Chapter 2
1701 - Thirteen Years Later
It was early morning in late summer when the Indian chief made his way up a narrow trail that led to the top of a small cliff. It was the same trail he had walked each morning, rain or shine, for over a decade now. The trail was narrow with tall strands of grass on either side, flowing back and forth in the breeze. The top of the hill was shaded by large trees and a few clouds from overhead.
This day he was weary from two straight months in the fields trying to salvage what they could from the corn and bean fields. They were able to save most of the corn and some of the beans, but the hot sun, with little rain, assured them of no tobacco or even pumpkins in the fall.
He sat cross-legged on the top of the cliff, overlooking the calm river that wandered through his tribe’s village. Natchitos faced the rising sun coming over the horizon. He liked to sit and watch as the wind blew softly through the tall trees all around him. He was now a man of about thirty years. He had seen great battles and lived to tell stories about them. His skin was dark and had grown worn from the wind and dry summers. But he was wise beyond his years and knew how to handle the hard times that his tribe had faced. His thoughts were deep, as usual, thinking about many things, but mostly of how his family and fellow tribesman could withstand this land for much longer on so little food. The years had gone by with success in growing fields of corn and beans, but now things had changed in the skies. The weather was becoming too harsh to keep the crops alive. Each summer had grown hotter, and the rains were not coming as often. This weighed heavy on his mind. But also he thought of his brother, and wondered if he and his family were faced with such challenges as well. “Surely they must,” he thought.
Natchitos sat calmly, staring out across the land, when a sudden gust of wind came upon him. A dove stirred from its roost and flew past him. The wind calmed and blew softly for only a few moments more. But, he felt as though the wind, or someone, was tapping him on the shoulder. He looked up and the down the river, but saw nothing. It soon stopped and then he fixed his gaze once again out across the land in front of him, occasionally drawing his finger in the dirt around him. Suddenly he heard a call from below in the village. “Father!” was the cry from below, in a sharp, yet hushed voice. Natchitos looked to see Anoki, his oldest son, pointing frantically upriver. Natchitos looked to his left to see two small rafts, carrying five white men each, coming slowly downriver. He immediately remembered encounters with two other white explorers several years earlier. The one he remembered hearing about was called, LaSalle. “They did not show us harm,” he thought. “They only passed through this area, nothing more. But why do they come now again?” His instincts felt differently, as he watched them slowly near the village. His thoughts were confirmed when he spotted an Indian guide riding along with the white men.
Natchitos made his way down the cliff back into the village. Anoki was now beside himself with fear and anxiety, waving towards Natchitos to come more quickly. Natchitos could see the rest of the tribe was also well aware of the foreigner’s presence. He motioned to his wife Taima to take the children inside the hut and made the same gesture to the rest of the tribe looking on.
“Anoki, be calm, it is alright. It is Buffalo Tamer, I know him. He has a good heart. I will go and talk with him,” Natchitos said.
But Anoki persisted, “But Father, who are the white men with him? I would not trust them so quickly. There are so many!”
“I will take Tooantuh with me,” Natchitos said. At the same moment, Tooantuh was already striding along with him towards the river shore. Tooantuh was Natchitos’ closest and most trusted companion. He was known as a fierce and fearless fighter and an excellent hunter. He took pride in providing big game for the tribe. But he had little patience for intruders, not as much as the trusting Natchitos.
The travelers were paddling their rafts towards the west shore, where Natchitos and Tooantuh stood. All the men sat in both rafts, except for one man in the first raft. He stood with one foot upon the bow, with one hand resting on his knee, the other hanging at his side. Tooantuh looked intently for any sign of weapons, but saw none. Their casual approach showed no sense of attack. Yet still, his arrows rested on his back at the ready. Natchitos stood with a wooden staff in his left hand. He could see the man up front plainly now. He observed how he was dressed, long dark trousers with black boots and a dark blue overcoat, with a white ruffled shirt protruding through the top of his coat. He wore a black triangle hat, with the point just to the left of his head. Their appearance seemed very odd to Natchitos and Tooantuh, considering the days hot sun and how many pelts it must have taken to fashion such clothing.
As the raft came to rest in the mud and grass on the riverbank, the standing man stepped down to the ground in front of Natchitos and Tooantuh, a mere ten yards in front of them. Natchitos raised his right hand in front of him, as if to say, “That’s far enough!”
“Greetings to you, Bride les Boeufs,” Natchitos said in his own language. The man did not understand and turned to see Bride les Boeufs, which means Buffalo Tamer, now standing in the raft behind him. It was the Indian guide in the raft along with them.
“Hello my old friend,” Buffalo Tamer said. He hopped off the raft and walked straight up to Natchitos with a smile. “I ask for your grace and kindness to welcome these men. We have traveled down from the Yatasi. They have entrusted me as their guide.”
“The Yatasi? Smart they are to employ you, my good friend. You are the best tracker I know,” Natchitos said. They clasped their right arms together in the traditional greeting. “Why are the whites here? Can you make the white talk?”
Just then, the white man standing behind Buffalo Tamer spoke up. “I am Lieutenant Louis Juchereau de St. Denis. I come in peace in the name of Louis XIV, King of France.”
Buffalo Tamer looked back at St. Denis with a scowling expression. It was not yet the time for him to speak to the chief. But he knew that the white leader always seemed to speak out of turn. He shook his head and allowed him to continue.
“I and my companions humbly present ourselves before you and offer our friendship,” St. Denis said. Buffalo Tamer translated St. Denis’ words to Natchitos.
Natchitos replied, “If your desire is to visit our land in peace, then we accept your presence here.” Tooantuh gave Natchitos a frown. He never liked the way Natchitos accepted strangers in their land so easily. “But, I do not know of this France of which you speak. Why have you come here?”
“We have come from the Yatasi tribe, where, with the aid of Buffalo Tamer, we have established an agreement to trade with them,” St. Denis continued. “We are hoping to do the same with you. We have goods to trade with you and have different methods of raising crops that we can show you. In return, all we ask is to be able to live upon your land for only a short period of time. We only wish to live in peace alongside you.”
Natchitos listened to his words with a perplexed look upon his face. “Why now?” he thought to himself. “And why would the Yatasi make agreements with this man?” He pulled Buffalo Tamer to the side. “Buffalo Tamer, what do you think of this man? Can he and these other soldiers be trusted?”
“He’s a good man,” Buffalo Tamer replied. “They have treated me well and have done all the things that they have spoken to among the Yatasi. I believe his heart is a good one. We were only among the Yatasi for two weeks before coming down the Cane.”
Natchitos grew silent and thought longer about what Buffalo Tamer was saying. It seemed to him that it would take much longer than just two weeks time to make an agreement with the Yatasi. What was it about this white man that was so trustworthy?
Buffalo Tamer broke the silence. “He is a good man, but he talks too much.” Natchitos gave him a coy grin.
The soldiers began to step off the rafts. Tooantuh noticed immediately that the soldiers did indeed hav
e muskets with them. “Chief,” he whispered to Natchitos, and motioned towards the soldiers. Natchitos saw the rifles and looked back over at Tooantuh then back at St. Denis sternly.
Among the six soldiers was a sergeant, Henri LaRouche. He casually barked orders at the other men, with a satchel over one shoulder and his rifle dangling from his other hand. “Gather that gear out of those boats! Come on, I don’t have all day!” He wiped the sweat off his brow, scanning over the tribal village and the tall trees on both sides of the river. “What the hell are we doing here?” he muttered to himself.
LaRouche never liked the natives. And he detested these excursions up and down the rivers seeking them out and making treaties with them. nd He longed to be back in the comfortable confines of the fort at St. Jean. “These people are animals,” he thought to himself, “We should be able to take these lands without question. They could never match the might of the French Army.” He stood oft to the side a few paces from St. Denis, trying to hear what were being said between the Lieutenant and the Indians. He stared at them intently. Then he caught Tooantuh’s eye. Tooantuh stared right back at him. LaRouche’s stare gave him an uncomfortable feeling.
“How did he convince the Yatasi so quickly?” Natchitos asked Buffalo Tamer. “They are not so easily persuaded. I am curious to hear more.”
St. Denis interrupted them, “I would like to introduce one of my officers and the governor of the Fort St. Jean. This is Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville. He is my trusted friend and leader.”
“It is my pleasure to meet you, Sir,” Jean-Baptiste said. “I have heard great things about you.”
“I am Natchitos, chief of the Nashitosh. Welcome to you and your men. This is Tooantuh. Tonight you will eat with us at the fire.”
St. Denis knew this was a great honor and a very good sign. He hoped that a good foundation was already being laid with these people. They went further down the river and set up camp there.
St. Denis was just over twenty-five years of age when he began his exploration of Louisiana. He was born the eleventh of twelve children in Beauport, New France in 1674, in the area which is now known as Quebec, Canada. His parents were able to send him to France to further his education. But in his heart, he was always an explorer. He had heard stories and read some accounts of the early explorers in the southern regions of the New World, and he had always wanted to see them. He returned from France in 1699 and helped settle a fort along the Mississippi River and one on Biloxi Bay. The former was Fort St. Jean, which would become New Orleans in 1716. It is where he first met Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville.
Jean-Baptiste was impressed with the young Frenchman and his ability to calmly establish relationships with the natives. In early 1701, he asked St. Denis to go on a mission upriver on the Mississippi where he had heard it was inhabited by many different tribes. The many connecting river routes further north were key in reaching other areas of exploration and establishing trade routes. As governor, he wished to go along on the journey to see this land himself and to make known that the French explorations were not cursory ones. He trusted and respected St. Denis deeply, but he was a man that wanted to know and see things for himself.
“What do you make of this Chief Natchitos, Louis? A quiet fellow isn’t he?” Jean-Baptiste asked.
“Yes, quiet indeed,” he replied. “But be patient friend. I know he has much more to say. I see wisdom behind those eyes of his. You know what they say about still waters…still waters run deep!”
Jean-Baptiste laughed heartily. “Yes they do, Louis. His friend was even quieter though. Yet he appeared to be quite fierce. I wouldn’t want to cross his path,” he quipped. St. Denis chuckled to himself. “How do you think it will go this evening? Do you think we should we go back?”
St. Denis looked surprised, “Of course we should! We’ve been invited. And I have something for our great chief that might impress him. I think it might take more than just supplies and tools to win this one over. I sensed an obvious concern coming forth from both of them. We don’t know how many they number, so we mustn’t be too casual in our approach.”
“But, Buffalo Tamer said they only number no more than fifty,” responded Jean-Baptiste.
“Nevertheless, we number less than ten, including some men that are, shall we say, less than enthusiastic to be on this journey,” St. Denis said matter-of-factly. “I plan to drive some spirit back into these stubborn men but I feel I must give them leave before doing so. We’ve been pressing on for many weeks now and with little rest.”
The sunset was nearing and camp was setup for the night. St. Denis, Jean-Baptiste and the soldiers set out back upriver to the tribal village with torch lights. As they approached the landing, a warrior in ceremonial headdress, stood along the shore at tension, staring out into the night, never turning to look at the explorers. He stood with a lit torch stuck in the ground holding it out with a firm straight arm.
“What a magnificent sight!” St. Denis thought to himself. “This will be a night to remember.”
The soldiers pulled the boats ashore and they all stood on the banks near the warrior, who stood motionless with little expression on his face.
“We must wait here,” Buffalo Tamer said to St. Denis. “We must wait until the tribe’s spirit guide comes to escort us into the village.” St. Denis understood well. A few soldiers swatted their arms and necks at the mosquitoes flying all around the riverside.
“Cursed bloodsuckers,” Jean-Baptiste swore under his breath as he slapped the back of his neck for the tenth time, “Leave me in peace!” He swatted at his neck once more. “They are just as bothersome as they are down at the fort, eh Louis? They don’t seem to bother this fellow at all. I wonder what his secret is.” The warrior seemed to be untouched by all the pesky mosquitoes. St. Denis leant an unsympathetic smile to his colleague as he swatted the back of his neck as well.
Then they heard footsteps coming from within the trees. Out into the clear emerged an impressive figure, wearing a large ceremonial headdress, with decorative skins around his waist that covered the length of his legs. On his chest he wore a vest of colored beads situated in an intricate design. St. Denis was astonished to see that the man was Natchitos himself. He stood motionless, staring into the night sky, as did the warrior standing guard by the river. Then finally looking over at St. Denis, he said bluntly, “Come!” They followed him into the trees towards the village. The warrior remained at his post beside the river.
As they walked the path behind the chief, flickers of firelight were visible, and drumbeats and chants could be heard from the tribal area. The spirit guide approached an open area where a large fire was burning in the middle. Surrounding the fire were numbers of grass thatch and mud covered huts. These were the homes of the Nashitosh Indians. All the tribesmen and women were dressed in ceremonial dress, sitting on the ground in small groups as the troupe approached. A small band of three drummers sat at the right side of the fire, playing a welcome drumbeat and chanting in unison. It was the traditional chant given to guests to welcome them to the village.
St. Denis and Jean-Baptiste looked on in amazement. The soldiers stood behind them with wide eyes. What an incredible sight! They watched as the performance continued. Natchitos walked a few steps further to the left side of the fire and stood next to a woman who had two young children beside her, and a young man dressed in a feather headdress, no more than fourteen years of age. It was Anoki, Natchitos’ oldest son. The woman was his wife, Taima. It was apparent that she was with child, perhaps six months along. As his feet came to rest beside her, the drumbeat and chant stopped abruptly.
The French looked on speechless. They knew the chief was about to speak, so they waited and watched intently. Natchitos then said, “I am Natchitos, chief! This is my family, and these are my people. We welcome you to our village. Tonight we will dance for you in front of this sacred fire.
We dance for rain, and we dance to call the ‘great spirit’ to give thanks to him. Tonight you will eat with us by the fire.” One of the women motioned to the visitors to sit in an open spot next to the chief’s family, a sitting place that had been left open just for them. The woman was Tooantuh’s wife, Ayita.
Ayita was young and beautiful, no more than twenty years of age. She was dressed in brown skins decorated with long strands of colorful beads. The skins hung from her shoulders and fell down to just above her bare feet. It was the traditional dress for all the women of the tribe for such an occasion. Her eyes were dark brown and her hair was long and black and hung down to the middle of her back, braided in colorful beads. Her beauty caught the eye of the young soldiers immediately. LaRouche couldn’t help but stare at her as she passed in front of them. His eyes followed her as she walked back to her husband and sat next to him.
The women of the village had prepared a great feast of wild game, poultry and corn. St. Denis knew that the past two summers, including this one, had been harsh all around this part of the country. So he knew that such a grand meal must be a large sacrifice for these people, yet they still offer everything so unselfishly. It should be their honor to accept such a gesture. He learned this very quickly during his travels through the New World among the native peoples. But he also knew it would be an even greater dishonor if they did not accept their offerings of this meal.
They were given a royal welcome. As they ate, they watched the first dance given by Ayita (whose name means, ‘first to dance’). This was the dance for rain. A member from each family then came up one at a time to perform a dance for them. The last dance was to call the ‘great spirit’ to come among them so that they may give thanks to him. It was the most spectacular dance of them all.
As the night grew old, the people began to leave a few at a time and head back to their huts. Each one nodding to the white men still seated on the ground next to Natchitos. St. Denis soon stood up himself and motioned to Buffalo Tamer. He wanted to thank his hosts for their generosity. But before he could speak, Buffalo Tamer spoke to him instead, “Lieutenant, the chief would like to speak with you alone.”
St. Denis thought for a moment, then said to Jean-Baptiste, “Sir, please take the men back to the camp, I’ll follow you shortly.”
“Are you sure that is wise, Louis? Maybe you should wait until tomorrow,” Jean-Baptiste insisted.
“No, it will be alright, there is no reason for me to fear,” he assured the governor.
“We can wait for you by the river, then,” Jean-Baptiste insisted.
“That won’t be necessary, Governor. I will have a ride after we talk. Please, take the men back and get some rest.”
Jean-Baptiste was not sure about St. Denis’ comfort level, he did not think it was wise to be alone with the Indians. But he thought to himself, “He has spent a great deal of time working with these kinds of people, he must know what he is doing.”
The warrior from the river had come up to the village and was waiting to escort the soldiers and Jean-Baptiste back to their rafts. St. Denis watched as they disappeared into the night.
Legend Upon the Cane Page 3