.
There were days when the rain fell too unrelentingly to allow travel. On such days, Jean would shiver under the shelter of a raw buffalo hide. He would sit there and watch the horses steamâthe only two horses left to La Salle's great expedition.
On good days, the party would make as many as twelve leagues, though seven was closer to the average. Some days were pleasantly passed over oak-studded plains teeming with buffalo, antelope, and deer. But spells of warm and dry weather seldom lasted more than a few days.
The Frenchmen encountered many villages of savages as they journeyed slowly northeast. Most treated the sojourners with astonishment and reverence, literally embracing them as they entered the villages. The cottages of these people resembled ovens to Jean, each made of poles stuck in the ground and bent inward to form a dome, then covered with buffalo hides.
Often, the savages mistook their pale-skinned visitors for gods or spirits. They would bring their sick and wounded to the Frenchmen and the Sieur de La Salle would have his men do what they could for the ailing natives.
They came upon one village that the Sieur de La Salle had visited on his previous journey only to find the inhabitants nearly decimated by the fever. The suffering and dying was like that of Fort St. Louis, and cast Jean into a somber frame of mind.
Goupil shared the mood. “So many heathens ushered into eternity with souls unfit to enter the kingdom of heaven,” he said looking back on the village the day the party left. “The thought fills my heart with anguish.”
“What will happen to their souls?” Jean asked.
“They will drift forever in oblivion, if indeed they do not roast eternally in the fires of perdition. Poor, wretched, savage heathens.”
Next, they came to a village of people they named Weepers, for the people sobbed with joy when the Frenchmen arrived, as if they had been awaited for generations. Only after their eyes had run dry of tears did the Weepers present a wounded man who had been shot with an arrow in battle, asking that the travelers cure him. The Sieur de La Salle, who had some surgical instruments with him, cut and probed in the man's chest and finally extracted the flint arrowhead. When the warrior recovered, the Frenchmen found many other sick or lame Weepers desiring cures.
The Sieur de La Salle had insisted upon bringing the worst troublemakers of the colony with him on this search for far-off Canada, to prevent them from further corrupting Fort St. Louis in his absence. Chief among them were Henri Casaubon, the bald convulsionary who had escaped punishment for stabbing Sablonniere during the play, and Minime, the valet. These two convinced the gullible savages that they were healers of great power. They would blow upon the sick or wounded or make the sign of the cross over them to cure them. Oddly enough, these useless procedures greatly impressed the savages to the point that some actually believed they had been cured, and they would follow the posturing healers around the village, begging cures.
“The heresy!” Goupil hissed. “They make the sign of the cross! Look at Minime and Casaubon, painted like savages!”
“Why does the Sieur de La Salle let them go on with such a charade?” Jean asked. “They should be stopped.”
“Yes, they should be, my young friend, but the Sieur de La Salle has lost his will to lead. He punishes anyone only when he himself feels morose or angry. He sits all day and converses in signs with the Weepers, asking time and time again about his wretched River Messipe, of which they know nothing, while Minime and Casaubon gain more and more followers among the savages.”
“Goupil,” Jean said, lowering his voice, “Minime and Casaubon have more followers among the savages than the Sieur de La Salle has among Frenchmen.”
“Yes, my young friend. I am aware of the danger. Even among Frenchmen, there are many malcontents who follow Minime and Casaubon. Only the officers and a few others remain loyal to La Salle. I fear for us all.”
Many of the Weepers followed the explorers on to the next village. With the false healers leading them, the Weepers demanded payment from the village in exchange for cures, and took such payment by force from the lodges of the inhabitants, virtually sacking the village. Now, the inhabitants of this village followed the crusade on to the next, to plunder it in turn, thus recouping their losses. In this manner, the ranks of savages swelled, and each village encountered was ransacked, while La Salle looked on helplessly.
After a month of such travel, the Frenchmen came upon a village whose chief was none other than the Sieur d'Autray, who had deserted the year before. Jean was appalled to see that d'Autray had gone so mad among these savages that he had forgotten he had ever been a Christian. He could not speak French, nor did he recognize any of his former friends. His face and arms were streaked with horrible tattoos. The power he wielded over the natives, however, was absolute, and this impressed Jean.
“He has taken that squaw as his wife!” Goupil hissed in disgust. “She hasn't the shame to cover her breasts! The flirtatious manner of these wretched heathen women makes me ill. Who can say why d'Autray would risk his immortal soul for such a life? Neither shall you make marriages with heathens or bow down to their gods!”
After leaving d'Autray's village, three men deserted, and Jean believed these three had left to take up wives among the savages and become chiefs, as d'Autray had. Then one morning, the Frenchmen awoke to find all of the savage followers of Minime and Casaubon gone, though the two healers themselves remained in camp. This had astonished Jean at the time, but now, looking back on it, he realized that the natives had sensed the division among the Frenchmen and knew only violence could follow.
By this time, Jean and Goupil had begun to think of the members of the expedition in terms of two rival parties: La Salle's “Loyals” and the “Malcontents” of Minime and Casaubon.
“I suppose we are Loyals,” Jean said.
“No. We must remain neutral as long as possible. If forced to choose, I must serve La Salle, as I have these twenty years.”
“Then, so will I.”
“No, boy. If we come to violence, you must run and hide in the forest. Wait and see which party emerges the victor. If the Loyals win, rejoin the party. If the Malcontents gain power, you must trust your luck among the savages. Perhaps you can return to Father Membre at Fort St. Louis. Perhaps you can find the outposts that the Spaniards maintain in the west.”
“But, we are at war with the Spaniards.”
“We are at war with ourselves!” Goupil snapped. “I am sorry,” he said, rubbing his head as he glanced around. “You are young. The Spaniards will have mercy on you. Tell them how we have suffered, and they will have pity on you.”
Goupil made Jean promise he would do this.
For two more weeks the Frenchmen trudged northeast. They came to a village of natives who laughed at La Salle when he asked about the River Messipe. The weather warmed, green buds and grasses began to sprout, but mosquitos tormented the men day and night. La Salle seldom spoke to the men, and morale sank ever deeper. The division between Loyals and Malcontents worsened.
Coming to a large and beautiful valley carved by a river of red water, the explorers camped for a few days. Jean was surprised to learn that La Salle had been to this place on his expedition of the previous year, naming it the River of Canoes. He had cached some beans and corn in a hollow tree a few leagues away. Accordingly, the explorer sent a party to retrieve the goods. The party included Jean and Goupil along with three known Malcontents: Minime, Casaubon, and a German, named Hein.
“La Salle is testing us,” Goupil whispered. “He sends us out with these Malcontents to determine whether or not we will remain loyal.”
Arriving at the hollow tree, the men found that the cache of beans and grain had spoiled, for La Salle had failed to cover it sufficiently. Minime laughed at this, and mocked the absent La Salle, strutting about effeminately, pursing his lips and saying, “You complainers and whiners will be surprised when you see the cache of food that I, the Great La Salle, have left in yon hollow tree!” Turning to the mapmaker, the valet continued: “You, Sieur Hole-in-the-Head, get thee hither and fetch it!”
The Malconents laughed, but just then the German named Hein spotted some buffalo trailing into the valley. Hein, Casaubon, and Minime went upstream to shoot them, succeeding in killing three. Jean's spirits lifted as he and Goupil helped butcher the buffalo and roast the meat. But then, at this hopeful moment, an ill wind began to blow.
Sieur Moranget arrived from La Salle's main camp, riding the only horse left to the Frenchmen. Moranget, who was La Salle's nephew, began to accuse the buffalo hunters of trying to hoard the meat and keep it from the others at La Salle's camp. He was followed soon by the Loyals, Saget and Tesier, who arrived on foot. There was already bad blood between La Salle's nephew, Moranget, and the Malcontent, Casaubon. Jean didn't know what was behind it until that day in the valley of the River of Canoes, when Casaubon let his temper get the better of him.
“Shut your mouth, you bastard!” Casaubon shouted at the officer. “Minime, do you know what this stupid bastard did on the expedition last year? He sent my brother back to the fort alone when he became ill. Alone! My brother was murdered by savages, but the real murderer sits there on that horse!”
“You insolent pile of shit!” Moranget shouted from the saddle. “I will see you flogged for such insult. My uncle will deal severely with you.”
“Your uncle may kiss my ass, you stupid bastard!”
Later, Goupil pulled Jean aside and said in a hushed voice, “My friend, if they come to murder, remember your promise to me. You must take to the forest. If the Malcontents gain power, secure aid among the savages. Find your way back to Fort St. Louis, or to the Spanish outposts. Speak French to yourself every day. Do not make marriages with heathens. Do not end up like d'Autray, a tattooed savage.”
“Save yourself and come with me,” Jean begged.
“No. I must remain loyal to La Salle. If it comes to mutiny, and I am unable to save him, I will save myself, but I cannot go with you. I am old. The Spaniards would hang me as a spy, and perhaps you as well for being in my company.”
“Then we will both return to Fort St. Louis.”
“And wait for what? All of France has forgotten about that wretched fort. I must try to reach Canada and send aid for Father Membreâand you if you go there.”
“Then I will go to Canada with you.”
“No! Canada is seven hundred leagues. It is probably impossible to reach, but I must try. Your best chance is with the Spaniards in the west.”
Through his decades on the wild continent, Jean L'Archeveque had heard many memorable sounds. Like the first bull elk he heard bugling in an echoey mountain basin, the first grass fire he heard popping and roaring across the tallgrass prairies, and the first Apache war cry he heard knifing through the fog of a riverbank. But the sound that awoke him that night long ago on the River of Canoes was the most unforgettable and horrible memory his ears had ever gathered in.
It was a thud like the stamping of a horse hoof, a crunch like someone breaking buffalo bones to get the marrow, a squish like a rawhide moccasin plunging into a mud hole. The sound came once, twice, then several more times, from more than one place, some nearer, some farther away. Rising in the dark of night and scrambling through underbrush to identify the strange sound, young Jean caught a glimpse of Minime standing with an axe in his hand, looking down. At Minime's feet lay the body of La Salle's nephew, Moranget, his head crushed in and bloody, brains and gore oozing onto the dirt. A quick glance around camp revealed the dead bodies of the other Loyals, Tesier and Saget, their heads also crushed by axes. Casaubon and the German Malcontent, Hein, were joining Minime, and celebrating their atrocity. Each carried a bloody axe.
Jean grabbed his bundle of possessions and fled into the timber along the river. That next day, he went hungry and watched from the timber. He saw the mutineers force Goupil to drag the corpses somewhere. He saw Casaubon leave for La Salle's camp, then return. He saw some sort of preparations being made by the excited murderers.
He was watching some eagles in the sky, attracted, no doubt, by the carrion smell of the buffalo kill, when he heard the shot. An eagle cartwheeled from the sky, its wing shattered. Glancing downstream, whence he had heard the shot, Jean saw La Salle coming on foot, black smoke still streaming from the muzzle of his musket. The jaunty explorer was virtually strutting, watching the eagle fall as he unknowingly approached the camp of the murderous Malcontents.
Jean spied Minime at the edge of the camp, gesturing idiotically to La Salle in one of his provocative mimes, twitching like a marionette at the mercy of some demented puppeteer. Near Minime, he saw another Malcontentâwhich he could not tellâcrouching in some bushes, aiming a musket toward La Salle.