CHAPTER XXVII.

1687.

ASSASSINATION OF LA SALLE.

His Followers.--Prairie Travelling--A Hunters' Quarrel--The Murder

of Moranget.--The Conspiracy.--Death of La Salle: his Character.

[Sidenote: LA SALLE'S FOLLOWERS.]

The travellers were crossing a marshy prairie towards a distant belt of

woods that followed the course of a little river. They led with them

their five horses, laden with their scanty baggage, and, with what was

of no less importance, their stock of presents for Indians. Some wore

the remains of the clothing they had worn from France, eked out with

deer-skins, dressed in the Indian manner; and some had coats of old

sail-cloth. Here was La Salle, in whom one would have known, at a

glance, the chief of the party; and the priest, Cavelier, who seems to

have shared not one of the high traits of his younger brother. Here,

too, were their nephews, Moranget and the boy Cavelier, now about

seventeen years old; the trusty soldier Joutel; and the friar Anastase

Douay. Duhaut followed, a man of respectable birth and education; and

Liotot, the surgeon of the party. At home, they might perhaps have

lived and died with a fair repute; but the wilderness is a rude

touchstone, which often reveals traits that would have lain buried and

unsuspected in civilized life. The German Hiens, the ex-buccaneer, was

also of the number. He had probably sailed with an English crew; for he

was sometimes known as _Gemme Anglais_, or "English Jem."[325] The Sieur

de Marie; Teissier, a pilot; L'Archevêque, a servant of Duhaut; and

others, to the number in all of seventeen,--made up the party; to which

is to be added Nika, La Salle's Shawanoe hunter, who, as well as another

Indian, had twice crossed the ocean with him, and still followed his

fortunes with an admiring though undemonstrative fidelity.

They passed the prairie, and neared the forest. Here they saw buffalo;

and the hunters approached, and killed several of them. Then they

traversed the woods; found and forded the shallow and rushy stream, and

pushed through the forest beyond, till they again reached the open

prairie. Heavy clouds gathered over them, and it rained all night; but

they sheltered themselves under the fresh hides of the buffalo they had

killed.

[Sidenote: PRAIRIE TRAVELLING.]

It is impossible, as it would be needless, to follow the detail of their

daily march.[326] It was such an one, though with unwonted hardship, as

is familiar to the memory of many a prairie traveller of our own time.

They suffered greatly from the want of shoes, and found for a while no

better substitute than a casing of raw buffalo-hide, which they were

forced to keep always wet, as, when dry, it hardened about the foot like

iron. At length they bought dressed deer-skin from the Indians, of which

they made tolerable moccasins. The rivers, streams, and gullies filled

with water were without number; and to cross them they made a boat of

bull-hide, like the "bull boat" still used on the Upper Missouri. This

did good service, as, with the help of their horses, they could carry it

with them. Two or three men could cross in it at once, and the horses

swam after them like dogs. Sometimes they traversed the sunny prairie;

sometimes dived into the dark recesses of the forest, where the buffalo,

descending daily from their pastures in long files to drink at the

river, often made a broad and easy path for the travellers. When foul

weather arrested them, they built huts of bark and long meadow-grass;

and safely sheltered lounged away the day, while their horses, picketed

near by, stood steaming in the rain. At night, they usually set a rude

stockade about their camp; and here, by the grassy border of a brook,

or at the edge of a grove where a spring bubbled up through the sands,

they lay asleep around the embers of their fire, while the man on guard

listened to the deep breathing of the slumbering horses, and the howling

of the wolves that saluted the rising moon as it flooded the waste of

prairie with pale mystic radiance.

They met Indians almost daily,--sometimes a band of hunters, mounted or

on foot, chasing buffalo on the plains; sometimes a party of fishermen;

sometimes a winter camp, on the slope of a hill or under the sheltering

border of a forest. They held intercourse with them in the distance by

signs; often they disarmed their distrust, and attracted them into their

camp; and often they visited them in their lodges, where, seated on

buffalo-robes, they smoked with their entertainers, passing the pipe

from hand to hand, after the custom still in use among the prairie

tribes. Cavelier says that they once saw a band of a hundred and fifty

mounted Indians attacking a herd of buffalo with lances pointed with

sharpened bone. The old priest was delighted with the sport, which he

pronounces "the most diverting thing in the world." On another occasion,

when the party were encamped near the village of a tribe which Cavelier

calls Sassory, he saw them catch an alligator about twelve feet long,

which they proceeded to torture as if he were a human enemy,--first

putting out his eyes, and then leading him to the neighboring prairie,

where, having confined him by a number of stakes, they spent the entire

day in tormenting him.[327]

Holding a northerly course, the travellers crossed the Brazos, and

reached the waters of the Trinity. The weather was unfavorable, and on

one occasion they encamped in the rain during four or five days

together. It was not an harmonious company. La Salle's cold and haughty

reserve had returned, at least for those of his followers to whom he was

not partial. Duhaut and the surgeon Liotot, both of whom were men of

some property, had a large pecuniary stake in the enterprise, and were

disappointed and incensed at its ruinous result. They had a quarrel with

young Moranget, whose hot and hasty temper was as little fitted to

conciliate as was the harsh reserve of his uncle. Already at Fort St.

Louis, Duhaut had intrigued among the men; and the mild admonition of

Joutel had not, it seems, sufficed to divert him from his sinister

purposes. Liotot, it is said, had secretly sworn vengeance against La

Salle, whom he charged with having caused the death of his brother, or,

as some will have it, his nephew. On one of the former journeys this

young man's strength had failed; and, La Salle having ordered him to

return to the fort, he had been killed by Indians on the way.

[Sidenote: MURDER OF MORANGET.]

The party moved again as the weather improved, and on the fifteenth of

March encamped within a few miles of a spot which La Salle had passed on

his preceding journey, and where he had left a quantity of Indian corn

and beans in _cache_; that is to say, hidden in the ground or in a

hollow tree. As provisions were falling short, he sent a party from the

camp to find it. These men were Duhaut, Liotot,[328] Hiens the

buccaneer, Teissier, L'Archevêque, Nika the hunter, and La Salle's

servant Saget. They opened the _cache_, and found the contents spoiled;

but as they returned from their bootless errand they saw buffalo, and

Nika shot two of them. They now encamped on the spot, and sent the

servant to inform La Salle, in order that he might send horses to bring

in the meat. Accordingly, on the next day, he directed Moranget and De

Marle, with the necessary horses, to go with Saget to the hunters' camp.

When they arrived, they found that Duhaut and his companions had already

cut up the meat, and laid it upon scaffolds for smoking, though it was

not yet so dry as, it seems, this process required. Duhaut and the

others had also put by, for themselves, the marrow-bones and certain

portions of the meat, to which, by woodland custom, they had a perfect

right. Moranget, whose rashness and violence had once before caused a

fatal catastrophe, fell into a most unreasonable fit of rage, berated

and menaced Duhaut and his party, and ended by seizing upon the whole of

the meat, including the reserved portions. This added fuel to the fire

of Duhaut's old grudge against Moranget and his uncle. There is reason

to think that he had harbored deadly designs, the execution of which

was only hastened by the present outbreak. The surgeon also bore hatred

against Moranget, whom he had nursed with constant attention when

wounded by an Indian arrow, and who had since repaid him with abuse.

These two now took counsel apart with Hiens, Teissier, and L'Archevêque;

and it was resolved to kill Moranget that night. Nika, La Salle's

devoted follower, and Saget, his faithful servant, must die with him.

All of the five were of one mind except the pilot Teissier, who neither

aided nor opposed the plot.

Night came: the woods grew dark; the evening meal was finished, and the

evening pipes were smoked. The order of the guard was arranged; and,

doubtless by design, the first hour of the night was assigned to

Moranget, the second to Saget, and the third to Nika. Gun in hand, each

stood watch in turn over the silent but not sleeping forms around him,

till, his time expiring, he called the man who was to relieve him,

wrapped himself in his blanket, and was soon buried in a slumber that

was to be his last. Now the assassins rose. Duhaut and Hiens stood with

their guns cocked, ready to shoot down any one of the destined victims

who should resist or fly. The surgeon, with an axe, stole towards the

three sleepers, and struck a rapid blow at each in turn. Saget and Nika

died with little movement; but Moranget started spasmodically into a

sitting posture, gasping and unable to speak; and the murderers

compelled De Marle, who was not in their plot, to compromise himself by

despatching him.

The floodgates of murder were open, and the torrent must have its way.

Vengeance and safety alike demanded the death of La Salle. Hiens, or

"English Jem," alone seems to have hesitated; for he was one of those to

whom that stern commander had always been partial. Meanwhile, the

intended victim was still at his camp, about six miles distant. It is

easy to picture, with sufficient accuracy, the features of the

scene,--the sheds of bark and branches, beneath which, among blankets

and buffalo-robes, camp-utensils, pack-saddles, rude harness, guns,

powder-horns, and bullet-pouches, the men lounged away the hour,

sleeping or smoking, or talking among themselves; the blackened kettles

that hung from tripods of poles over the fires; the Indians strolling

about the place or lying, like dogs in the sun, with eyes half-shut, yet

all observant; and, in the neighboring meadow, the horses grazing under

the eye of a watchman.

[Sidenote: SUSPENSE.]

It was the eighteenth of March. Moranget and his companions had been

expected to return the night before; but the whole day passed, and they

did not appear. La Salle became very anxious. He resolved to go and look

for them; but not well knowing the way, he told the Indians who were

about the camp that he would give them a hatchet if they would guide

him. One of them accepted the offer; and La Salle prepared to set out in

the morning, at the same time directing Joutel to be ready to go with

him. Joutel says: "That evening, while we were talking about what could

have happened to the absent men, he seemed to have a presentiment of

what was to take place. He asked me if I had heard of any machinations

against them, or if I had noticed any bad design on the part of Duhaut

and the rest. I answered that I had heard nothing, except that they

sometimes complained of being found fault with so often; and that this

was all I knew; besides which, as they were persuaded that I was in his

interest, they would not have told me of any bad design they might have.

We were very uneasy all the rest of the evening."

[Sidenote: THE FATAL SHOT.]

In the morning, La Salle set out with his Indian guide. He had changed

his mind with regard to Joutel, whom he now directed to remain in charge

of the camp and to keep a careful watch. He told the friar Anastase

Douay to come with him instead of Joutel, whose gun, which was the best

in the party, he borrowed for the occasion, as well as his pistol. The

three proceeded on their way,--La Salle, the friar, and the Indian. "All

the way," writes the friar, "he spoke to me of nothing but matters of

piety, grace, and predestination; enlarging on the debt he owed to God,

who had saved him from so many perils during more than twenty years of

travel in America. Suddenly, I saw him overwhelmed with a profound

sadness, for which he himself could not account. He was so much moved

that I scarcely knew him." He soon recovered his usual calmness; and

they walked on till they approached the camp of Duhaut, which was on the

farther side of a small river. Looking about him with the eye of a

woodsman, La Salle saw two eagles circling in the air nearly over him,

as if attracted by carcasses of beasts or men. He fired his gun and his

pistol, as a summons to any of his followers who might be within

hearing. The shots reached the ears of the conspirators. Rightly

conjecturing by whom they were fired, several of them, led by Duhaut,

crossed the river at a little distance above, where trees or other

intervening objects hid them from sight. Duhaut and the surgeon crouched

like Indians in the long, dry, reed-like grass of the last summer's

growth, while L'Archevêque stood in sight near the bank. La Salle,

continuing to advance, soon saw him, and, calling to him, demanded where

was Moranget. The man, without lifting his hat, or any show of respect,

replied in an agitated and broken voice, but with a tone of studied

insolence, that Moranget was strolling about somewhere. La Salle rebuked

and menaced him. He rejoined with increased insolence, drawing back, as

he spoke, towards the ambuscade, while the incensed commander advanced

to chastise him. At that moment a shot was fired from the grass,

instantly followed by another; and, pierced through the brain, La Salle

dropped dead.

The friar at his side stood terror-stricken, unable to advance or to

fly; when Duhaut, rising from the ambuscade, called out to him to take

courage, for he had nothing to fear. The murderers now came forward, and

with wild looks gathered about their victim. "There thou liest, great

Bashaw! There thou liest!"[329] exclaimed the surgeon Liotot, in base

exultation over the unconscious corpse. With mockery and insult, they

stripped it naked, dragged it into the bushes, and left it there, a prey

to the buzzards and the wolves.

Thus in the vigor of his manhood, at the age of forty-three, died Robert

Cavelier de la Salle, "one of the greatest men," writes Tonty, "of this

age;" without question one of the most remarkable explorers whose names

live in history. His faithful officer Joutel thus sketches his portrait:

"His firmness, his courage, his great knowledge of the arts and

sciences, which made him equal to every undertaking, and his untiring

energy, which enabled him to surmount every obstacle, would have won at

last a glorious success for his grand enterprise, had not all his fine

qualities been counterbalanced by a haughtiness of manner which often

made him insupportable, and by a harshness towards those under his

command which drew upon him an implacable hatred, and was at last the

cause of his death."[330]

[Sidenote: HIS CHARACTER.]

The enthusiasm of the disinterested and chivalrous Champlain was not

the enthusiasm of La Salle; nor had he any part in the self-devoted zeal

of the early Jesuit explorers. He belonged not to the age of the

knight-errant and the saint, but to the modern world of practical study

and practical action. He was the hero not of a principle nor of a faith,

but simply of a fixed idea and a determined purpose. As often happens

with concentred and energetic natures, his purpose was to him a passion

and an inspiration; and he clung to it with a certain fanaticism of

devotion. It was the offspring of an ambition vast and comprehensive,

yet acting in the interest both of France and of civilization.

Serious in all things, incapable of the lighter pleasures, incapable of

repose, finding no joy but in the pursuit of great designs, too shy for

society and too reserved for popularity, often unsympathetic and always

seeming so, smothering emotions which he could not utter, schooled to

universal distrust, stern to his followers and pitiless to himself,

bearing the brunt of every hardship and every danger, demanding of

others an equal constancy joined to an implicit deference, heeding no

counsel but his own, attempting the impossible and grasping at what was

too vast to hold,--he contained in his own complex and painful nature

the chief springs of his triumphs, his failures, and his death.

It is easy to reckon up his defects, but it is not easy to hide from

sight the Roman virtues that redeemed them. Beset by a throng of

enemies, he stands, like the King of Israel, head and shoulders above

them all. He was a tower of adamant, against whose impregnable front

hardship and danger, the rage of man and of the elements, the southern

sun, the northern blast, fatigue, famine, disease, delay,

disappointment, and deferred hope emptied their quivers in vain. That

very pride which, Coriolanus-like, declared itself most sternly in the

thickest press of foes, has in it something to challenge admiration.

Never, under the impenetrable mail of paladin or crusader, beat a heart

of more intrepid mettle than within the stoic panoply that armed the

breast of La Salle. To estimate aright the marvels of his patient

fortitude, one must follow on his track through the vast scene of his

interminable journeyings,--those thousands of weary miles of forest,

marsh, and river, where, again and again, in the bitterness of baffled

striving, the untiring pilgrim pushed onward towards the goal which he

was never to attain. America owes him an enduring memory; for in this

masculine figure she sees the pioneer who guided her to the possession

of her richest heritage.[331]

[Sidenote: DOCUMENTARY EVIDENCE.]

FOOTNOTES:

[325] Tonty also speaks of him as "un flibustier anglois." In another

document, he is called "James."

[326] Of the three narratives of this journey, those of Joutel,

Cavelier, and Anastase Douay, the first is by far the best. That of

Cavelier seems the work of a man of confused brain and indifferent

memory. Some of his statements are irreconcilable with those of Joutel

and Douay; and known facts of his history justify the suspicion of a

wilful inaccuracy. Joutel's account is of a very different character,

and seems to be the work of an honest and intelligent man. Douay's

account if brief; but it agrees with that of Joutel, in most essential

points.

[327] Cavelier, _Relation_.

[328] Called Lanquetot by Tonty.

[329] "Te voilà, grand Bacha, te voilà!"--Joutel, _Journal Historique_,

203.

[330] _Ibid._

[331] On the assassination of La Salle, the evidence is fourfold: 1. The

narrative of Douay, who was with him at the time. 2. That of Joutel, who

learned the facts, immediately after they took place, from Douay and

others, and who parted from La Salle an hour or more before his death.

3. A document preserved in the Archives de la Marine, entitled _Relation

de la Mort du Sr. de la Salle, suivant le rapport d'un nommé Couture à

qui M. Cavelier l'apprit en passant au pays des Akansa, avec toutes les

circonstances que le dit Couture a apprises d'un François que M.

Cavelier avoit laissé aux dits pays des Akansa, crainte qu'il ne gardât

pas le secret_. 4. The authentic memoir of Tonty, of which a copy from

the original is before me, and which has recently been printed by

Margry.

The narrative of Cavelier unfortunately fails us several weeks before

the death of his brother, the remainder being lost. On a study of these

various documents, it is impossible to resist the conclusion that

neither Cavelier nor Douay always wrote honestly. Joutel, on the

contrary, gives the impression of sense, intelligence, and candor

throughout. Charlevoix, who knew him long after, says that he was "un

fort honnête homme, et le seul de la troupe de M. de la Salle, sur qui

ce célèbre voyageur pût compter." Tonty derived his information from the

survivors of La Salle's party. Couture, whose statements are embodied in

the _Relation de la Mort de M. de la Salle_, was one of Tonty's men,

who, as will be seen hereafter, were left by him at the mouth of the

Arkansas, and to whom Cavelier told the story of his brother's death.

Couture also repeats the statements of one of La Salle's followers,

undoubtedly a Parisian boy, named Barthelemy, who was violently

prejudiced against his chief, whom he slanders to the utmost of his

skill, saying that he was so enraged at his failures that he did not

approach the sacraments for two years; that he nearly starved his

brother Cavelier, allowing him only a handful of meal a day; that he

killed with his own hand "quantité de personnes," who did not work to

his liking; and that he killed the sick in their beds, without mercy,

under the pretence that they were counterfeiting sickness in order to

escape work. These assertions certainly have no other foundation than

the undeniable rigor of La Salle's command. Douay says that he confessed

and made his devotions on the morning of his death, while Cavelier

always speaks of him as the hope and the staff of the colony.

Douay declares that La Salle lived an hour after the fatal shot; that he

gave him absolution, buried his body, and planted a cross on his grave.

At the time, he told Joutel a different story; and the latter, with the

best means of learning the facts, explicitly denies the friar's printed

statement. Couture, on the authority of Cavelier himself, also says that

neither he nor Douay was permitted to take any step for burying the

body. Tonty says that Cavelier begged leave to do so, but was refused.

Douay, unwilling to place upon record facts from which the inference

might easily be drawn that he had been terrified from discharging his

duty, no doubt invented the story of the burial, as well as that of the

edifying behavior of Moranget, after he had been struck in the head with

an axe.

The locality of La Salle's assassination is sufficiently clear, from a

comparison of the several narratives; and it is also indicated on a

contemporary manuscript map, made on the return of the survivors of the

party to France. The scene of the catastrophe is here placed on a

southern branch of the Trinity.

La Salle's debts, at the time of his death, according to a schedule

presented in 1701 to Champigny, intendant of Canada, amounted to 106,831

livres, without reckoning interest. This cannot be meant to include all,

as items are given which raise the amount much higher. In 1678 and 1679

alone, he contracted debts to the amount of 97,184 livres, of which

46,000 were furnished by Branssac, fiscal attorney of the Seminary of

Montreal. This was to be paid in beaver-skins. Frontenac, at the same

time, became his surety for 13,623 livres. In 1684, he borrowed 34,825

livres from the Sieur Pen, at Paris. These sums do not include the

losses incurred by his family, which, in the memorial presented by them

to the King, are set down at 500,000 livres for the expeditions between

1678 and 1683, and 300,000 livres for the fatal Texan expedition of 1684

These last figures are certainly exaggerated.