part I go to the south!

So saying, he stepped across the line and was quickly followed by Ruiz, Pedro de Candia, and eleven other adventurous souls. The remainder made no movement, so Tafur sailed away with them, next day, leaving a goodly portion of his provisions to help out those who determined to cast their fortunes with the danger-loving Pizarro.

Now, constructing a raft, the adventurous Castilian transported his men to an island which lay farther north. There were pheasants and rabbits here, and also swarms of gnats, flies and mosquitoes. The rain fell incessantly, and, although the Spaniards built rude huts in order to keep out the water, they had hard work to be comfortable. For seven months they thus lived, until Almagro arrived from Panama, with only just enough men on board to work the vessel, and with commands from the Governor for Pizarro to report immediately at the Isthmus.

In spite of this mandate, the adventurous Spaniards headed the vessel for the southern coast, soon came in view of a great gulf, the Gulf of Guayaquil, and saw, far above them, the snowy crests of the towering mountains: the Cordilleras. Between these and the sea-coast, lay a narrow strip of land, which was highly cultivated by the natives. Some of these Pizarro persuaded to accompany him, and he left one of his own company, who was fair of complexion and wore a long beard, to learn the language of the Indians, so that he could act as an interpreter upon his return. He also took several of the native sheep, or llamas—“the little camels”—to exhibit to those who would doubt his story at Panama, or in Spain, for he had decided if necessary to seek assistance from the King.

The natives received these fair-skinned navigators with kindness and much curiosity, for the armor, guns, and horses of these so-called “Children of the Sun” greatly interested the gentle Peruvians. Several of the Spaniards penetrated into the interior, and came back with wondrous tales of temples filled with gold and silver ornaments. So Pizarro was determined, upon his return to Panama, to gather a force sufficient to conquer the entire country, for his desire for wealth and the power which this brings, was quite similar to that of those who penetrate the arid wastes of Nevada, at the present day, or search for the precious metal amidst the hemlock-forests of Alaska.

Now, satisfied that a rich and populous kingdom lay before him, Pizarro turned about and sailed northward, and, after an absence of a year and a half, once more talked with the irate Governor of Panama. As he was supposed to have perished with all his men, the representative of the Spanish King was quite considerate in his treatment of him; but, when Pizarro asked for further assistance in his scheme for the conquest of Peru, the Governor seemed to have other use for his money and his soldiers.

“What do I care?” cried the adventurer, in some heat. “I can visit the King of Spain and he will help me, I know. I am determined to succeed.”

This man, you see, had the power of will. Although he had suffered hardship, mental anguish, famine; he was certain that he could become master of the gentle Peruvians, and so was determined to crush any obstacles which came in his path and obstructed this ambition. So far, his conduct had been noble, his treatment of his friends and companions had been just, his own cheerfulness and self control had been commendable. Let us see how he conducted himself, when he had secured that for which he sought?

Taking passage for Spain, he appeared at the Spanish Court with two or three llamas, several natives, and specimens of the woolen cloth and gold and silver ornaments of the Peruvians, to bear witness to his tales of this wonderful country. The King lent a ready ear to his request for assistance; he was empowered to conquer and take possession of Peru in the name of Spain; and was requested to transport many priests along with him, in order to convert the Indians to the Roman Catholic religion. The ignorant swine-herd, in fact, had become a man of some merit and mark, which so greatly pleased his four half-brothers—who possessed the high-sounding names of Hernando, Gonzalo, Juan, and Francisco de Alcantara—that they all desired to follow him to this land of the llama and the snow-capped mountains.

“Hurray for brother Francisco,” said they. “He will make us all rich! Hurray and God be with him!”

Finally, two hundred and fifty men were gathered for the conquest of Peru. The Pizarros set sail for Panama—it was a family party now—and soon all were again upon the shores of the New World. Three ships were speedily loaded with equipment and provisions, and, with one hundred and eighty followers and twenty-seven horses, the Spanish free-booters and adventurers sailed for the Bay of St. Matthew. They landed, and immediately started operations in the usual high-handed and brutal manner of the Spanish conqueror.

The little band of cut-throats went ashore and advanced along the coast, while the three ships drifted along in a parallel line, keeping as close inshore as discretion would permit. When the Castilians reached a town of some importance, they would rush in upon the inhabitants, sword in hand, and would cut down all who opposed them. The poor, frightened natives would run away tumultuously, while the Pizarro brothers, and other Castilian robbers, would collect all the gold and silver ornaments that they could find. Many emeralds were also secured, which were sent to the ships, and back to Panama, in order to impress those who were left behind with the fact that the army was really accomplishing something. It was also done for the effect that it would produce upon the irate and unaccommodating Governor.

The Spaniards suffered greatly from the heat, for the sun beat upon their iron breastplates and quilted cotton doublets with most uncomfortable fury. In spite of this, they kept on, and, as they advanced, the natives fled before them.

They spent the rainy season upon an island; but, when the weather grew clear again, being reënforced by a hundred volunteers from Panama and more horses, they again crossed to the mainland and resumed their former operations.

They advanced to the town of Tumbez, expecting to find a rich and populous city; but, greatly to their surprise, they saw that this Peruvian stronghold had been burned and abandoned, owing to a recent disagreement between the inhabitants and the followers of the Inca. This ruler, Atahuallpa Capac, had fallen out with his brother, Huascar, and had advanced into his country in order to humiliate him and to become master of all Peru. Pizarro immediately made up his mind to march and capture the Inca Atahuallpa, himself, and to seize all of Peru for the Crown of Spain.

Some years before, the country had been conquered by a native soldier and statesman, named Huayna Capac, who left three sons: Huascar, the heir, and son of the Queen; Manco Capac, a half-brother; and Atahuallpa, a son of the Princess Quito. At the death of Huayna Capac, the kingdom was divided into two parts; Huascar succeeding to the empire of Peru, Atahuallpa to the empire of Quito. The latter was of a warlike disposition; the former was gentle and retiring. They thus did not long remain at peace with one another, for, Atahuallpa coveted the land of his brother, advanced to take it, and, after a great battle, in which he was victorious, overran, with his adherents, all the territory of his rival. This had all happened only a short time before Pizarro had landed, and the ruins of Tumbez bore full witness to the ruthlessness of the Inca’s wrath.

The conqueror, it was said, was but twelve days’ journey inland, so the Castilians struck boldly into the country, where they were everywhere received with hospitality by the natives. The invaders were now careful to give no offense, for they were very few and were surrounded by many thousands, who could quickly annihilate them, should they so wish.

An Indian gave Pizarro a scroll, as they advanced, upon which had been written: “Know, whoever you may be, that may chance to set foot in this country, that it contains more silver and gold than there is iron in Biscay.” This was shown to the soldiers, but they laughed good-humoredly at it, believing that it was only a device of their leader to give them confidence and hope.

Pizarro halted his men, after five days of marching, and told them that the expedition was to be a hazardous one and that those who wished to retire could do so. Nine of the soldiers availed themselves of this opportunity to turn away from what lay in front, and, thus rid of what would undoubtedly be a dangerous element, the daring explorer pressed onward. He reached the foot of the great mountains which tower above the plains of Peru, and, sending forward a cavalier to speak with Atahuallpa, received word from this native ruler that he would be delighted to entertain the Spaniards at his camp in the mountains.

The little army now toiled up the steep slopes of the Cordilleras and came to many fortresses of stone which overhung their path, and where a mere handful of men, with little difficulty, could have barred their way. All was quiet and deserted, for luck was with this adventurer, and finally his band of treasure-seekers reached the summit of the mountains. An Indian messenger appeared from the Inca, who requested that he be informed when the Spaniards would reach Caxamalca, where they were to be entertained by the proud and imperious Atahuallpa. The messenger spoke glowingly of the might of his master; but Pizarro assured him that the King of Spain was the mightiest monarch under the sun, and that his servants would convince the Inca that they bore nothing but messages of good will from their master in far distant Castile.

The Spaniards marched onward for two days, then began to descend the eastern side of the Cordilleras, where they met a second envoy from the Inca. Seven days later the valley of Caxamalca lay before them, and, to the startled eyes of these adventurers, came the vision of several miles of white tents: those of the Inca’s followers. Pizarro put on a bold front, marched towards the encampment, and, sending forward a cavalier with thirty-five horsemen to the Inca’s pavilion, entered the outskirts of the town of Caxamalca. The Peruvian nobility was in the courtyard, so, tramping onward, the Spanish adventurers passed through a long line of nobles to where Atahuallpa himself sat upon a low stool, distinguished by a crimson ribbon bound around his forehead, which he had placed there after the defeat of his brother, Huascar.

Pizarro rode up to the monarch of the Peruvian wilds, and, bowing in a lowly and respectful manner, informed him that he was the subject of the mighty Prince across the ocean, and that, attracted by the report of the warlike prowess of the Inca, he had come to offer him his services and those of his men, and to impart to him the doctrines of true faith, which they professed. He also invited Atahuallpa to visit him in his own encampment.

The Inca seemed to be dazed, and listened with his eyes fixed upon the ground. One of his nobles then said: “It is well.”

“Can you not speak for yourself,” asked Pizarro, turning to the Inca, “and tell me what is your desire?”

At this the proud native smiled faintly, and replied, through an interpreter:

“I am keeping a fast which will end to-morrow morning. I will then visit you. In the meantime, pray occupy the public buildings on the square and no other, until I order what shall be done.”

Pizarro bowed. At that moment one of his soldiers, who was mounted upon a fiery steed, touched it with his spurs and galloped away. Whirling around, he dashed back through the crowd of natives and drew rein before the immobile Atahuallpa, who never, for an instant, lost his composure. Several of his soldiers, however, shrank back in manifest terror as this strange creature passed by, for such a wonderful animal had never been seen before in this country. The Spaniards now left, and, after they had departed, all of those who had shown fear of the galloping horse in the presence of the strangers, were put to death by order of the Inca.

That night Pizarro perfected his plan for the capture of Atahuallpa. He saw that, should he give battle to the Inca in the open field, it would doubtless end in disastrous defeat for the Spaniards, as the natives far out-numbered this handful of Castilians. His only chance for victory seemed to be to capture the Inca, to hold him prisoner, and to intimidate the vast horde of natives, by threat of death to their ruler, if they attacked the Spanish invaders. He therefore determined to entice the native to the building in which he and his men were lodged, which was built upon a square courtyard. His soldiers were to remain hidden around the central court, and, when Atahuallpa and his retainers should be in the very middle of the square, the Spaniards were to rush in upon him, and, putting the Peruvians to the sword, were to seize the unfortunate native ruler and hold him fast. This was the bold conception of this heartless adventurer, a veritable dare-devil, whose conscience was free from the lofty and proper conceptions of brotherly love.

The night was a quiet one. The Spaniards made a careful inspection of their arms and equipment, loaded all their guns, and stationed themselves at the places designated by their artful leader. At dawn they were ready, but it was late in the day before the Inca approached. He was preceded by a native courier, who informed Pizarro that his master was coming armed, even as the Spaniards had come to him.

“Tell your master,” said the Castilian, “that come as he may, I will receive him as a friend and a brother.”

Shortly afterwards the procession approached. First came a large number of natives, who had brooms in their hands and who swept all rubbish from the roadway. Then came a crowd of Peruvian soldiers. In their center the Inca was carried aloft upon a litter, surrounded by his nobles, who wore quantities of golden ornaments which glittered and gleamed in the sunshine. The Peruvian army followed, and, when they had all arrived within half a mile of the gate to the city, Pizarro was startled to see them halt. They seemed to be preparing to encamp, and a runner came to the courtyard, stating that the Inca had decided to delay his entrance into the city until the following morning.

“Tell your master,” said Pizarro, “that I have provided a feast for his entertainment, and that my followers will be grievously disappointed if he does not come to visit us this day.”

The runner went away, and Pizarro beat his foot upon the floor in anxious solicitude, for, should the Inca not come at this time, he feared that he would not be able to control his own followers, who had been under arms since daylight.

To the delight of the Spanish, a second runner now approached, who announced that the Inca would meet the white men; but would bring into the town with him only a few unarmed warriors. Pizarro breathed easier, and then inspected his followers, finding that all were in their places and eager for the attack.

The day was wearing to a close. Deep shadows from the gabled ends of the ancient buildings fell upon the courtyard, as the Peruvians, chanting their songs of triumph, entered the city gate and unsuspectingly marched onward to their destruction. Atahuallpa was in an open litter, lined with the brilliantly colored plumes of tropical birds and studded with burnished plates of gold and of silver. Around his neck hung a collar of large and brilliant emeralds. His dress was of the richest silk. At this time he was about thirty years of age and had a fine frame, a large and handsome head; but bloodshot eyes, which gave him a fierce and vindictive appearance. His bearing was calm, yet dignified, and he gazed upon the natives about him as one accustomed to command. He was surrounded by nobles, who were clad in blue uniforms studded with gold.

The procession entered the great square of the house which had been assigned to the Spaniard, but not a Castilian soldier was there. Only a priest, Father Valverde, Pizarro’s Chaplain, was to be seen. He came forward, bible in hand, and, walking to the Inca’s litter, began to explain to him the doctrines of the Christian religion.

“The Pope at Rome has commissioned the Emperor of Spain to conquer and to convert the inhabitants of this western world,” said he to the Inca, “and I beseech you, therefore, to embrace the Christian faith and acknowledge yourself a tributary to the Emperor Charles of Spain, who will aid and protect you as a loyal vassal.”

As he spoke, fire flashed from the eyes of Atahuallpa, and he answered: “I will be no man’s tributary. I am far greater than any Prince on earth. Your own Emperor may be a great prince, I do not doubt it when I see that he has sent his subjects so far across the waters, and I am willing to hold him as a brother. As for the Pope of whom you speak, he must certainly be insane to give away countries which do not belong to him. As for my faith, I will not change it. Your own God, you say, was put to death by the very men whom he trusted, but mine”—here he stretched out his hand towards the setting sun—“my God still lives in the heavens and looks down upon his children. By what authority, man of Spain, do you say these things?”

The friar pointed to the well-worn bible which he held in his hand.

The Inca took it, looked at it for an instant, and then threw it violently down, exclaiming: “Tell your comrades that they shall give an account of their doings in my land. I will not go from here until they have given me full satisfaction for all the wrongs which they have committed.”

This startled Valverde, and, rushing to Pizarro, he cried out:

“Do you not see that, while we stand here wasting our breath in talking with this dog—full of pride as he is—the fields behind him are filling up with his Indian allies? Set upon him at once, I absolve you.”

Pizarro smiled, for he saw that the moment to strike had arrived. So he waved a white scarf, a gun was fired as a signal for the attack, and from every opening, the Spaniards poured into the great square, sword in hand, shouting their old battle-cry: “St. Iago and at them!”

A few cannon, which they had dragged up the mountain slopes with much stress and difficulty, were turned upon the startled Peruvians, and were discharged. The Indians were unarmed and were taken totally by surprise. Stunned by the noise of the artillery and blinded with smoke, they rushed hither and thither in confusion, as the Spanish free-booters pressed in upon every side.

Fierce and agonizing cries went up from the courtyard, as nobles and Peruvian soldiers were ruthlessly cut down and trampled under the feet of the Spanish horsemen. So great, indeed, was the impact of these writhing Indians when they were pressed back against the wall of clay and stone, which surrounded the courtyard, that they broke through it, and, clambering over the débris, rushed headlong into the open country, hotly pursued in every direction by the Castilian cavalrymen, who cut them down with their sharp broadswords.

Meanwhile, what of the Inca, for the possession of whose body the invaders were making such a desperate effort?

Atahuallpa sat as if stunned. His litter was forced this way and that by the swaying throng, while his native attendants faithfully endeavored to defend him. As fast as one was cut down, another took his place, and, with their dying grasp, they clung to the bridles of the cavaliers in a vain endeavor to keep them away from the body of their sacred master. Fearing that the Inca might escape in the darkness, a few cavaliers now dashed in, in an attempt to end the battle by taking the life of the Peruvian chieftain; but Pizarro saw this action, and cried out: “Let no man who values his life strike at the Inca!”

As he spoke, he stretched out his arm in order to shield him, and received a wound in the hand from one of his own men. This, strange to relate, is said to be the only wound received by any Spaniard during the entire action.

The litter was now overturned, and Atahuallpa would have fallen violently to the ground, had not Pizarro and two of his soldiers caught the now humiliated chieftain in their arms. A soldier immediately snatched the crimson ribbon from his forehead. The helpless Peruvian monarch was taken to the nearest building and was carefully guarded, while his followers ceased their fruitless struggle and ran away as fast as they were able. The Castilian horsemen pursued them, until night fell, and the sound of the trumpet recalled them to the square at Caxamalca. It is recorded that many thousand of the Indians lay dead about the city, while not a single Spaniard had forfeited his life in this sharp but important engagement.

The Spaniards now had the Inca in their possession; but they were very few, in a great country, and surrounded by enemies. Atahuallpa seemed to be resigned to his unfortunate position; but he was determined to gain his freedom, if possible. He saw that gold was what his captors chiefly desired, and decided to try to buy his freedom, for he feared that Huascar might wrest the kingdom from him when he discovered that his brother was in captivity. He therefore promised Pizarro that he would fill the room in which they stood with gold, if he would but set him free.

“I will stuff with gold this chamber in which we stand,” said he. “Not only will I cover the floor with it, but I will pile it up to a line drawn around the walls as high as you can reach.”

Pizarro was dumb-founded, for the room was seventeen feet broad by twenty-two feet long, and the line upon the wall was nine feet high. He was still more affected when the Inca agreed to fill a smaller room, adjoining this one, with silver twice over, if he were given two months’ time.

The Spaniard decided to accept, for, should Atahuallpa really do this, he could even then make way with him and still have possession of the gold.

“Go ahead,” he remarked. “When you have fulfilled your contract, you shall have your freedom.”

Alas for the Inca! He did not know that treachery was the chief trait of all these Spanish adventurers.

The collection of the treasure went rapidly on, while Atahuallpa remained in the Spanish quarters, treated with great consideration, but strictly guarded. He even learned to play chess, and, although closely watched, was allowed to see his subjects freely. His dress was sometimes of vicuña wool, sometimes of bats’ skins which were velvety sleek. He changed this often, but nothing which he had worn could be used by another, and, when he laid a robe aside, it was burned.

Huascar, meanwhile, had heard of Atahuallpa’s capture and this roused in him a hope that he could regain his own kingdom, of which he had been recently despoiled. He sent word, therefore, to Pizarro, that, should the Spaniards wish it, he could pay a far greater ransom than his brother. He would expect to be reinstated to the chief command after this had been done.

News of this came to Atahuallpa, who also learned that Pizarro had said that Huascar should be brought to Caxamalca, so that he, himself, might determine which of the two brothers had a better right to the scepter of the Incas. This aroused in him a furious jealousy, and, fearing that the claims of his brother might be respected, he ordered secretly that Huascar should be put to death by his guards as he approached. He was accordingly drowned in the river Andamapa, as he neared Caxamalca.

“The white men will avenge my murder,” said he, with his dying breath, “and my brother will find that he will not long survive my assassination!”

He was quite correct in this surmise, for the Spaniards grew suspicious of the Inca, and pretended to believe that he was arranging a general uprising among the Peruvians against the white men. When the treasure had nearly all been collected, they demanded that Pizarro should disburse it among them, which was done, after the golden vases and ornaments had been melted down into solid bars. What do you think? It was worth nearly three and a half million pounds sterling, or seventeen million five hundred thousand dollars ($17,500,000.00).

This distribution practically ruined the soldiers. They squandered it recklessly, or lost it over dice and cards. Very few were wise enough to return to Spain in order to enjoy their ill-gotten spoils in their native country, and one, indeed, lost a portion of one of the great golden images of the Sun, taken from the chief temple, in a single night of gaming; whence came the famous Spanish proverb: “He plays away the sun before sunrise!”

The wild and reckless Castilians, drunk with gold and sudden power, clamored for the life of the unhappy Inca, for rumors reached them that an immense army was mustering at Quito to attack them. Atahuallpa denied any knowledge of this, but his protestations of innocence did him little good. Pizarro, taking advantage of the absence of some of the cavaliers who would have defended the poor, helpless Indian, ordered him to be brought to instant trial. Several brown-skinned witnesses were produced, who gave testimony which sealed his doom; and, in spite of the fact that a few of the Spaniards staunchly stood up for him, he was found guilty of having assassinated his brother Huascar, of raising an insurrection against the invaders, and was sentenced to be burned alive.

The miserable Inca, when informed of his impending fate, lost, for a moment, his courage, which had heretofore never deserted him.

“What have I or my children done,” said he to Pizarro, “that I should meet such a doom? And, from your hands, too! You who have met with nothing but friendship and kindness from my people, and who have received nothing but benefits from my hands.”

In piteous wails he begged for his life.

“I promise to pay double the ransom already given you, if you will but spare me,” said he.

It was all of no avail. After he had consented to give up his own religion and be baptized, he was executed, as the Spaniards were accustomed to put all their prisoners to death,—by strangulation.

Pizarro had no easy time after this. Although Almagro had arrived with reënforcements, there was serious trouble with all the Indians in the country. Freed of the power which governed them, they broke into fierce excesses, the remote provinces threw off their allegiance to the Incas, the great captains of distant armies set up for themselves, gold and silver acquired a new importance in their eyes; it was eagerly seized and hidden in caves and in forests. All Peru was in an uproar.

Thus it remained for many years until, at last, the Spaniards successfully defeated all the native forces and secured the country to their own dominion. But now they began to fight among themselves for the possession of the fruitful land. Almagro lived to be seventy years of age, after a life of continual battle and adventure. Finally he was put to death by Hernando Pizarro, the brother of Francisco, who had followed him here from Spain. The murderer also dispatched his son, but he himself was imprisoned in Madrid for these acts. He lived for many years after his release, some say to be a hundred. Francisco’s other brother, Gonzalo, was beheaded in Peru for rebelling against the Spanish emperor.

As for Francisco, that swine-herd who had conquered the fair land of Peru and had let no obstacle stand in the way of his chosen purpose, he, himself, came to no peaceful end. Brutal, remorseless, ambitious, greedy, it was only natural, that, when he had acquired power, he should stir up enemies even among his own people. In the lovely month of June, 1541, he was murdered in his own house at Lima by the desperate followers of the young Almagro, or the “Men of Chili,” as they called themselves. Secretly and hastily he was buried by a few faithful servants in an obscure corner of the cathedral, and thus miserably ended the life of this man of adventurous spirit and desperate courage.

One cannot but admire the will-power of this Castilian, his serene calmness in time of danger, and his indifference to physical suffering. But his ruthlessness and cruelty to the Inca, his vindictive lust for riches, his lack of feeling for the inoffensive natives, can give him no such position in the Hall of Fame as is held by a Lincoln, a Gordon, or a George Washington.

Peace to your restless and ambitious soul, Francisco Pizarro!

HERNANDO DE SOTO:

DISCOVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER.

(1496-1542)

“_Through the muddied lagoon we clambered, through the mire, the slime, and the muck;_ _O’er hills and valleys we hastened, through the creeks where our cannon stuck._ _We were stung by the fierce mosquitoes, and were mocked by the chattering jay;_ _But we hewed and hacked a passage through the grass where the moccasin lay._ _Fever, and heat, and ague were friends of our ceaseless toil,_ _And many a brave Castilian was interred ’neath the friendless soil._ _We searched for the El Dorado, yet no gilded man found we,_ _Instead, a bed for our numberless dead, near the sob of the sun-gilded sea._”

SONG OF DE SOTO’S MEN—1541.

HERNANDO DE SOTO:

DISCOVERER OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER.

(1496-1542)

IN the old Spanish town of Seville, at the time when Pizarro and his numerous brothers were conquering the gentle Peruvians, the streets were often filled with the adventurers who had returned from Mexico, Panama, and South America, laden with the treasures of plundered cities. Among these successful cavaliers, no one had a more gallant bearing, or a more captivating presence, than Hernando de Soto, who had been with the Castilian troops in their battles upon the lofty Peruvian plains.

When the rapacious Spaniards had divided the ransom of the helpless Atahuallpa, which amounted to such a fabulous sum, the ambitious De Soto’s share, it is said, was fully a million dollars of our own money. You see, therefore, that, when he returned to Spain, he could set up a princely establishment and was one of the most important citizens of the country. But, dissatisfied with the humdrum life of the civilized community in which he had hoped to end his days, he longed to go once more to this New World and discover other cities and other mines of treasure. He therefore asked the King to allow him to undertake an expedition at his own expense, for he was so rich in worldly goods that he had no need of financial assistance from the throne, which all the other discoverers and explorers has been seriously in need of. None, in fact, could have succeeded in their hazardous enterprises without the aid of the Castilian gold.

Romance is a vast assistance to exploration. Men look towards the unknown, wonder what is there, and, in order to verify their conjectures, go and explore. They bring back many stories. This element was of great aid to the daring Cavalier, for a fanciful legend was then current in Spain to the effect, that, in that far-distant America, was a country so rich in gold, that its King was completely gilded. He was known as El Dorado, the gilded man, and it became generally believed that this Kingdom of the Gilded Man lay somewhere in that vast, unexplored region, then called Florida.

The King of Spain appointed De Soto Governor of this fabled country, and decreed that he should have the power to subdue and to rule it. When it became known that the famous cavalier was about to start for the New World, recruits flocked to his standard, and both high and low-born vied with each other to gain a place in his company of explorers. Men of noble birth even sold their estates in order to properly equip themselves for this expedition, as they expected to duplicate the experiences of the cavaliers in Peru and in Mexico. Many a tradesman, also, parted with his little shop in order to purchase armor, guns, and supplies for the great undertaking. The conquest of Florida was the talk of the hour and was upon every lip. It was a popular enterprise.

One beautifully clear morning in Spring a fleet of white-winged galleons swept from the harbor of Seville. Crowds lined the quays, and, although a faint cheer or two was heard, there were many gloomy faces, for there was a multitude of disappointed aspirants who could not find a vacant place upon the overcrowded ships. Bugles blared a parting salute, the yellow flag of Spain was dipped into the blue Atlantic, and with cries of “Adios! We will find El Dorado!” the cheering followers of this swashbuckling hero of that day, gazed eagerly towards the now well-known passage to the Spanish Main. It was more like a monster picnic party than a serious expedition.

The Spaniards landed at Cuba, where they delayed for nearly a year, and passed their time in a round of balls, tilting-matches and bullfights. After having enjoyed themselves to the full, they again embarked and headed for Florida, landing upon the beach at Tampa, where the American troops who were to wrest Cuba from the Spanish rule, set out for the harbor of Santiago, in the summer of 1898. All were cheerful and happy, eagerly looking forward to the not far distant time when they would find rich and populous cities to be sacked and looted in the same manner that they had despoiled the Peruvian and Mexican strongholds.

Fearing no enemy, about three hundred of them went ashore and encamped near the beach. They christened the bay, The Bay of the Holy Spirit; and yet they were to find no Holy Spirit nestling behind the solemn palm trees which grew almost down to the sand, for, as they lay in fanciful security, suddenly the thicket rang with the wild war-whoops of the native Floridians, and a horde of dusky forms rushed in among them, shooting arrows and striking with sharp, stone tomahawks.

All was now a scene of terror and confusion. A few of the Spaniards ran to the water’s edge, shrilly blowing upon their trumpets in order to attract those left upon the ships. Others cried loudly for help, and, piling into the longboats, their comrades hastened to their assistance, leaped upon the sand, and, with a fierce battle-cry, drove the Indians pell-mell into the sheltering palms. Thereafter the Castilians were most careful to establish a picket-post around their encampments, for they had suffered severely in this first encounter.

The boats were now unloaded, many of the larger vessels were sent back to Cuba, while the smaller craft, or caravels, were kept for the service of the army. A number of men were left on guard at Tampa, while the remainder set off into the forest, heading towards the northeast. They had not gone far before they came upon a white man, who was none other than a lonely survivor of a previous expedition, led by a Spaniard called Narváez. His name was Juan Ortiz. He had been with the Indians for a long time, as he had been very young when captured by the natives. They had spared his life because of the intercession of a chief’s daughter. Since this lucky proceeding, which was quite similar to that of Pocohontas and John Rolfe, he had lived with a neighboring tribe. The Spaniards were delighted to secure his services as a guide and interpreter.

When the followers of Pizarro had reached Peru they had immediately found gold among the natives. You know that this is what they were after and what they seized upon with greedy fingers. Not so in palm-studded Florida. For, as the mail-clad invaders pushed into this barren and sandy country, they found no gold and no splendid cities with temples filled with jeweled images. After marching for hours through interminable pine forests and floundering through dense swamps, where the natives shot at them with poisoned arrows from behind trees, and harassed and slew them as they splashed through the mire and deep water, they found nothing but deserted villages and a few aged Indians who were too decrepit to make their escape.

This naturally angered the adventurers. Those who had sold their property in order to join in this hazardous expedition, began to be sorry that they had ever left the peaceful soil of old Castile. Those who had sacrificed good positions to take a chance in the search of this El Dorado, began to bewail their coming, and to bemoan the fact that they had listened to the sweet strains of romance which had been woven over these expeditions into the unknown.

The fabled El Dorado could be no gilded chieftain, he was a gilded fool. Alas that they ever left the gray cobbled streets of ancient Seville!

Yet on, on, they toiled wearily, ever hoping to find the gold which never came to view. They finally approached a native village which was filled with warriors of mettle, for they were furiously attacked. A shower of arrows fell among them, but, little heeding these missiles, the Spaniards discharged their guns, and, rushing upon the patriotic Indians, easily routed them. Many of the poor redskins took refuge in a pond and swam out so that they could not be reached. The Spaniards immediately surrounded the water and awaited developments. A historian of the period says:

“Nine hundred Indians took to the pond, and, all day long, continued to swim around shouting defiance and mounting on each other’s shoulders in order to shoot their arrows. Night came, and not one had surrendered; midnight, and still not one. At ten o’clock the next day, after twenty-four hours in the water, some two hundred came out, all stiff and cold. Others followed. The last seven would not give up, but were dragged out unconscious by the Spaniards, who swam in after them, when they had been thirty hours in the water, without touching bottom. Then the humane invaders exerted themselves to warm and restore to life these unfortunate people.”

In spite of this kind treatment, the men from Castile put irons on many of these natives, and took them along with them, so that they would have slaves to transport their baggage, pound their corn, and serve them when in camp. A soldier, who has written of this journey, says that, upon one occasion, the enslaved prisoners rose against their masters and tried to massacre them, but the Spaniards crushed this attempt, brought the helpless Indians to the village square, and caused them to be hacked to pieces by their halberdiers, or swordsmen. You can readily see that these invaders were making no happy impression upon simple-minded Americans.

The Spaniards were now in the country of Apalachee, which was then, as it is to-day, a land of agriculture, with well-tilled fields of corn, of pumpkins and beans, and with a farm-loving population of red men. The Castilians seized all the provisions which they needed for their journey, and, when the Indians objected, slew them mercilessly, but not without the loss of many of their own people.

Although the majority of the party were much dissatisfied with the fact that they had not discovered gold, De Soto seemed to be satisfied with the outlook. A few men were sent to the south in order to find the ocean, and came back with the report that they had run upon a magnificent harbor: the Bay of Pensacola. They had also seen the skulls of horses on the beach, these being the remains of those killed by the Spanish explorer, Narváez, who had fed the flesh to his men while engaged in building boats for their departure from this country. De Soto ordered a vessel to set sail for Cuba, stating that he had met with great success, was much pleased with the outlook, and wished more men and horses.

This was all very well for the provisional Governor, but still no gold had been found, and the soldiers were discouraged and disgusted with this lack of success. Eagerly they listened to the tales of two Indian boys who undertook to guide them to a region where they would find gold in abundance; the land of the Cofachiqui. It was towards the northeast, said the lads, so the Spaniards set out in that direction, expecting to find a city similar to Tumbez in Peru, and also El Dorado, the golden man, sitting upon a throne of solid golden ingots. Accordingly, they set out to cross the territory which is now the State of Georgia. It was a pleasant, fruitful land, inhabited by a peaceable and kindly people, who entertained them hospitably in their villages, and furnished them generously with food. The Spaniards had no need of resorting to their usual cruel methods, and the chiefs gave them guides and porters so that they could more easily pass on.

But see how crafty and keen these old Indians were!

A certain chieftain offered to furnish the travelers with guides and with porters. The Castilians eagerly accepted the offer, but so many armed warriors assembled in order to go with them, that the Spaniards suspected them of meditating treachery, and thus watched them very closely. The Indians seemed to travel along peacefully enough; but, when the village of Cofachiqui was reached, and the Spanish soldiers had gone to sleep, their redskinned guides and porters fell upon the unsuspecting natives, who lived there, and massacred all upon whom they could lay their hands. This, indeed, had been a war-party in disguise, which had taken a clever method of invading the territory of a tribe which was hostile to them, and which heretofore they had been afraid to attack. The affair took place at a distance of between thirty or forty miles below the present city of Augusta, Georgia.

Still the travelers kept on and on. Ever were their thoughts upon gold, and yet no gold seemed to appear, nor did the natives seem to possess any of the precious metal. After they had crossed a broad river, they found a well-to-do race of natives in a well-tilled country, governed by a young woman who received them with great kindness and gave them corn, pork, and sweet potatoes. She also presented them with pearls, of which she had a great quantity, as they were found in the shell-fish in the streams. De Soto saw little value in these stones, and, although he was invited to carry away all that he could, he refused to take more than fifty pounds, as a sample to show to the Cubans when he should return. He was also presented with a herd of hogs, which he drove off before him towards the west.

The climate was not unhealthy, and so the Castilians had an easy time of it. They wandered through upper Georgia, across the mountains into lower Tennessee, and then into the present State of Alabama. As vessels from Cuba were expected to meet them with re-enforcements and supplies, they now headed for Pensacola Bay.

At a place called Choctaw Bluff, not far from the present city of Mobile, they came to an Indian town presided over by a fierce chieftain by the name of Tuscaloosa, which means Black Warrior. This village had the sweet-sounding name of Mauvila. It was surrounded by a high palisade, which was chinked and plastered with mud, and, besides this, there were slits in the sides of the walls, so that those who defended it could shoot through at an attacking party.

De Soto rode ahead of the main body of Castilians with about a hundred horsemen. They were clad in doublets and trousers, with steel caps, breast plates and greaves upon their legs. As it was warm, most of this armor was slung to their saddles with cords, while the cavaliers trotted along joyously, chanting many an old Spanish song, and laughing and jesting with one another, for they were having a pleasant journey, even though no gold had been discovered. Reaching the sleepy little village of these southern Indians, they were met by the chief, Tuscaloosa, who appeared to be most friendly and asked them to enter and have a feast. Fearing nothing, and remembering the pleasant reception which they had received while marching through Georgia, they trotted gayly forward, while De Soto chatted with the chief by means of a native interpreter.

They rode to a position near the palisade, and then, dismounting, went inside in order to greet the inhabitants. Here was a large Indian town and hundreds of women, who greeted them in a friendly manner and waved their hands. Almost immediately a blow was struck. The Spaniards say that they were enticed into the palisade on purpose, and in order that they might be slaughtered by thousands of warriors who were hidden behind the wigwams, and had been summoned thither from the surrounding country. This is hardly probable, for, had the Indians contemplated a battle, they would certainly have first removed their children. No doubt a hot-headed Castilian started all the trouble. At any rate the soldiers from Seville were soon engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand encounter with a vast concourse of howling savages.

There was a fearful battle. The cavaliers had fortunately donned their armor, after dismounting from their horses, and it was well, for a shower of sharp-pointed arrows fell amongst them. A horde of Indians swarmed from their houses and swept the invaders before them, driving them in a struggling mass through the narrow entrance to the palisade. The Castilians ran to their horses and hastily mounted, but some were so hard-pressed by the natives that they were unable to get into their saddles, while their patient steeds, struck with a shower of arrows, broke away and ran frantically into the woods. In spite of the confusion and uproar, the Spaniards kept cool, and, although driven to a distance, formed a battle line and came back, pressing the native bowmen before them. With fixed lances they charged into the yelping mob, only to be met with splendid courage by the native soldiers.

De Soto bore himself right valiantly and led his men, using his long, sharp lance with deadly effect. His soldiers, too, were not laggards in the attack, and followed him closely, shouting the Spanish battle cry: “St. Iago and at them!” Many were sorely wounded. De Soto himself, as he leaned forward to make a lance thrust, received an arrow in the exposed portion of his thigh. This made it impossible for him to sit down, so, throughout the remainder of the day, he rode, standing in his stirrups.

Several of the more prominent Castilians were shot dead. The Spanish leader’s brother, Diego de Soto, was pierced through the eye by an arrow, which came out at the back of his neck. A young cavalier, called Carlo Enriquez, who had married the Governor of Florida’s niece, leaned over the neck of his horse in order to pull out an arrow from the animal’s breast, and thus exposed his throat, which was instantly pierced by an Indian barb, so that he fell prostrate. Thus the battle raged furiously, while shrill trumpets blared out the distress of the Spaniards and summoned their easy-riding comrades to come speedily to their assistance.

The greater portion of De Soto’s troop were jogging peacefully along in the sunshine, little realizing into what a desperate strait their advance guard had fallen. Late in the afternoon they approached the Indian village and were much surprised to see dense volumes of smoke rising to the sky. Those in advance sent back word to hurry on, while they galloped forward in order to see what was amiss. All hurried towards the sound of battle, and, now, realizing that their comrades were in a desperate fight, they rushed to their assistance, cheering wildly as they did so. The black smoke was pouring from the thatched Indian houses, which the Spaniards had set on fire, and a bloody hand-to-hand engagement was in progress around the smoking débris. The main body of cavaliers had now arrived. They charged vigorously, cutting down both women and men, and, amidst the shrieks of the women and wailing of little children, Tuscaloosa’s people were annihilated. At last all had been dispersed or butchered.

The Spanish histories of this bloody affair say that at last only a solitary warrior was left. Seeing that all his friends and companions had either perished or fled, he sprang upon the palisade, and, finding that he was surrounded on all sides by vindictive steel-clad Spaniards with menacing swords, he twisted off his bow-string, and, making a slip-noose, hanged himself to the stout limb of a tree.

The battle of Mauvila had left De Soto in a sorry state, for eighty-two of his followers had been killed, and so many of the men had been wounded that the surgeon could not give them proper attention. In fact, so broken up were the cavaliers, and particularly the horses, which had suffered badly from the numerous arrows which had been fired into them, that De Soto was forced to tarry in the vicinity of the ruined Indian village for three weeks. The Spanish accounts of the battle say that eleven thousand natives fell before the swords, lances, and clumsy muskets of the Castilian invaders of this peaceful country.

De Soto was only a few days’ journey from Pensacola, where the ship, which he had sent to Cuba for supplies, was to reach him. Yet, instead of heading for the ocean, he decided to march towards the north, evidently hoping to find some city where was gold and silver, similar to that which he had seen in the table-lands of Peru.

The El Dorado seekers accordingly marched northwest, and passed through a flat country where was much game. The Indians were treacherous and constantly annoyed them by attempting to steal their horses, and by attacking any parties which traveled at a distance from the main column. It was now December. As the weather grew chill, De Soto determined to spend the winter in some convenient spot, and, as he now came upon a well-built Indian town, which had recently been deserted, he reached the conclusion that this was the very place for which he had been in search. Accordingly, his cavaliers made themselves comfortable in the thatched huts of the Chickasaws, for such was the name of the redskins who had settled here.

Trouble was still in store for the adventurous gold-seekers.

After their many battles and long journeys, the men enjoyed themselves in hunting and in taking life easy. There was an abundance of corn stored here, so their horses grew sleek and fat, while their masters chased rabbits and other small game. All was peaceful. Apparently not an Indian was in the vicinity, so the guards relaxed their vigilance, grew somewhat careless, and unsuspectingly offered a tempting opening to any redskins who might wish to attack them.

One night the Chickasaws made good use of their opportunity to get even with the invaders of what they considered to be their sacred soil. It was towards the end of January and a fierce north wind was blowing. While the men were sleeping in their huts, suddenly a wild war-whoop welled upon the night air, and, as the wind howled dismally, the roofs over their heads burst into a crackling blaze. Fanned by the high breeze, the flames leaped into the air, and, in a moment the whole camp was red with fire. The Spaniards sprang to arms and rushed forth to the fray, some in their shirts, and many without their armor on.

What had happened?

Under cover of the darkness, and unheard, because of the blustering wind, the vindictive Chickasaws had approached their abandoned town and had furiously attacked it. They had poured in a volley of arrows with burning wisps attached to them, which quickly ignited the thatched roofs and sent a reddening glare over the scene of confusion. De Soto leaped upon his horse, but did so hurriedly and without tightening the girth. It turned with him and he pitched to the ground, falling upon his chest. Immediately the howling savages surrounded him and attempted to put an end to his life, but his men rushed to his assistance, beat off the shrieking Chickasaws, and dragged him by the feet to a position of safety. Leaping again to the saddle, with a mighty cheer, he led his men into the fray with such impetuosity, that the Indians disappeared into the blackness. Forty of the Spaniards had been killed, fifty of their precious horses had been prostrated by barbed arrows and flaming brands, while the larger part of their clothing, arms, their saddles and their provisions, had been consumed. They were also houseless, and the wind was bitterly chill. Fortunately, the Chickasaws did not again attack.

But the hostile savages did not leave them alone. When Spring came and the horsemen resumed their march, they were repeatedly harassed by the red men, who crept near them on every side, and cut down any unsuspecting Spaniard who wandered from the column.

Pursuing a northwesterly course, the cavaliers at length came upon a great force of the natives, who, stripped to their waists and painted with various colors, yelled their defiance and brandished their spears and arrows at the invaders. Nearby was their stronghold, a palisade surrounding their huts, which had three entrances. The Spaniards advanced in three columns to attack these openings.

What could these half-clad redskins do against men in steel armor, and with sword, buckler, and arquebusier? The Castilians drove them into their fortification like sheep, and there massacred them as they had the fierce warriors under Tuscaloosa. According to old accounts, two thousand of the Indians were slain, although the native warriors inflicted quite a loss upon their attackers. The invaders secured provisions, corn, and female slaves, which they transported with them in their journey towards the northwest.

The Spaniards took their battles lightly, for they considered it all a part of the day’s work. They resumed their march, but now they must have been pretty sure that no El Dorado could exist in this flat and somewhat marshy country. Still, they were cheerful, and when, a few weeks later, they came upon a great muddy river which was so wide that they could not see a man upon the other bank, they felt that certainly their trip, their many discomforts, and their losses, had not been in vain. When they viewed the turbid current of the Mississippi they were filled with silent awe, and a priest, holding the cross of Christ high in the air, blessed the surging flood, while De Soto cried out: “I take you in behalf of the King of Spain, and shall call you mine own from henceforth!”

This gallant cavalier was a man of resource. He set his soldiers immediately to work constructing boats, and, gradually moving up the river in order to find a place where it would be possible to cross—for the little army was upon high bluffs (now called the Chickasaw Bluffs)—he transported all in safety to the other side and into the land of Arkansas, the seventh State of the present Union, upon whose soil these restless explorers had set their feet.

They wandered towards the setting sun. Here were vast plains filled with herds of buffalo and roving bands of hostile redskins, from whom they learned that other white men had preceded them, although rumors of the adventurous Coronado’s march had traveled eastward by word of mouth among the native inhabitants of the plains. This Spaniard had traveled thither from Mexico, and, could the two parties have met each other, there would have been great rejoicing. But there was to be no such good fortune, and De Soto’s men found only simple, but treacherous natives.

The Spaniards lost some of their horses. The escape of these was fortunate for future generations of pioneers, as many an emigrant in later years was able to cross the plains by capturing and taming one of the descendants of these fugitives from the bit and the saddle.

The adventurers wandered about for many months, wintered in a well-provisioned village near the Red River, within the present State of Louisiana, then, to the great joy of the now well-seasoned veterans, De Soto told them that he was about to return to the great, turbid Mississippi. He informed the wanderers that he intended to build boats, send them down the stream and across the Gulf of Mexico, to Cuba, and to transport thither many other men and a plentiful supply of provisions, so as to establish a colony in his Kingdom of Florida.

The conception was a grand one. Yet the imaginative and jealous Castilian had not reckoned with one powerful enemy, that cruel and unrelenting persecutor called Death.

The active brain of this gallant explorer was busy with perfecting his plans for the founding of a settlement in the wilderness. He carefully selected the officers and crews who were to take charge of the vessels which he proposed to build. He chose those who were to remain with him upon the banks of the rolling Mississippi. Some were set to work cutting timbers; others collected gum from pine trees; while still others put up forges and made nails from bits of iron which they had carried with them. All were busy and active in preparation both for the stay of those who were to colonize this country, and the departure of those who were to leave. Yet the fever was in the veins of our venturesome Castilian and his customary vigor was slackened. De Soto grew so weakened that he had to be carried to his tent and was delirious.

While upon the Red River, one of the malaria-breeding mosquitoes had driven his tiny sting into the flesh of the brave adventurer. He had sickened from the poison, yet refused to give up to the disease, until the fever was raging in his veins. He now sank rapidly. Yellow fever had doubtless assailed him, and his system, already weakened by much exposure and by shock of battle, could not throw off the inroads of the dread disease. He sank day by day. When he knew that the end was approaching, he called his officers together, asked their forgiveness for any wrong which he might have done them, and named Moscoso de Alvarado to succeed him to the command of the expedition. Officers and bluff soldiers all swore allegiance to their new leader. The dying explorer begged his followers to carry out his ideas in the settlement of the vast country of Florida, and this they promised him that they would do.

One warm, sultry morning, when the mocking bird was trilling a beautiful melody from an overhanging sycamore, which jutted over the bank of the slow-moving, yet turbulent Mississippi, the spirit of the bold adventurer departed. His hardened and sunburned companions were dewy-eyed when they gazed upon the still countenance of their friend and kindly adviser. They wrapped him in a sheet, rowed him to the center of the swirling stream, dropped him overboard, and left him amidst the silence of the great, wild country where the “golden man” had never been found.

So perished De Soto, a cavalier of Spain in a day when Spain had great warriors and noble-minded, yet adventuresome men. As a horseman he had few superiors; as a soldier he could bear as many privations as any man. Towards his own cavaliers he was merciful and just; towards the hostile natives of silent Florida he was merciless and cruel. He was a man of learning, of imagination, of iron will, as is exhibited by the fact that he held his gold-worshiping supporters to their journey long after many had sickened of the affair and had wished to go home. At one time worth a million dollars, the companion of Kings and of Princes, he died in the wilderness of the New World. His followers drifted back to Mexico, broken in both health and in spirit, so his ambitious dream for a colony in the land of the fanciful El Dorado was never consummated.

SAMUEL DE CHAMPLAIN:

EXPLORER OF THE CANADIAN WILDERNESS.

(1567-1635)

_Where the hemlock bends her tufted head;_ _Where the beaver breeds in the pool;_ _Where the moose-bird chatters his mimic song;_ _And the willowy grilses school;_ _’Neath the feathery arch of the drowsy larch,_ _The birch bark floated and swayed,_ _As the rhythmic paddles dipped and swung,_ _And splashed with the slap of the spade._ _On the rocking waves of the foaming lake,_ _The Frenchman turned and gazed,_ _For he saw a land which was new, which was grand,_ _And his spirit shrank amazed._ _So he planted the flag of King-cursed France,_ _As he waved his sword above,_ _And the waters were called the Lak de Champlain,_ _—’Twas the lake which the redskins love._

SAMUEL DE CHAMPLAIN:

EXPLORER OF THE CANADIAN WILDERNESS.

(1567-1635)

UPON the north side of the river St. Lawrence, in Canada, and five hours’ journey by steamer from the quaint old city of Quebec, nestles the little village of Murray Bay. It is a picturesque, peaceful collection of houses, where many of those who have wealth and leisure journey in summer to enjoy the champagne-like air and the rugged scenery. Now a great, modern hotel rises majestically from the hemlock-covered river-bank; but if some of the fashionable guests who frequent it had stood there one brilliant day, many years ago, they would have seen two pigmy vessels holding their course up the lovely St. Lawrence. On board was a pair of venturesome Frenchmen: the Seigneur de Chastes and Samuel de Champlain, the latter a youthful and energetic explorer, who looked forward to adventures in the land of the treacherous redman, the broad-antlered moose, and the moon-eyed caribou.

This brave son of France had been born in the year 1567 in the little town of Brouage, some twenty miles south of the seaport of La Rochelle. Little is known of his family or of his early life. His father, doubtless the son of a fisherman, was a Captain in the navy, and one of his uncles was a sea-pilot of some renown.

In youth Champlain became an excellent seaman, but, as his country was soon embroiled in civil and religious wars, his energies were engaged in martial exploits upon the land, and not upon the foaming Atlantic. Joining Henry of Navarre, he fought for the King with zeal and enthusiasm, although he, himself, was a Catholic, and his sovereign championed the Huguenot or Protestant cause. Champlain, in fact, loved country more than religion, and struggled to save her from dismemberment. His purse was small, his want great, and thus Henry the Fourth, from his own slender revenues, gave him a position as Captain.

The war was finally over, and the youthful Champlain conceived a design which was quite in harmony with his adventurous nature. He would, indeed, visit the West Indies and bring back a report of those wondrous regions where was much peril, and where every intruding Frenchman was threatened with death. Here was adventure enough for any young fellow who had the stomach for a fight.

No sooner conceived than executed! The hot-blooded Frenchman was quickly on board a vessel bound for Vera Cruz. He stopped at the West Indies, made plans and sketches of them all, then landed upon the Mexican Coast. He penetrated inland and was struck with amazement at what he saw in the beautiful City of Mexico, where Cortés had battled, bled and conquered. He visited Panama, and,—what think you!—even at this early date conceived the plan of shipping freight across the Isthmus, where to-day the United States has dug a great canal to expedite the commerce of the world.

“I believe that a ship-canal, if constructed, would shorten the voyage to the South Sea by more than fifteen hundred miles,” he has written.

Oh, valorous Frenchman, had you but lived to see your wayward dream come to be a living reality!

The adventurer now returned to the French Court, that Versailles of which has been truthfully said: “It cost one billion of francs and it took one billion drops of the peasants’ blood to build it!” Where, also, is the portrait of the famous soldier whose epitaph reads: “He was invincible in peace, invisible in war.” Here was the center of frivolity and fashion, exactly what would weary the blood of such a backwoods soul as Champlain. He soon tired of it and longed to plunge again into the wilderness of the unknown West, for there, forsooth, would be danger and hardship enough for any man.

Good fortune was to be with him. At court was a gray-haired veteran of the civil wars, who wished to mark his closing days with some notable achievement for France and for the church. This was Aymar de Chastes, commander of the order of St. John, and Governor of Dieppe. He longed to sail for Canada, or New France—would Champlain go with him? Well, I should think so! They embraced, shook hands upon it,—they would seek adventure and hardship together.

So this is how they happened to be sailing past the hemlock-clad hills of Murray Bay, upon that bright, clear morning, and I’ll warrant that, if you ever play golf upon the course far above the town, as many of you doubtless have often done, and you will look out upon the great, turbid and raging river, where perhaps you can see the bobbing back of a white porpoise, you will think different thoughts than those which are connected with a sliced drive or a miserable putt.

Like veritable gnats upon the surface of the tide-swept stream, the vessels kept upon their way, passing the trading-post of Tadoussac (once a flourishing settlement, but now abandoned), the channel of Orleans, and the spuming falls of Montmorenci. They drifted by the brown rocks of Quebec, on, on, up the blue and charging river, until they came opposite that rounded mountain which lifts its head high above the present city of Montreal. All was solitude. Sixty-eight years before this Jacques Cartier, the navigator, had found a numerous savage population, but now all had vanished, and only a few wandering Algonquin redskins peered at them from the edge of the forest.

Here are the fiercest of rapids, which, if you pass through to-day, you will find to be dangerous and an exciting adventure. The vigorous Champlain endeavored to paddle up them with a few of the childlike Algonquins. His courage was greater than his ability to stem the whirling foam and tempestuous waves. Oars, paddles, poles, and pikes could not force the thin birch-bark canoes up the swift-moving St. Lawrence, and he was forced to return, acknowledging himself beaten. When he mounted the deck of his vessel, the redmen made rude sketches upon the planking of what he would find above, and spoke of a mighty water-fall (Niagara Falls) where the river plunged downward in a mass of tempestuous spray. Champlain listened with pleasure to these stories of what lay beyond, but he had to return, as De Chastes so willed it. After an uneventful voyage the adventurers reached the shores of France.

The gray-haired De Chastes, worn out by the rigors of the voyage, now passed to the great beyond, leaving his title to the great land of New France to Sieur de Monts, who immediately petitioned the King to allow him to colonize Acadie, a region defined as extending from Philadelphia to Montreal. Truly these early adventurers had magnificent ideas of distance, quite in keeping with their ambitious designs of conquest! The King readily gave him what he desired, so, with one vessel, he sailed from Havre de Grace upon the seventh day of April, 1604.

But how about the adventure-loving Champlain? He remained at home not only for that year, but for five full years, while De Monts and his men were having plenty of hard knocks and experience in the bleak land of New France.

The good seaman, in fact, quietly resided in Paris, but his unquiet thoughts were ever turning westward. He was enamored with the strange, hemlock-wooded country whose rugged hills and blue rivers were mirrored upon his memory and continually urged him to “come back and explore!” Even as Commander Peary has said that he pined for Arctic ice and snow, so, with restless longing, the noble-hearted Frenchman ever sighed for days upon the broad surface of the St. Lawrence, with starlit nights filled with the balsamy odors of the forests. Upon the banks near the mountain of Montreal he had determined to lay out a settlement, from which, as a base, the waters might be traced back far into the vast interior of the continent. With eager and tempestuous thoughts, he yearned to be once more scudding by the two peaks, which held high their heads as the Saguenay discharged its swift-moving current into the rushing St. Lawrence, far, far beneath them.

The danger-loving De Monts returned after four years of adventure. To him Champlain expressed his views, which met with a ready response. Yes, indeed, they would go forth together, would trade with the Indians, bring back a cargo of furs, and would found a town by those whirling rapids, ’neath the mountain of Montreal.

On April the 16th. 1604, they sailed in a ship of 150 tons from Havre de Grace, with a mixed company of priests, Huguenot ministers, impressed rogues, and honest settlers. Another vessel, under one Pontgrave, had preceded them by eight days, for she was laden with goods for the Indian trade at Tadoussac.

By the third of June the adventurous Champlain neared the mouth of the Saguenay. The robust Frenchmen eagerly breathed in the clear air of the St. Lawrence, tinged with the faint smell of the spruce and the balsamy hemlock. The little vessel, swept by the tide and eddies, held its course up the stream until the Island of Orleans was reached. Then it was run towards the northern bank and was anchored beneath the high cliffs of Quebec. The men went ashore, axes rang against the tree trunks, and soon a number of wooden buildings arose on the brink of the St. Lawrence, not far from the present market-place of the Lower Town. A settlement had been founded in the wilderness, which was to exist for centuries.

It was now the eighteenth day of September. Pontgrave set sail for France, leaving Champlain with twenty-eight men to hold Quebec throughout the winter. October was soon upon them, October with its crystal air, shriveling leaves and laughing sun; but it soon passed away, and the chill of frosty winter settled upon the little colony. It was to be a cold and cheerless stay, and, as is always the case when men are in need of fresh vegetables, the scurvy broke out among the adventurers, killing many and seriously crippling the remainder. By the middle of May, only eight men out of the twenty-eight were alive, and of these half were suffering from the dreadful disease. Champlain, however, seems to have been an iron fellow, and successfully withstood the lack of that which it is necessary to eat in order to ward away the awful pestilence.

But every lane has its turning, and Spring at last put in an appearance. Ice and snow melted under the genial rays of the sun, the honk! honk! of the wild geese was heard as they winged their way towards the north, and the bluebirds warbled from the budding maple trees. Great was the joy of the survivors of this awful winter when they saw a sail-boat rounding the Point of Orleans, and cheers greeted the French explorer Marias as he cast anchor in the ice-freed river. He brought good news. Pontgrave had been to France and back again. He was then at Tadoussac, waiting to speak with Champlain, and to talk of further explorations into the wilderness.

The hardy explorer hastened to confer with his friend and companion, for, in spite of the pestilence, his giant constitution had defied the scurvy. Sailing down the St. Lawrence, they soon met, and it was determined between them, that, while Pontgrave remained in charge of Quebec, Champlain should at once enter upon his long-meditated explorations, by which, he foolishly had hope of finding a way to China.

Now was to be a series of great adventures. Late that Autumn a young chieftain from the banks of the Ottawa River had come to visit the half-starved colonists at Quebec, and had begged Champlain to join him, in the Spring, in an expedition against his enemies. These were the Iroquois, or dwellers in fortified villages within the limit of the present State of New York, who were a terror to all those tribes who lived north of them. They were not only warriors of fierceness and bold endeavor, but were also tillers of the soil, living at ease and affluence when compared with the Indians who fished, camped, and hunted game, near the waters of the blue St. Lawrence.

About the middle of the month of May, Champlain set forth to paddle up the river, accompanied by a band of the Montagnais redskins. As he proceeded, he saw the lodges of an Indian encampment thickly clustered in the bordering forest, and, landing, found there his Huron and Algonquin allies. The red men were amazed to see a person with a white skin, and gathered about the steel-clad strangers (for he had several other Frenchmen with him) in astonished awe and admiration.

“I would speak with your chieftain,” said Champlain.

The staring natives led him towards a great lodge where sat not one chief, but two, for each tribe had its own leader with them. Now there was much speech-making, feasting, and smoking of the peace pipes; then, all paddled down the river to Quebec, for the redskins were anxious to view that town, the fame of which had been borne to them in their distant habitations of the forest.

The native Canadians were much interested in the wooden houses built by the white men. They yelped in consternation at the explosions of the French guns, and the roar of the iron cannon. After they had examined everything to their satisfaction, their camps were pitched, they bedecked themselves for the war dance, and, when night fell, leaped about, howling and singing in the yellow glare of a huge bon-fire. Next morning they were ready for their expedition into the wilderness, where their enemies, the fierce Iroquois, had dragged unfortunate members of their tribe, who had fallen into their hands, to be beaten and tortured with horrible indignities. No wonder they longed to have these white men as their allies, so that they could revenge themselves upon their enemies.

It was now the twenty-eighth day of May. The air was balmy, yet cool, so the expedition started under pleasant auspices. Entering a small sloop, the Sieur De Champlain pointed her nose up stream, and, accompanied by eleven companions, and surrounded by hundreds of redskins in birch bark canoes, set sail for the mouth of the Rivière de Iroquois, which connects the swirling waters of the St. Lawrence with that beautiful lake which was to subsequently bear the name of this venturesome explorer. The members of the famous war-party crossed the Lake of St. Peter, threaded the crooked channels among its many islands, and at length started down the winding stream towards the dreamy, gray expanse of the tempestuous lake,—afterwards to be known as Lake Champlain,—and the country of the Iroquois.

As the canoes advanced, many of the warriors went ashore, and, spreading out, hunted for game in the leafy forests. A provision of parched corn had been brought along; but this was only to be used, when, owing to the nearness of the enemy, no game could be secured. The river widened as they went on, and they passed great islands, many miles in extent, and finally debouched into the rocking waters of the glittering lake, which was ever afterwards to bear the name of this adventurous Frenchman. He, himself, was amazed, startled, pleased with this, his first view of the great body of water. To the left the forest ridges of the Green Mountains raised themselves against the blue horizon; while to the right, the Adirondacks stretched, themselves above the swaying spruces and hemlocks, jutting above the woodland fringe in height quite equal to their sister hills across the wave-tossed water.

But now they were in the country of the ferocious Iroquois. They must use caution in their advance, for they might be attacked at any moment. They changed their mode of travel, lay all day hidden in the depth of the forest, sleeping, lounging, smoking tobacco, while at twilight they again entered the canoes and paddled down the side of the lake until the flush of dawn began to redden the eastern skyline. At the very end of the water was a rocky promontory where Fort Ticonderoga was afterwards built, and this was their objective, their intention being to carry across into a small lake lying to the south (Lake George) and thence to paddle southward in search of hunting parties of the Iroquois, or of the more southern, but equally ferocious Mohawks. They even intended to carry their canoes to the upper reaches of the Hudson River, should no enemies be met with, and thus penetrate into the very heart of the Mohawk country. They were to be spared this lengthy journey.

At ten o’clock in the evening of the twenty-ninth day of July the flotilla approached the end of the wave-tossed lake, and, as the shadows descended, an advance scout saw dark objects in motion upon the water before them. They drew nearer, and, as paddles flashed to the straining arms of the braves, suddenly a wild, unnerving war-whoop sounded above the splashing of the water. An Iroquois war-party was before them.

The hostile warriors yelled derisively, and, turning about, paddled furiously for the shore, as they had no desire to engage in a hand-to-hand struggle upon the surface of the lake. They landed, rushed into the forest, and soon the hack! hack! of their stone hatchets and iron axes, captured in warfare, showed that they were busily preparing a fortification. The Canadian redskins remained upon the lake, with canoes lashed together by means of poles, and, floating to within bowshot of their enemies, yelled derisively at them.

Night descended. Those upon the lake danced in the bottoms of their frail canoes, yelling derisively and singing songs of defiance. Those on shore hacked away at their fortifications, yelping dismally and boasting of their prowess in battle. Champlain slept uneasily, and, as day dawned, put on his breast and back plates, his steel thigh protectors, and upon his head his plumed casque. In his hand was his gun or arquebus, loaded with four balls. An ammunition-box hung over one shoulder and a long sword was by his side. Thus he stood, respectfully gazed upon by his redskin allies, who took him for a sort of god, come from the Great Spirit in order to rescue them from their enemies and bring victory to their painted braves.

Daylight soon came. With yells of defiance the allies now approached the shore, and, without opposition from the Iroquois, landed upon the beach, where they drew up in battle array. The Iroquois defiled from their barricade, and, as Champlain looked upon them, he saw that they were all tall, strong men, about two hundred in all, the fiercest and most able fighters of North America. In the center of the line were several chiefs, who had great headdresses of eagle and heron plumes, and, as they advanced through the forest, all set up a vigorous yelping, similar to a pack of wolves in full cry. Some had shields of wood and of deerhide, others were covered with a kind of armor made of tough twigs interlaced together. Stealthily and steadily they bore down upon the northern host, while afar off, on the roughened water of the lake, a blue and white loon screamed discordantly.

The stout-hearted Sieur de Champlain stood in the rear of the Canadian redmen; but, as the Iroquois drew near, his friendly braves called loudly for him to come out in front in order to lead them on to the fray. The good knight was eager to do so. Yet, as he stood forth, with the sun gleaming upon his armor, the Iroquois remained stock still and gazed at him in mute astonishment. The Frenchman leveled his arquebus at a gaudy chieftain, and fired. At the discharge, the red man leaped high into the air, uttered a gurgling yell, and fell prostrate upon the green moss. Bang! A second redskin lurched upon his face. Then arose a wild, alarming scream from his allies, and the air was filled with whizzing arrows.

The Iroquois were no cowards and returned the barbs with some equally as good, but, as the guns of the other Frenchmen spoke, and numerous redskins fell to the earth in mortal agony, they saw that here was a death-dealing instrument which they had never met with before. This brought confusion to their ranks. They stood for a few moments, then broke and ran in uncontrolled terror, while, with wonderful leaps and bounds, the allies started in pursuit. Many of the Iroquois went to the Happy Hunting Grounds; but many others were captured; while camp, canoes, provisions and weapons were all abandoned. Terrorized and dismayed by Champlain and his arquebus, these denizens of the forest had been signally defeated. Thus the scientific knowledge of the white man triumphed over the ignorance of the Indian, and thus New France, for the first time, rushed into contact with the renowned warriors of the Five Nations.

The allies held a three hour dance in commemoration of their victory, and when it was completed, they started homeward, first torturing the prisoners, and killing the majority of them. At the Falls of Chambly on the river Richelieu, the Hurons and Algonquins went their ways, and Champlain paddled down the St. Lawrence with the friendly Montagnais at the rate of seventy-five, to ninety miles, a day. At length he reached Tadoussac, where the wives and daughters of the redskins greeted them with a feast and war dance. All rejoiced at the signal victory over the hated Iroquois and sang and yelped in commemoration of the famous battle near the rocky promontory of far distant Crown Point.

The adventurous Champlain had much enjoyed this little trip, yet, eager to report his explorations to the French King, he sailed for France, and, after a month’s voyage, found himself at Fontainebleau. The King was much pleased with the news which was brought of happenings across the wide Atlantic. He also was delighted with a belt of porcupine quills, as a present from the Canadian wilds, with two skins of the scarlet tanager, and the pointed skull of a gar fish, unknown in France and much appreciated.

By Spring the daring voyager was again upon the ocean, headed for Tadoussac and the hills of the Laurentian Mountains. The colony at Quebec had spent a good winter, and had not been visited with the scurvy, so he felt that France at last had her grip upon the New World.

As he went up the river he was met by his old friends, the Montagnais Indians, who were again upon the warpath. Would he join them? Why, nothing suited his fancy better! He was soon to be in a battle more ferocious than that skirmish away off upon the bank of the great Lake Champlain.

The redskins were encamped upon an island in the river, where they were to meet the Algonquins and proceed against a band of Iroquois, who had come there from the south in order to have revenge for the slaughter of the previous year. All were busy felling branches and trees for a barricade, when suddenly an Algonquin paddled up, crying,

“Arm yourselves! Get ready! The Iroquois are not far away and have thrown up a fortification. If you do not attack them, they will attack you!”

With a wild yelp of eager anticipation, the Montagnais took to their canoes, paddled up the stream, leaped to the shore, and were soon running through the woods in the direction of the camp of the hated invaders. As for Champlain, and some Frenchmen whom he had with him, they could come along as best they might. This they did, and, as they advanced through the forest, they heard loud shouts and battle cries. The fight was on in earnest.

The Sieur de Champlain, in armored breast plate and with greaves and arquebus, soon came into a clearing, where he viewed a strong, log fortification. Behind this, the Iroquois were raising an ear-splitting din. They were firing at the attacking party of Montagnais and Algonquins, who were afraid to advance. The Frenchman soon saw how to bring the matter to a successful issue.

“Here, my friends!” said he to the redskins. “You must make a breach in yonder fort. As I and my companions shower bullets at a certain point, you must rush forward, must tear down the logs with this rope, then all can enter and put an end to these invaders.”

The Indians followed his advice. As the Frenchmen advanced and commenced firing, the redskins rushed forward, tied ropes to the logs, and, wrenching them away, soon made a breach in the fortress. Champlain was hit in the ear by an arrow, but he tore it away, although it had buried itself in his neck, and continued the fight. As the redmen worked willingly, a fresh band of Frenchmen approached and began to fire upon the fort from the other side. They had come from a trading pinnace, which had followed Champlain’s shallop, and, hearing the sound of gun-fire, had hurried forward in order to take part in the fray.

Crash! The logs at last gave way. With a wild, discordant war-whoop, the allies rushed forward, brandishing their knives and tomahawks, and followed by Champlain with his men. The Iroquois, frightened at the awful effect of the firearms, made but a slight resistance. Some were shot upon the spot, others ran and were killed at once, still others plunged into the St. Lawrence, where they were drowned, while fifteen were taken prisoners. Not one escaped the fury of the allied assault. It had been a second glorious victory.

Champlain had no further battles with the redmen, at this time; but, a few years later, made a journey up the Ottawa River which brought him in contact with many of them. This was then, of course, an unknown country, inhabited only by bands of Indians, who lived by fishing and by hunting. The Frenchman was the first white man to venture among the native Canadians, so you can well imagine what must have been their surprise and interest in viewing a warrior with a “stick which spoke with the voice of thunder.” They marveled at his ability to travel up the river, which was rapid and treacherous, saying, “You must have fallen from the clouds as you are so far from the great river (St. Lawrence).” They gave him food, showed him their gardens, planted with Indian corn, and sent him on to other Indian villages, with an escort.

“We live here because we fear the Iroquois,” said one chief. “But, if our white brothers will but settle upon the great, blue river to the south of us, so that we may be protected from these fierce warriors, we ourselves will come down there to live.”

After spending some time in exploring this wild and beautiful country, the adventurer erected a great cross, decorated with the arms of the King of France.

“You must preserve this,” he said to the savages, “for it belongs to my Great Father beyond the sea.”

Then, turning about, he began the journey to Montreal. It was June, the woods were radiant with the flush of new foliage, deer, moose, and beaver were seen in abundance, and even the lean, sneaking timber wolves howled at the interlopers. The trip down the Ottawa was swifter than the ascent and, about the middle of June, the voyager arrived beneath the mountain of Montreal. He bought all the furs that he could from the Indians, and, after feasting with the French traders and dusky sons of the forest, embarked in one of the trading ships for France, promising to return on the following year.

He did as he had said, and, addressing the redmen, told them that it was his aim to get them to live at peace with one another and to form a league which would have as its object the extermination of the Iroquois. Champlain had great ideas for New France. He wished to have the Indians as his allies and friends. French soldiers were to fight their battles for them. French traders were to supply their wants. French priests would baptize them and lead them in the ways of the true Christian faith. It was to be an alliance of soldier, priest, and trader.

The Indians were well treated by the French explorers, who were kinder than the English and far more hospitable. Champlain was anxious to gather twenty-five hundred of them so as to attack the Iroquois. The redskins promised to collect at Montreal at a stated time, and, believing them, the great-hearted Frenchman traveled to Quebec for needed supplies. When he returned, he found, to his dismay and chagrin, a perfect solitude. The wild concourse of Algonquins, Ottawas, and Hurons had vanished, and nothing remained but the smoke of their fires, the skeleton poles of their tepees and the débris from their feasting. Impatient at the delay in waiting for him, they had set out for their villages.

Nothing daunted, but greatly chagrined, Champlain determined to journey up the Ottawa to the land of the Hurons, of whom he had heard much, but had never seen. With two canoes, ten Indians, and two Frenchmen, he therefore pushed up the stream, reached Lake Nipissing, and, hearing that a still larger lake was beyond, pressed onward to the country of the Hurons. The scenery delighted him, for here were deep woods of pine and of cedar, thickets full of brown rabbits and partridges, wild grapes, plums, cherries, crab apples, nuts, and blackberries.

The Hurons were soon met with; noble-looking, well-fed savages, who took him to their tents, feasted him on com, pumpkins and fish, and welcomed him as the great hero who was to lead them successfully in battle against their hated enemies, the Iroquois.

At length many warriors had gathered, and, with many cries of defiance, they put boldly forth upon the broad bosom of Lake Ontario, crossed it safely, and landed near a bay called Hungry Bay, within the borders of the State of New York. The canoes were hidden in the woods, and the warriors walked single file for ten or twelve miles down the edge of the lake. Then they struck towards the south, and, threading a tortuous way through the forest, were soon deep within the country of the Iroquois: their deadly and hated enemies.

It was the month of October, the month of the harvest and the month of crisp, joyous days. The rustling leaves were just turning to gold and to crimson as the warriors crept onward upon their mission of death. On, on, they went, until they had approached a fortified town of the enemy, surrounded by plowed fields, in which were pumpkins and stalks of corn. In advance were some young Huron braves, whose zeal out-weighed their common sense. Seeing some Iroquois at work among their crops, they made a rush upon them, uttering a wild yell as they did so.

The hot-headed Huron warriors had counted without their host, for, as they raced forward, the Iroquois seized their bows and arrows, shot into their midst, and killed and wounded a half dozen of the oncomers. The rest were driven back, hotly pursued. But Champlain and his Frenchmen stopped their onrush at the border of the wood, sending them yelping to their stockade, bearing their dead and wounded with them.

The battle was a three hour affair. Truly the Iroquois were noble fighters, for, in spite of an equality of numbers, they easily were the victors of the day, wounding Champlain in the knee with an arrow, while another pierced the calf of his leg. The Hurons, in fact, had a sufficiency of battle, and, withdrawing to their camp, waited five days for a detachment of Algonquins which had promised to appear. They did not come, and, in frequent skirmishes with the Iroquois, the invaders were given all the fighting that they wished for. At length, disheartened, the Hurons retreated to the place where their canoes lay hidden, pursued by parties of the Iroquois, who shot great quantities of arrows at their retreating forms. They embarked, paddled across the lake, and were again in their own country.

The Sieur De Champlain was not quite the hero which he had been before this affair, for he had not been found to be invulnerable. The man of iron breastplate, fluttering plumes, and “stick which spoke with the voice of thunder” was, after all, a common mortal. Some of the redmen even treated him disdainfully, for they were angered at the reception which they had received.

In spite of this, the French empire-builder spent the Winter with his redskinned allies. When Spring came, he turned homeward, and, accompanied by an Indian chieftain, again paddled down the Ottawa, at length reaching Montreal, where he was welcomed as one risen from the dead. Launching his canoe, he journeyed to Quebec, where he received a royal welcome. The chief was amazed at the houses, ships, and barracks, and, after admiring all that he saw, returned to his wigwam in the forest, bewildered and astonished at the possessions of these fair-skinned strangers.

The rest of Champlain’s life was troublous, indeed, and quite different from those venturesome experiences in the wilderness. He had dedicated himself to New France, he loved the great surging St. Lawrence River, the wooded hills, the glorious lakes, the hemlock forests, the spruce, the fir, and the wonderfully clear air. He craved the wild life among the redskins, the battles in the silent forest, the war-dance and the shrill yelpings of victory. He reveled in the woodland scents and sounds, the chatter of the moose-bird, the scream of the loon, the plaintive _meow_ of the lynx, the grunt of the brown, bull moose, and the quavering wail of the great northern diver. His eye responded to the view of bogs, morasses, waterfalls and plunging rapids. He was—in fact—a lover of the beautiful in nature. In a period of unbridled license his was a spotless life, and, like the good Chevalier Bayard, he was a warrior without fear and without reproach.

A British fleet, sailing up the St. Lawrence, found the little town of Quebec, which the good Chevalier had built, with a garrison of but sixteen, and these half famished. They were ordered to surrender, were captured, were convoyed to their own country (each soldier with furs to the value of twenty crowns with him) and the cross of St. George of England was planted upon the crumbling walls of the citadel. Yet Champlain was again to return, for, by a treaty between France and England, at this time, New France was restored to the French crown. The founder of this struggling colony reassumed command of Quebec in the following May.

Two years now passed, years of pleasurable toil, among the Indians, for priests and soldiers of the crown. A mission was established amongst the Hurons, a trading post at Three Rivers, and the authorities in France begged for troops with which to attack the vindictive Iroquois. But Cardinal Richelieu, who governed the destinies of the nation, had enough to do at home and cared little for the affairs of this far-distant wilderness colony. Harassed by anxieties, Champlain became more pious, grave and stern, as the years passed on. He had married, but his wife remained in Europe, where she became a nun; so the bold explorer made his will, leaving all of his little property to the Church.

Christmas day, 1635, was a bright day overhead, and the sun shone brilliantly upon the snow, but it was a dark day in the annals of New France. For in a chamber of the old fort at Quebec, breathless and cold, lay the hardy frame of the great explorer, the man of the sea, the wilderness, the palace, and the wigwam. The grave, the valiant Champlain was dead at the age of sixty-eight. His labors for his beloved New France were over and he had ceased to watch over the destinies of his struggling people. He was buried with a simple ceremony, which was attended by Jesuits, officers, soldiers, traders, Indian braves, and the few settlers of the quaint, little town. A tomb was erected to his honor and his remains thus rested near the scenes of his explorations, his adventures, and his dreams of empire for his beloved country.

THE SONG OF CHAMPLAIN

_This is the song which the loon sang,_ _Sang as he swam on the glimmering lake,_ _Sang to the splash and thud of the waves,_ _As the hills reëchoed his wild, laughing call,_ _This is the song of Champlain!_

* * * * *

The day was bright, and the sun was warm, as I rocked on the waters I love, And the scent of the hemlocks blew fresh from the shore, and the coo of the gray, mourning dove. Afar down the lake came the voice of my mate, as he heard my laughing refrain, And we laughed at each other, like sister and brother, then dove, and laughed once again. But see, down the lake comes a strange, thrilling sight, ’tis a sight fit for gods to behold, A swarm of red warriors in birch bark canoes, their prows threading silver and gold. Algonquins and Hurons, Montagnais as well, bedaubed with yellow and red, While the plumes of the heron and eaglet wave forth, like flags from each clean-shaven head. In front of them all sits a warrior white, with breastplate and greaves of hard steel; As the paddles flash keenly, he gazes serenely, and smiles as the warriors wheel. They wheel into line with yells and with cries, as another wild party draws near, From the southward they come, while the weird, moaning drum booms forth a death-slogan clear. “The dread Iroquois! The bad Iroquois!” reëchoes from stem and from stern, While loud, yelping cries ascend to the skies, as Algonquins and fierce Hurons turn. They turn and they wheel, form in battle array; but the Iroquois dart to the shore, Where they rush to the forest to cut down the trees, and hasten as never before. Night comes; as the smothering blackness creeps on, there are dances and songs on the lake, While on shore the deep drum makes a low, whining hum, e’en as branches and war-bonnets shake. Day breaks at last, and the shrill trumpet’s blast—wakes the stillness in forest and glade, ’Tis the dawning of death, for the grim specter’s breath has blown o’er the host unafraid. The paddles dip deep, as the warriors sleek drive onward to white, gleaming sand, They leap to the beach, with arrows in reach, advance to the uprising land. A yell of defiance is hurled at their heads, as the Iroquois rush to the fray, Then the keen, whizzing barbs rush swift through the air; they advance in battle array. But, see, there steps forth a warrior white,—’tis Champlain in casquet of steel, A sword by his side, in his hand a long gun, he sights as the Iroquois wheel. _Crash! bang!_ and the bullet is speeding along, it reaches the breast of a chief, One despairing wail and the lean body, frail, has gone to the Kingdom of Grief. Ahah! what is this, for the Iroquois turn, they have met with their masters at-last, The warriors fierce, who can slaughter and burn, now wince at the steel bullet’s blast. The Montagnais are yelping and dancing with glee, their enemies fear them at length, For many years past they have kept them in awe; now they wince at the arquebus’ strength. A wild mêlée now, and the green balsam bough, sways o’er the carnage of hate, And night shadows cover the rioting braves, the Iroquois meet with their fate.

* * * * *

See! the Hurons, Algonquins, are paddling away, and northward they turn with a will, As war songs and yelpings ascend to the sky, of torture the braves have their fill, Calm and quiet there sits that warrior white, who has won them the stirring lake fight, And the breeze sighs, “_Champlain!_” while the stirring refrain clarions forth like the wild eagle’s flight.

_This is the song which the loon sang,_ _Sang as he swam on the glimmering lake,_ _Sang to the splash and thud of the waves,_ _As the hills reëchoed his wild, laughing call;_ _This is the song of Champlain!_

WHISKEY JACK

(CANADIAN BLUE JAY)

I was the first to see the redskin, I was the first to view Champlain; Flitting in the hemlock branches, I fly South, then North again; Up among the gray brown mountains, down amidst the soggy waste, I am ever on the lookout, never worry, never haste.

Yes, I’m called old Whiskey Jack, gray and black, along my back, Beady eye and slender tail, I can spy out any trail. Old bull moose and caribou wink their eyes as I fly through, Yelling, crying, “Chank! chank! chank!”— Trappers call me “awful crank!”

Away up where the brook trout gather, away off by the blue St. John; O’er broiling falls of foaming lather, where splashing jumps the muscallonge, Where otters mew and spruce grouse flutter, where brown bears dig the honey tree, That is where I spend the summer, where hunts the “sport” and half-breed Cree.

All men call me Whiskey Jack; I don’t have to tote a pack; Beady eye and slender tail, I can spy out any trail, Old bull moose and caribou wink and blink as I fly through, Yelling, crying, “Chank! chank! chank!”— Trappers call me “awful crank!”

I don’t have to hunt for foodstuffs—no! I fly right into camp, Seize a piece of bread and butter, grab a muffin—then decamp, Ha! the trappers try to hit me! Ho! they throw their spoons and knives, But I dodge them by and chuckle, they can’t hit me for their lives.

So, I’m called old Whiskey Jack, nice old Whiskey,—gray and black. I was here in Indian days, know their customs, know their ways, I was here when Marquette came, saw Quebec when it began, Saw the hemlock forests falling, lowered by the hand of man.

Yes, I’ve seen some doings surely, seen the redskins on Champlain, Seen them fight on land and water, seen the bodies of the slain, Seen the waves of Lake George glisten, heard the yells on Richelieu, Heard the scalp dance, seen the torture, viewed the crackling flames,—“A-hoo!”

Yes, I’m just old Whiskey Jack, plain old blue jay, gray and black, Canadians know me, for I bring news of game and coming Spring, What’s a woodland camp without me? what’s a fire without my call? True, I’m just a plain old ranger, but—Egad—I’m loved by all!

HENRY HUDSON:

DISCOVERER OF HUDSON BAY AND EXPLORER OF THE MAGNIFICENT RIVER WHICH BEARS HIS NAME

(15??-1611)

“_Oh! See there, redskinned brother, where the winding river parts,_ _Where the shadows glance and glisten, where the silvery salmon darts._ _See that hulk approaching,—floating without a sound,_ _With white clouds riding up above and sides so dark and round._ _Come! Let us paddle to it. Ha! See the pale-skinned men;_ _They beckon, smiling on us. They must be friendly, then._”

HENRY HUDSON:

DISCOVERER OF HUDSON BAY AND EXPLORER OF THE MAGNIFICENT RIVER WHICH BEARS HIS NAME

(15??-1611)

WE had been plowing along over the great Atlantic on a clear and starlit night. The _Mauretania_ was as steady as a pier in the East River, so we were expecting no disaster, yet, when we tumbled from our cots upon the day following, we were startled to see that the great, steel hulk had ceased to move with her accustomed vigor. The resounding _poom, poom_, of her giant propeller-shaft was no longer heard, and she was only just drifting along through the gray-green waters. Every now and again her massive fog-whistle would roar out its leonine warning:

“O-o-o-o-o-m! O-o-o-o-o-m!”

We stumbled to the deck, only to be chilled and dampened by a shroud of mist, which had shut down upon our steel-clad home like a giant pall. It curled, rolled and settled upon us as if it were a blanket saturated with dank sea-water; it cut off the view, so that one peered at the swishing ocean in vain; and it benumbed one, so that one’s voice was stifled and choked, as if a huge overpowering hand were grasping at one’s throat. And even from above came that soul-deadening roar of the steam siren:

“O-o-o-o-o-m! O-o-o-o-o-m!”

In the blinding mist I bumped into a sailor.

“Avast there, my lad,” said he. “Can’t you get your sea legs?”

“No,” I replied. “Where are we?”

“Off the banks.”

“And the fog?”

“Usual thing. She’ll burn off in a couple of hours. We have to go easy because of the Gloucester fishing fleet. Hear them!”

Indistinctly, in the murky pall, I seemed to hear the thin whining of numberless, tin fish-horns.

“Pretty weak fog-whistles, aren’t they?”

I laughed.

But just then something happened.

The mist seemed to part as if rent by a strong and virile hand. We could see the great, combing, green billows go careening and bobbing by, as the cloud-bank shifted like a veil, and there, tossing restlessly on the waves, was a long, brown boat! A number of men were in her, all huddled together in a heap. They were dressed in old-fashioned garments and their faces were drawn, haggard, pinched. In the stern sat a bearded man holding fast to the tiller, at his feet lay a slender youth.

The vista lasted but for a moment or two and then the fog-bank rolled in again, hiding the picture from our startled, yet eager visions.

“Who are they?” asked I, breathlessly, as the sailor lurched against my side.

“Henry Hudson and his crew,” he answered, with a hoarse chuckle.

And as I stumbled below, I thought that perhaps the weather-beaten sea-dog might be correct.

* * * * *

If you had happened to be sitting upon the beach of Manhattan Island, near the spot where is now the Battery, upon the eleventh day of September, 1609, you would have seen a curiously shaped vessel floating, lazing, along near the shore, and you would have also seen a number of weather-scarred navigators who were anxiously peering at the beach. The name of this boat, with a high poop and a curving prow, was the _Half Moon_, and her captain was Henry Hudson, or Hendrick Hudson, as he is sometimes called.

He was not only pleased, but also interested to see a land where was a goodly lot of timber, lovely islands and broad harbors, pearly beaches and dusky-bodied inhabitants, who seemed to be peacefully inclined.

And who was this fellow Henry, who had dared to come to explore that island of Manhattan, where the mighty Woolworth Building was to rise up in all its splendor, as if to laugh at the former simplicity and quiet of the brush-covered strip of sandy soil?

Of the early history of the bold mariner hardly anything is known. He was a native of England, a contemporary and friend of the famous Captain John Smith, the settler of Virginia, and, like him, was a professional navigator and intrepid adventurer. He resided in London, was married, and had a son, to whom he was devotedly attached.

When Hudson was living in London, there were a great many merchants there who were anxious to learn of a northern and westward route to the East Indies, from which they imported teas, spices, and many other articles. The commerce of this country was now brought partly over land and then floated through the Mediterranean Sea. It was a slow and laborious route for trade, so those nations farthest removed from the advantages of that route (such as Spain, Portugal, and England), became restless, and most desirous of finding a new and a shorter passage to the East Indies.

In the year 1499, a celebrated Portuguese navigator, called Vasca de Gama, had doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and, passing onward, had appeared upon the coast of Hindustan. He had brought back word of the southern route, but it was such a long and dangerous passage, that the nations of Europe were not satisfied with it. They desired a shorter highway to the wealth of the East, and began to think that they might find it by sailing through the Arctic Ocean, and, passing northwestwardly around the coast of North America, might journey around the shore of Asia to the Indies with their marvelous wealth.

A number of rich men who lived in the city of London joined themselves together as a London Company in the year 1607, and raised sufficient money to purchase a ship and supply it with provisions for a journey to the northwest. Knowing that everything depended upon the skill of the commander, they chose, as their leader, Henry Hudson, who readily accepted the position.

Upon a bright day in April, the Captain and crew went to the church of Saint Ethelburge in Bishopsgate Street, and there received the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. There were eleven seamen in all, among whom was John Hudson, son of the daring sea captain. It was a pious and beautiful custom of those ancient times for seamen to thus act before entrusting themselves to the mercy of the seas, where they were to meet with unknown perils.

Strange as it may seem to us now, the object of this voyage was to find a passage directly across the North Pole to Japan and China. Imagine these brave fellows setting out in one of the small vessels of those days to sail to the Pole! It seems absurd, for, even with a vessel specially constructed to meet the ice packs, Commodore Peary had great difficulty in keeping his vessel, the _Roosevelt_, from being crushed. Yet, with their flimsy craft, these adventurers started out in quest of the much-desired North West passage.

On May 1st. 1607, the navigators weighed anchor at Gravesend, and, taking a northerly course, in twenty-six days reached the Shetland Isles. Leaving these wild, rocky shores behind them, they now steered northwest, and, in a week’s time, although they discovered no land, they had the satisfaction of seeing six or seven whales near the ship. Two days later, at 2 o’clock upon a foggy morning, land was seen ahead of them. It was high, covered with snow, and, at the top, it looked reddish; underneath a blackish color, with much ice lying about. There were also great quantities of ducks and other wild-fowl along the coast, and a whale spouted near the shore. This was the peninsula of Greenland.

Thick fogs now shut down upon the mariners, accompanied by storms of rain and of snow. The vessel was sometimes driven before a heavy gale of wind; at other times becalmed. Yet, in spite of this, Hudson still held on in a northeasterly course, hoping to sail around the land in front of him and thus to reach the passage across the North Pole. At last, discouraged at his slow progress, he determined to steer in an easterly direction, hoping to find an island which was called Newland upon the charts.

After sailing about sixteen miles, the ship came within sight of land and many birds were seen flying over it with black and white stomachs, and in form like a duck. Fogs again set in and much floating ice was encountered, yet the vessel was headed onward in a northeasterly direction. Land was seen at different intervals and the weather was both temperate and pleasant. So, again steering eastward, the ship struggled on against hard winds and heavy fogs until it had reached the coast of Spitzbergen.

Great numbers of whales were playing around in a bay which they ran into, and, while one of the men was amusing himself with a hook and a line overboard, in order to try for a bite, one of the monster fish dove under the vessel and caught upon his line. All the sailors feared that they would be upset, but the big, black fellow made off without doing them any serious damage.

“By God’s mercy,” says Hudson, in his diary, “we had no harm but the loss of the hook and three parts of the line.”

After sailing along the coast for some time, again the mariner headed for Greenland, hoping to steer around it, towards the north, and then return to England. But fogs, storms, and floating ice interfered with his journey, to such an extent, that he was forced to turn around and head for the place from which he had started.

Thus, after a hard voyage of four months and a half, he sailed up the river Thames, beaten in his effort to find the North West passage, yet with the news of many lands which no Englishman had yet seen. His employers greeted him warmly and were sufficiently well pleased with his success to trust him with a second adventure, for he had been farther north than any navigator who had preceded him, and had opened the commerce of the whale fishery to his countrymen. He was also the re-discoverer of Spitzbergen, which had first been seen by one William Barentz, a Dutch navigator, in the year 1596.

Spring had no sooner opened, in the year following, than Hudson commenced making his preparations for a second voyage. This time he was to endeavor to seek the passage for the East Indies by passing between Spitzbergen and Nova Zembla. Thus, with a crew of fifteen persons, and his son John, he set sail from London on the twenty-second day of April, heading north, where lay the region of ice and snow.

At one time the vessel would meet large quantities of drift-wood driving by in a confused mass; then large numbers of whales and porpoises would be met with, and the sea would be covered with multitudes of birds. Then again the mariners would come across numbers of seals lying about upon cakes of ice, and polar bears would lumber away over the glistening ice-pack. Two of the sailors, also, said that they saw a mermaid close to the side of the ship, but a big wave came along and overturned her. As she went down into the surging brine they saw her tail, which was similar to the tail of a porpoise, and was speckled like a mackerel.

After sighting land, and exploring numberless bays and harbors, Hudson finally reached a great sound, into which emptied a stream. The vessel was anchored, and five men were sent forward in a boat to explore this river, in order to see whether or not the water-course dipped to the south and led to a passage through to Asia. But the water became very shallow, as the explorers proceeded, so they came back and reported that the vessel could not venture farther upon its way. As the provisions were now getting somewhat low, Hudson decided to steer for England. This he did, entering the peaceful Thames, after an absence of about four months. He was not received with the same cordiality which had greeted him after his first voyage. His employers had grown discouraged by these two unsuccessful attempts to find a shorter route to Asia.

The members of the London Company, in fact, refused to lend any more money or supplies to Mr. Henry Hudson, so that gallant gentleman took a jaunt to Holland in order to offer his services to the Dutch East India Company. His fame had preceded him, and he was greeted with cordial respect. A small ship was given to him called the _Half Moon_, and he was requested to go forth once more and discover the North West passage, upon which his heart was set. With a crew consisting of twenty Englishmen and Dutchmen, among whom was the same mate who had served with him upon his last voyage, he was now ready to brave again the ice and storms of the Arctic seas.

Upon March the 25th., the experienced navigator left New Amsterdam, and was ere long upon the coast of Nova Zembla, when he met with so much ice and fog, that he gave up any hope of reaching India by this route.

But Hudson was made of no common clay, and, although beaten by the elements, which denied him a northern route, determined to sail to America, that land about which every one in Europe was hearing such wonderful stories. Furthermore, he had with him some maps which had been given him by his old friend, Captain John Smith, on which a strait was marked, south of the fair land of Virginia, by which he might reach the Pacific Ocean and the East Indies. Then, too, he might gain a passage through to the northwest, by means of Davis Strait. Why not? He asked his crew about it, and they voted, to a man, to sail westward. Many of these bronzed sea-dogs had been trained in the East Indies service, were accustomed to sailing in warm, tropical climates, and therefore chose to sail south, rather than to meet the fog, the ice, and the chill tempests of the northern seas.

Heading towards the West, the _Half Moon_ soon reached one of the Faroe Islands, where the casks were filled with fresh water, and then the sails were again hoisted, and a course was set towards Newfoundland. Early in July the Grand Banks were reached, where was a great fleet of French fishing smacks, which had come this great distance in order to catch cod and haddock. As the _Half Moon_ was now becalmed for several days, the crew was sent to the banks to try their luck, and, in one day, one hundred and thirty cod-fish were captured. The wind now freshened, so the mariners sailed towards the west. They soon cleared the banks, passed the shore of Nova Scotia, and, on the morning of the 12th, saw the coast of North America before them. Clouded by fog banks, but brown, rock-ribbed, pine-clad, lay the wonderful country which was inhabited by the deer, the beaver, the moose, and the red Indian.

The _Half Moon_ careened along for several days at some distance from the land, as the fog was so thick, that Hudson feared to approach. Finally the sun burned through the mist and the mariners ran into a goodly harbor at the mouth of a large river. It was Penobscot Bay, upon the coast of Maine, as beautiful then as it is now.

As the ship was lying-to off the harbor, unable to enter because of the fog, two birch-bark canoes had approached them, with six natives of the country, who seemed delighted to see the mariners. Captain Hudson gave them some glass beads and other trinkets,—then they ate and drank with him. One of the natives could speak a little French and told them that the French people were in the habit of trading with them, and that they had gold, copper, and silver mines near by.

When the _Half Moon_ entered Penobscot Bay, great numbers of the redskins paddled out to the vessel, climbed on board, and eagerly gazed upon the sailors, as they mended the sails and made a new foremast. Some of the mariners went ashore to get a needed supply of water, while others amused themselves by catching lobsters,—not in a lobster-pot, you may be sure, but in a small net baited with fish.

Hudson’s men seemed to have had a foolish distrust of the redskins. The Indians were friendly and wished to trade beaver-pelts and fine furs for hatchets, beads, and knives; yet the mariners were so suspicious that they kept a strict watch upon the ship in order to see that no natives approached under cover of the darkness. At last, their mast being ready, these navigators manned a boat with twelve men armed with muskets, and, landing upon the shore, made a savage attack upon the peaceful red men, whom they drove from their houses. It is to the disgrace of Hudson that he allowed this to happen, the only excuse that can be offered being that he had under his command a wild and ungovernable lot of uneducated Dutch and Englishmen.

Having perpetrated this act of cruelty, the adventurers set sail, steering southward along the coast of America, and, in a short time came within sight of Cape Cod. They sounded and found the water quite deep within bowshot of the shore, and, proceeding to the land, discovered grapes and rose-trees, which they brought on board their ship. The _Half Moon_ was now sailed towards the shore and was anchored there. Here Hudson heard voices calling to him from the beach, and, thinking that they might be the cries of some poor sailors who had been left behind, he immediately sent a part of the crew in a boat to land. Upon jumping out upon the sand, it was found that the calls had been made by Indians, who appeared to be greatly rejoiced to see them. The men returned to the ship, bringing one of the natives on board with them, whom they fed, presented with a few glass buttons, and then put ashore in the boat. When the redskin reached the land, he gave every manifestation of great joy, by dancing, leaping, and throwing up his hands. Then letting out a wild and uncouth yell, he disappeared into the brush.

Amused and interested, Hudson now steered southeast, and soon passed the southern point of Cape Cod, which he knew to be the headland which Bartholomew Gosnold had discovered in 1602, seven years before. He sailed by Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard and kept upon his course due south, until, upon the 18th. day of August, he found himself at the entrance of Chesapeake Bay, where, two years before, the first English settlement had been made in America. Hudson was filled with great admiration for these broad waters, and, keeping on, reached the thirty-fifth degree of latitude, or a position which made him certain that there was no passage to the South Pacific Ocean, as John Smith had said. So, retracing his course, he passed the shores of Maryland and discovered the great bay of Delaware.

“It is a good land to fall in with, and is a pleasant land to see,” writes Hudson in his diary, transcribed as the _Half Moon_ was sailing off the shore of Long Branch, New Jersey. The weather was dark and misty, so, sending some men inshore in order to find out the depth of the water, the vessel was headed inland, and, upon the morning of September third, was anchored within Sandy Hook, in five fathoms of water. The next morning, this bold navigator saw that there was “good anchorage and a safe harbor,” so he steered his little vessel within the bay of Sandy Hook, at a distance of two cable lengths from the shore, resting in the famous harbor of New York.

Could Henry Hudson have looked forward through the years and have seen the city of tall buildings, wharves, cobbled streets and rolling elevated-trains which was to cover the island of Manhattan, then lying tranquilly before his gaze, he would doubtless have passed a night of restless nightmare. But he had no forward vision, and, as he feasted his eyes upon a long beach of white sand, behind which were low scrubby bushes, plum trees, grape vines, and twisted oaks, he peacefully smoked a long pipe which an Indian brave had given him, and dreamed of discovering a passage to Asia.

The ship lay drowsily at anchor, and, as it swung upon its chain, many redskins came paddling out from the shore, clambered on board, and seemed to be delighted to see these strange visitors. They were dressed in well-cured deer-skins, which hung loosely over their shoulders, and had many ornaments of copper scattered upon their persons. They brought ears of corn with them and also tobacco, which they wished to exchange for beads, for knives, and for other trinkets. The sailors had much fun in bartering with them and in smoking their stone pipes.

The ship rode snugly at anchor, but during the night a gale sprang up, which was of such fury, that the anchor dragged, and the _Half Moon_ was soon high and dry upon the Jersey beach. But she was not even strained, as the bottom was “soft and oozy,” and when flood-tide came along she was easily towed into deep water. Yet, this was of great interest to the native inhabitants, who crowded eagerly to the shore: men, women and children. They were also very kind, giving the sailors presents of dried currants and green tobacco. Notwithstanding this, the mariners suspected them of treachery and kept continually upon their guard.

Henry Hudson saw that a large river emptied into this bay, where lay the _Half Moon_, so he sent five men in order to explore and discover how far he could go. They passed through what is now known as the Narrows, found the land to be covered with trees, grass, and flowers, the fragrance of which was delightful, and, after going six miles into New York Bay, turned back. Now an unhappy event was to occur, yet one which showed that the distrust of the natives was a well-founded prejudice.

The boat was being driven along toward the ship, just at dusk, when it was attacked by two canoes containing twenty-six redskinned warriors of old-time New York. Rain was falling, so it was impossible to use the ancient muskets, or match-locks, which were touched off by means of a lighted fuse. The white men could therefore make no defense and rowed off as fast as they could, while a shower of Indian arrows fell into the boat, striking three of the explorers in the body. One of them, John Colman, was killed by an arrow which struck him in the neck. He had been with Hudson in his first voyage and was greatly loved by the brave and resolute navigator.

In this, the first boat race in New York harbor between the redskins and the whites, the white men were victorious, for they escaped into the darkness and wandered around all night. In the dim gray of the early morn they found the ship; climbed thankfully on board, and told of their experience with some show of anxiety, for they feared a general attack from the red men. None came, however, and the dead body of Colman was taken ashore at Sandy Hook, where it was buried in the soil at a place called Colman’s Point.

Just as soon as the burying party had returned to the ship, the boat was hoisted in, and bulwarks were erected upon the sides in order to repel the expected Indian attack. But none came. The night was quiet, only the lapping of the water around the ship’s bow could be heard, and, when day dawned, numerous redskins paddled out to the vessel in the most friendly manner, bringing corn and tobacco to trade with the sailors. From their actions, it appeared that they knew nothing of the battle upon the previous day, and they left in good humor, promising to return next morning with more provisions and many beaver-skins for trade.

In the flush of the early dawn, two large canoes came off to the _Half Moon_, one filled with men armed with bows and arrows, who seemed to be in war paint. Hudson was suspicious of treachery, so only allowed two of the braves to come on board, whom he dressed up in red coats. The remaining savages returned to the shore, and presently another canoe approached in which were two lone warriors. One of them was allowed to come on deck, Hudson intending to keep him as a hostage to insure the good behavior of his fellow citizens on the Isle of Manhattan.

The redskins, however, did not seem to like their fair-skinned brothers, and one immediately dove into the sea and swam hastily ashore. Expecting an immediate attack, Hudson weighed anchor and floated the _Half Moon_ off into the channel of the Narrows, where he again anchored for the night. He expected an assault, but none came, so he set sail, next morning, for the Bay of New York, which he says that he found to be “an excellent harbor for all winds.” He again anchored, and the _Half Moon_ was soon surrounded by the Indians, who were apparently friendly “making a great show of love, and giving tobacco and Indian wheat.” The navigators, however, were afraid of an attack and kept continually upon their guard, yet the red men departed to the shore, and all was peace and quiet, save for the mewing of the sea gulls and the squawking of a great blue heron, as he winged his way to the inland marshes.

The dreamy haze of September hung over the swirling, blue river as Henry Hudson gazed up the stream which was to ever afterwards bear his name, and, upon the morning of the twelfth, he weighed anchor, and steered towards the northwest. Twenty-eight canoes had visited him that morning, filled with redskinned men, women and children, who had brought oysters and clams to trade for blue beads and glass trinkets. The braves smoked great tobacco pipes of yellow color and their cheeks were smeared with red ochre, so that the mariners were suspicious of them, and, although they traded with them, allowed none to come upon the deck.

The wind was unpropitious, so the _Half Moon_ only sailed about two leagues, when it anchored for the night. Yet, next day, the wind was fresher, so the vessel proceeded to travel about eleven miles, until it came opposite the present town of Yonkers, where the anchor was again let down. The redskins immediately crowded around the boat, but none were allowed to come on board, as the navigators feared treachery.

The weather continued to be fair, so the _Half Moon_ proceeded upon her way, and, driven by a strong breeze, finally anchored in a region where the land was very high and mountainous, evidently the neighborhood of the Highlands and near the present site of the West Point Military Academy. No cries of “Battalion, Attention!” “Squads, Right!” or “Forward, March!” then echoed from the peaceful shore; instead of this, the mariners heard the hooting of a great, brown owl, while far off upon the mountain-side glimmered the camp-fire of a straggling band of Indians. As night descended upon the wilderness, the scream of a panther reverberated from the dense foliage of the high hills, which were beautiful with the first changing colors of autumn. The stream was narrowing, instead of expanding, so, thought Hudson, could it be possible that, after all, there was no passage to the East Indies?

A filmy mist hung over the rippling waters of the stream, next morning, but as the sun shone, a clear wind arose which seemed to blow it away. As Hudson gave orders to his men to haul up the anchor, a sudden splash near the vessel’s side made him run to the gunwale and look eagerly into the water, expecting to see a small whale, or a porpoise. Instead, the head of a redskin bobbed up in the ripples of the stream, as with furious strokes, one of the braves who had been held prisoner, swam towards the shore. Another head appeared. The two red men, who had been held as hostages, had escaped through the port hole.

The Indians soon reached the banks of the stream, climbed out, and standing there with clenched fists, shook them vindictively at the white men, making loud and angry cries. Not at all worried at the happening, Hudson kept on up the now narrowing river, passed by high mountains upon either side, and finally came in sight of other mountains, about fifty miles from his former anchorage. Here the redskins came out to view the curious vessel, and, says Hudson in his journal, they were “very loving people and very old men, who treated us very kindly.” The anchor was cast and a boat was sent off with sailors to catch fish, of which there was a great abundance.

Going ashore, next day, the brave navigator there met an old chieftain who lived in a circular house and was surrounded by forty men and seventeen women. The aged redskin was hospitably inclined and begged the white man to come and feast with him, an invitation which Hudson readily accepted. Two mats were immediately spread for him to sit upon and food was brought forward in large, red bowls made of wood. Several natives were meantime dispatched into the woods in search of game.

After awhile the braves returned with a pair of pigeons which were roasted upon the fire. A feast was now held, consisting of corn, beans, pigeon and fat dog, after which Hudson was requested to spend the night. “I must return,” said the mariner, but this seemed to worry the chief redskin, so that his people took all of their arrows, and, breaking them in pieces, threw them into the fire, as they supposed that the explorer was afraid of them. However, Hudson would not remain in the wigwam, preferring to sleep among his own compatriots.

After trading with the red men, who brought Indian corn, pumpkins and tobacco to the ship, the _Half Moon_ was again steered up-stream, until the water was found to be very shoal. This was probably near the spot where the city of Hudson has grown up. The weather was warm and enervating, but the vessel was kept upon her course until she reached several small islands in the middle of the river, and also very shallow water, which made it impossible to proceed. As night came on, the vessel drifted near the shore and grounded. But she was floated off by means of an anchor, and again lay peacefully in the stream.

Hudson had now proceeded about as far as he could go, and saw that it was impossible to reach the East Indies by way of the winding water-course upon which his vessel lay. His men who had been sent up-stream to explore, in the small boat, brought back word that there was nothing but still shallower water above. So it was apparent that the vessel must return to the sea again, and another passage must be sought for. Yet, before he returned, he determined to make an experiment with some of these many Indians who were crowding about his vessel, in order to learn if they were really treacherous, or were peacefully inclined. This experiment was to be by means of the famous Holland gin, or “fire water” of the white men, and it was decided to place some of the red men under its influence.

Next day, several of the Indian braves were invited down to the broad cabin of the _Half Moon_, where gin and brandy was given them, until they were all as merry as a marriage bell.

Their squaws looked innocently on as their lords and masters betook plentifully of the cup that cheers, and saw all of them become, first merry, then boisterous, then drowsy. Finally one Indian brave became so deeply intoxicated that he fell asleep upon a bench, snoring with right good will. All of his companions now arose in great fright, for they feared that he was poisoned. Taking to their canoes, they cried out with some show of anger: “You pale faces have sent our brother to the Land of the Great Spirit. Ugh! Ugh! You have poisoned him!” They did not, however, forget their poor companion, and several soon returned, bringing with them long strings of beads which they offered to Hudson, saying: “Take these, brother, and let us have our miserable friend. He has gone to the Land of the Hereafter!” But the mariner declined, answering:

“Let your brother sleep. He is safe with us and will get well. The Great Spirit is watching over him and you need fear nothing.”

The redskin slept peacefully all night, and, when his frightened countrymen came out to see him, next day, they were rejoiced to find him alive and smiling. Crying out, “Ugh! Ugh! The white man was right. The Great Spirit has looked carefully after our brother,” the red men paddled him joyfully to the shore, but soon returned, bringing beads and tobacco, which they gave to Hudson. They also presented him with a large platter of venison. “Pray take this, brother,” said a bronze-skinned chieftain. “We love our brother, for he has let no harm come to our beloved friend who has loved the fire water far too well. Ugh! Ugh!”

Disappointed in not finding the passage to the far East, Hudson now prepared to return. But how far had he gone? Writers seem to disagree upon this point, yet, when one considers that the _Half Moon_ was a small boat, not as large as many of the stone sloops which now sail in the North River, it is reasonable to suppose that it went up the Hudson to a place about in the neighborhood of where Albany now stands, while the boat which was sent on ahead to explore the stream, advanced as far as the town of Waterford.

It was now the twenty-seventh day of September, the weather was balmy, and the leaves of the forest were turning with the first chill of Autumn. The _Half Moon_ drifted slowly down the broadening river, passing the home of the hospitable, old chieftain, near Catskill’s Landing. The redskin came out in his canoe, begging Hudson to come ashore and eat with him; but the wind was too fresh for the navigator to listen to his invitation, so the boat kept on down-stream, leaving the old chief “very sorrowful for their departure.” Toward night the vessel anchored near what is now known as Red Hook Landing, where the sailors had splendid fishing in the blue depths of the magnificent water-course.

Now, detained for a day by head winds, the ship dropped slowly down the river, passing the famous highlands of the Hudson where the mountains looked as if there were some metal, or mineral in them. “The hills seemed to be all blasted, some of them barren with few or no trees on them.” The Indians still crowded around the boat, several of them bringing a stone on board which was like emery, for it would cut iron or steel. On the 1st day of October, with a fair wind behind, the _Half Moon_ sailed through the highlands, and, reaching a point opposite Stony point, was becalmed, and cast anchor.

No sooner had the pronged holding-iron touched bottom than the redskins came crowding around, astonished at everything they saw, and desirous of trade. They offered pumpkins, beaver skins, and dried plums for exchange, but apparently could not procure all that they wished, for one fellow was prompted to steal. Paddling his birch bark canoe near the stern of the _Half Moon_, he crawled up the rudder into the cabin window and made off with a pillow and some clothes. Jumping stealthily into his canoe, he paddled away as fast as he was able, but was seen by the Mate, who shot and killed him. As he dropped lifeless into the stern of his canoe, the remaining red men fled in terror, some even leaping overboard to swim for it. Meanwhile the ship’s boat was manned and a number of sailors were sent to rescue the stolen articles, which were easily obtained. As the boat headed for the _Half Moon_, one of the swimming redskins took hold of the stern and endeavored to overturn her. When he did this, the cook drew a sword, and, making a vicious blow at him, cut off his hand. Shrieking with pain, the poor creature sank to the bottom, never to rise again. The sailors hastened their rowing, were soon on board the ship, and, fearing an attack, hoisted sail in order to drop down the stream to the mouth of the Croton River.

The next day was a clear one, with a fair wind, so the _Half Moon_ sailed twenty-one miles to a position somewhere near the head of Manhattan Island, where there was quite a deal of trouble in store for these valiant navigators. As you remember, on the way up the stream, Hudson had held two red men captive, who had escaped through the porthole. These had returned to their fellows, angry and indignant at their captivity, and had raised their compatriots to a revengeful spirit against these white interlopers. The warriors had assembled along the shores of the river, and, as the _Half Moon_ approached, a canoe neared the vessel, in which was one of those who had escaped, and many others, armed with bows and with arrows. Although they attempted to come on board, the wise Hudson would not allow this to be done. Showing anger by their gesticulations, the redskins withdrew, but presently two canoes filled with armed warriors dropped under the stem and began to attack the vessel by showering arrows at her. The mariners fired six muskets at the red men and three of them fell dead in the bottom of their birch-bark canoes.

The Indians who were on the shore, and had been keeping a keen watch upon the affair, now moved down to the beach in a solid body (there were about one hundred in all) and shot arrows at the ship, as she floated by. A cannon was now loaded with ball and was discharged among them, whereby two of them fell mortally wounded. The remainder fled into the woods, with the exception of nine or ten desperate men, who, resolved upon revenge, jumped into a canoe and advanced to fight the ship at close quarters. But the cannon was again discharged, the canoe was pierced by the ball, and three or four redskins were killed by musket shots. The rest swam to shore.

The ship was sailing slowly onward, and, after skirting the shore for about two miles, dropped anchor beneath the cliffs at Hoboken. The day following was a stormy one, but the fourth of October was clear, with an excellent wind, so the _Half Moon_ weighed anchor, passed through the bay, and, with all sails set, shoved her nose into the swirling billows of the broad Atlantic, leaving the noble river far astern.

The mate was in favor of wintering in Newfoundland, and of then seeking a passage to the Far East by means of the Davis Strait, but Hudson opposed this. The course of the _Half Moon_ was kept in a line for England, where, on the seventh day of November, after an absence of a little more than seven months from Amsterdam, she glided into the harbor of Dartmouth. The crew, as you doubtless remember, was composed partly of English, partly of Dutch sailors, and, it is said that the Englishmen refused to allow their Captain to sail into a Dutch harbor. Dutch historians declare, that, as the English King was jealous of the bold mariner’s enterprises, he was not allowed to sail to Holland. At any rate, Hudson remembered his duty to his employers, and sent them a journal and chart of his discoveries, pointing with great pride to what he called “the Great River of the Mountains.” The Dutch soon came over to settle the new-found country, and named the stream the North River, to distinguish it from the Delaware, or South River. The Indians called it Cahohatatea, Mahackaneghtue, and sometimes Shatemuck.

This successful voyage had now given Hudson a great name, and his discoveries fired his old employers of the London Company with enthusiasm. So they again called him into their service, determined to make an effort to find the North West passage by examining the inlets of this wonderful continent of America,—more particularly Davis Strait, through which it was supposed a channel might be found into the “Great South Sea.” Hudson was furnished with the ship _Discovery_, of fifty-five tons, which, equipped and manned with twenty-three men, set out for the Far West. This journey was to be his last one.

Upon the 17th. of April, 1610, the _Discovery_ passed out of the mouth of the Thames, and, sailing near the coast of Scotland, the Orkney, Shetland and Faroe Islands, left the coast of Ireland astern, and headed for the barren shores of Greenland. Great numbers of whales were encountered, and two of these sea monsters dove underneath the ship, but did the craft no harm. It was soon evident that there was a turbulent and mutinous disposition among the crew,—Robert Juet, the Mate, being the chief offender, for he had remarked to one of the sailors that there would be bloodshed before the voyage was over, and he was evidently plotting to seize the vessel, even at this early date.

The history of this journey is very similar to that of most of the Arctic explorers. Hudson and his men met great, floating fields of ice; were chilled by the perpetual frost and snow; and were finally starved into a submissive recognition of the fact that there could be no passage to Asia through the desolate region of the frozen North.

Yet, the adventurous mariner discovered the great bay which bears his name and also the strait which is known as Hudson Strait. Forced to winter upon the land near Cape Digges, he soon discovered that his food supply was so low, that, should not succor come to him, he and his men would die of starvation. Luckily, there were many white partridges, or ptarmigan, near the ship, which supplied them with provender, and, when Spring came, great numbers of swans, of geese, ducks and other water-fowl came soaring by. Unfortunately they went farther North to breed, so the poor explorers were forced to search the hills, the woods, and the valleys for anything which might afford them subsistence, even eating the moss which grew upon the ground.

About the time when the ice began to break up, a brown-skinned savage, doubtless an Eskimo, put in his appearance, and, as he was treated well, returned in a day or so, bringing beaver and other skins, which he gave to Hudson and his men, in return for presents which he had received the day before. He went away, promising to visit them again, but, as he did not do so, it is evident that he did not think that the white men had given him good treatment.

The ice had now begun to melt, so the ship was headed southward. It was the middle of June, yet there were still great quantities of floating ice, so much, in fact, that the vessel was obliged to anchor. The food supply was about exhausted and all that was left was a little bread and a few pounds of cheese. Hudson now told one of the crew to search the chests of all of the men in order to find any provisions which might be concealed there. The sailor obeyed and brought the Captain thirty cakes in a bag. When the crew learned this, they were greatly exasperated, and plotted open mutiny against the famous navigator.

The vessel had been detained about a week in the ice when the first signs of mutiny appeared. Two sailors, called Greene and Wilson, the latter being the Boatswain, came one night to another mariner called Pricket, and told him that several of the crew had resolved to seize Hudson and set him adrift in a boat with all those on board who had been disabled by sickness.

“There are only a few days’ provisions left,” said Greene, “and the master seems to be entirely irresolute which way to go. I, myself, have eaten nothing for three days, so our only hope is to take command of the ship, and, after escaping from these regions, we will go back to England.”

Pricket remonstrated with them, saying: “If you stain yourselves with so great a crime you will be banished from England forever. Pray delay your intention for four or five days, when we will be free of the ice and can doubtless get plenty of fish in our nets.”

Upon this Greene took up the Bible which lay there and swore that he would “do no man harm, and that what he did was for the good of the voyage and nothing else.”

There were many poor fellows who were ill and it was determined to maroon them in the boat with Hudson, so that the mutineers could do as they wished with the _Discovery_, and would not be hampered by either their master or any one who could not work the ship. It was decided to put the plot into execution at day-break.

As Hudson came up from the cabin, next morning, after eating a scanty breakfast, he was immediately seized by two sailors and his arms were bound fast behind him.

“What does this mean, men?” cried he, with great indignation.

Only sneers of defiance greeted his question. He now called upon the ship’s carpenter to help him, telling him that he was bound, but, as this poor fellow was also surrounded by mutineers, he could render him no assistance.

The boat was now hauled alongside, and the sick and the lame were made to come up from below. They were told to get in, and Hudson’s little son was forced to clamber over the steep sides of the vessel, and to lie upon the bottom of the boat. The sails were now hoisted upon the _Discovery_, and she stood eastward with a fair wind, dragging the poor fellows in the boat, astern. In a few hours, being clear of the ice, the rope leading to the shallop was cut, and soon afterwards the mutineers lost sight of Henry Hudson forever.

The hardy adventurer was never heard of again. As for the mutineers, although they steered for Ireland, before they reached the coast they were so weakened that no one was found strong enough to stand by the helm. When only one fowl was left for their subsistence and another day would be their last, they abandoned all care of the vessel and prepared to meet their fate. Suddenly the joyful cry of “a sail” was heard, and a fishing vessel came alongside which took them into a harbor of Ireland. They arrived in London after an absence of one year and five months.

The English people were horrified to learn of the treatment which the mutinous crew had administered to Henry Hudson and sent out two vessels, the next Spring, in the hope of learning something of the fate of this brave navigator. Yet nothing was ever seen or heard of the unfortunate discoverer, who perished amidst the fogs and the ice of that bleak, northern ocean.

Hudson was brave, resourceful, and resolute. He has been accused of cruelty to the Indians, and of want of high principle in causing their general intoxication when sailing upon the great river which was to be named after him. Yet you must remember that he had a mutinous body of men under his command, and could not easily restrain them from returning insult for injury, when their redskinned friends shot arrows at them. The death of the nine Indians killed at the head of Manhattan Island may be said to have been caused in a war of self-defense. As for the charge of heartlessness in getting the redskins intoxicated, you must also remember, that, like his men, he was suspicious and alarmed, and therefore was determined to learn the honesty or treachery of the Indians by any means whatsoever. In England, they grieved deeply for the death of such a gallant countryman, and in the new world he has perpetual monuments to his memory, for here a great bay, a city, and a mighty river, all bear the name of this brave yet unfortunate navigator.

THE WIND FROM THE NORTHLAND

The wind blew from the northland, as the frozen bergs went by, And it sobbed a song through the grizzly murk, to the bobbing siren’s cry. It sang of men of daring, and it whined of maids of the mist, Who burnish the shields of their men-at-arms, where the ice with the sunset’s kissed. Ah! it told of Leif the Lucky, with his sword and his Vikings bold, Who hounded the bear to his cavern in the land where the penguins scold. We heard the clang of their axes; we were jarred with the crash of their swords, As the blaring bugles shrilled their notes in thin, transparent words. And the wind sang of brave Hudson, and it sobbed for his starving son, As, adrift in a boat, they were chilled by the glut of that night without a sun. And the blast sobbed out its tale of death, of Baffin, Franklin, and Kane, Of Marvin, de Long, and Parry; of the days of sorrow and pain. Yet, the blinding sea-mew caroled with joy, as it whined by the loitering fleet, Which cruised where the cod and the haddock shoal, at the rock-ribbed island’s feet. And it shouted and roared a pæan, to the heroes who’d carried a flag, A bit of a piece of red, white, and blue, to the spot where the ice-drifts sag, As it southward flew, it grew and it grew, ’til it roared out a rollicking psalm, To Peary, MacMillan, Borup; brave travelers, silent and calm. Southward it sang its slogan, where the tossing palm groves sway, And it rolled out a cheer of three times three, for “Uncle Sam and the U. S. A.!”

PIERRE ESPRIT RADISSON:

FIRST EXPLORER OF THE WEST AND NORTHWEST.

(1651-1710)

_Where sheldrakes dart on Lak Niege,_ _Where the lazy beaver swim,_ _He drove his blade and packed the trail,_ _By the icy snow lake’s rim._ _From the shores of Athabasca,_ _To the caves of Saguenay,_ _From the sleepy Mistassini,_ _To the marsh of Hudson Bay;_ _From the steppes of old Fort Caribou,_ _From the glades of Fon du Lac,_ _He slept and dwelt with redskins,_ _And followed the unknown track._

PIERRE ESPRIT RADISSON:

FIRST EXPLORER OF THE WEST AND NORTHWEST.

(1651-1710)

IT was at the trading post of Three Rivers on the St. Lawrence River, the year 1662, and the time, early in the morning, when the wood thrush had just begun his call. Strange things happened then, but these were frontier days when strange things used to happen, so do not be surprised when you learn what befell Pierre Radisson, son of a French emigrant to Canada, and then a youth of about seventeen years of age.

With two companions, young Pierre had gone out from the stockade to shoot ducks on Lake St. Peter, not far from this first home of the French emigrants to Canada.

The sportsmen were all young, for only young boys would have left the shelter of the fortification at this time, as all the Canadians knew that the dreaded Iroquois had been lying in ambush around the little settlement of Three Rivers, day and night, for a whole year. In fact, not a week passed but that some settler was set upon in the fields and left dead by the terrible redskins. Farmers had flocked to the little fortification and would only venture back to their broad acres when armed with a musket.

But these were only boys, and, like all boys, they went along, boasting how they would fight when the Indians came. One kept near the edge of the forest, on the lookout for the Iroquois, while the others kept to the water in quest of game. They had gone along in this manner for about three miles, when they met a fellow who was tending sheep.

“Keep out from the foot of the hills!” he called to them. “The Iroquois are there! I saw about a hundred heads rising out of the bushes about an hour ago.”

The boys loaded their pistols and primed their muskets.

In a short time they shot some ducks, and this seemed to satisfy one of the young men.

“I have had enough,” said he. “I am going back to the stockade where I can be safe.”

“And I will go with you,” said the second.

But young Radisson laughed at them.

“If you are afraid to go forward,” said he, “I will go ahead by myself.”

So the wild youth went onward, shooting game at many places, until, at length, he had a large number of geese, ducks, and teal. There were more than he could possibly carry, so, hiding in a hollow tree the game that he could not bring back, he began trudging towards Three Rivers. Wading swollen brooks and scrambling over fallen trees, he finally caught sight of the town chapel, glimmering in the sunlight against the darkening horizon above the river. He had reached the place where his comrades had left him, so he sat down to rest himself.

The shepherd had driven his sheep back to Three Rivers and there was no one near. The river came lapping through the rushes. There was a clacking of ducks as they came swooping down to their marsh nests and Radisson felt strangely lonely. He noticed, too, that his pistols were water-soaked. Emptying the charges, he re-loaded, then crept back to reconnoiter the woodland. Great flocks of ducks were swimming on the river, so he determined to have one more shot before he returned to the fort, now within easy hail.

Young Pierre crept through the grass towards the game, but he suddenly stopped, for, before him was a sight that rooted him to the ground with horror. Just as they had fallen, naked and scalped, with bullet and hatchet wounds all over their bodies, lay his comrades of the morning. They were stone dead, lying face upward among the rushes.

Radisson was too far away from the woods to get back to them, so, stooping down, he tried to reach a hiding place in the marsh. As he bent over, half a hundred tufted heads rose from the high grass, and beady eyes looked to see which way he might go. They were behind him, before him, on all sides of him,—his only hope was a dash for the cane-grown river, where he might hide himself until darkness would give him a chance to rush to the fort.

Slipping a bullet and some powder into his musket as he ran, and ramming it down, young Pierre dashed through the brushwood for a place of safety. _Crash!_ A score of guns roared from the forest. He turned, and fired back, but; before he could re-load, an Iroquois brave was upon him, he was thrown upon his back, was disarmed, his hands were bound behind him with deer thongs, and he was dragged into the woods, where the Indians flaunted the scalps of his friends before his eyes. Half drawn, half driven, he was taken to the shore where a flotilla of canoes was hidden. Fires were kindled, and, upon forked sticks driven into the ground, the redskins boiled a kettle of water for the evening meal.

The Iroquois admired bravery in any man, and they now evinced a certain affection for this young Frenchman, for, in defiance of danger, they had seen him go hunting alone. When attacked, he had fired back at enough enemies to have terrified any ordinary Canadian. This they liked, so his clothing was returned to him, they daubed his cheeks with war paint, shaved his head in the manner of the redskinned braves, and, when they saw that their stewed dog turned him faint, they boiled him some meat in clean water and gave him some meal, browned upon burning sand. That night he slept beneath a blanket, between two warriors.

In the morning the Indians embarked in thirty-seven canoes, two redskins in each boat, with young Pierre tied to a cross-bar in one of them. Spreading out on the river, they beat their paddles upon the gunwales of their bateaux, shot off their guns, and uttered their shrill war cry,—“Ah-oh! Ah-oh! Ah-oh!”

The echoes carried along the wailing call, and in the log stockade the Canadians looked furtively at one another as the horrid sound was borne to them by the gentle wind. Then the chief stood up in his canoe, signaled silence, and gave three long blood-curdling yells. The whole company answered with a quavering chorus like wolf barks, and, firing their guns into the air, the canoes were driven out into the river, past the nestling log-stockade of Three Rivers, and up the current of the rushing stream. By sunset they were among the islands at the mouth of the river Richelieu, where were great clouds of wild-ducks, which darkened the air at their approach.

Young Pierre bore up bravely, determined to remain with his captors until an opportunity to escape presented itself. The red men treated him kindly, saying: “_Chagon! Chagon!_ Be merry! Cheer up!” He was given a paddle and was told to row, which he did right willingly. Another band of warriors was met with on the river, and the prisoner was forced to show himself as a trophy of victory and to sing songs for his captors, which he did to the best of his ability. That evening an enormous camp-fire was kindled and the united bands danced a scalp-dance around it, flaunting the scalps of the two dead French boys from spear heads, and reënacted in pantomime all the episodes of the massacre, while the women beat on rude, Indian drums.

Pierre was now a thorough savage. He was given a tin looking-glass by which the Indians used to signal by the sun, and also a hunting knife. The Iroquois neared Lake Champlain where the river became so turbulent that they were forced to land and make a portage. Young Radisson hurried over the rocks, helping the older warriors to carry their packs. As night came on, he was the first to cut wood for the camp-fire.

It was now about a week since the redmen had left Lake St. Peter and they entered the gray waste of Lake Champlain. Paddling down its entire length, they entered the waters of beautiful Lake George, and, beaching the canoes upon its western bank, abandoned them: the warriors striking out through the forest for the country of the Iroquois. For two days they thus journeyed from the lake, when they were met by several women, who loaded themselves down with the luggage of the party, and accompanied the victorious braves to the village. Here the whole tribe marched out to meet them, singing, firing guns, shouting a welcome, dancing a war-dance of joy.

It was now time for young Pierre to run the gauntlet. Sometimes the white prisoners were slowly led along with trussed arms and shackled feet, so that they could not fail to be killed before they reached the end of the line. With Radisson it was different. He was stripped free and was told to run so fast that his tormentors could not hit him. He did this and reached the end of the human lane unscathed.

As the white boy dashed free of the line of his tormentors, a captive Huron woman, who had been adopted by the tribe, caught him and led him to her cabin, where she fed and clothed him. But soon a band of braves marched to her door, demanded his surrender, and took him to the Council Lodge of the Iroquois for judgment.

Radisson was led into a huge cabin, where several old men sat solemnly around a central fire, smoking their calumets, or peace pipes. He was ordered to sit down. A coal of fire was then put into the bowl of the great Council Pipe and it was passed reverently around the assemblage. The old Huron woman now entered, waved her arms aloft, and begged for the life of the young man. As she made her appeal, the old men smoked on silently with deep, guttural “ho-ho’s” meaning “Yes—yes. We are much pleased.” So she was granted permission to adopt Radisson as a son. The nerve and courage of the young French boy had thus saved his life. He must bide his time,—bye and bye, he would have an opportunity to escape.

It was soon Autumn, the period of the hunt, so young Pierre set out into the forest with three savages in order to lay in a supply of meat for the winter months. One night, as the woodland rovers were returning to their wigwams, there came the sound of some one singing through the leafy thicket, and a man approached. He was an Algonquin brave, a captive among the Iroquois, and he told them that he had been on the track of bear since day-break. He was welcomed to the camp-fire, and, when he learned that Radisson was from Three Rivers, he immediately grew friendly with the captive white boy.

That evening, when the camp-fire was roaring and crackling so that the Iroquois could not hear what he said, the Indian told Radisson that he had been a captive for two years and that he longed to make his escape.

“Hist! Boy!” said he. “Do you love the French?”

Pierre looked around cautiously.

“Do you love the Algonquins?” he replied.

“As I do my own mother,” was the answer. Then, leaning closer, the warrior whispered: “Brother—white man—let us escape! The Three Rivers, it is not so far off! Will you live like a dog in bondage, or will you have your liberty with the French?” Then he lowered his voice. “Let us kill all three of these hounds to-night, when they are asleep, and then let us paddle away, up Lake Champlain, again to the country of our own people.”

Radisson’s face grew pale beneath his war paint. He hesitated to answer, and, as he looked about him, the suspicious Iroquois cried out:

“Why so much whispering?”

“We are telling hunting stories,” answered the Algonquin, smiling.

This seemed to satisfy the Iroquois, for, wearied by the day’s hunt, they soon dozed off in sleep and were snoring heavily: their feet to the glowing embers. Their guns were stacked carelessly against a tree. It was the time for action.

The French boy was terrified lest the Algonquin should carry out his threat, and so pretended to be asleep. Rising noiselessly, the captive redskin crept up to the fire and eyed the three sleeping Mohawks with no kindly glance. The redmen slept heavily on, while the cry of a whip-poor-will sounded ominously from the black and gloomy forest.

The crafty Algonquin stepped, like a cat, over the sleeping forms of the braves, took possession of their firearms, and then walked to where Radisson was lying. The French boy rose uneasily. As he did so, the Indian thrust a tomahawk into one of his hands, pointing, with a menacing gesture, to the three Iroquois. Radisson’s hand shook like a leaf.

But the captive red man’s hand did not shake, and, lifting his own hatchet, he had brained one of the sleeping redskins without more ado. Pierre endeavored to imitate the warrior, but, unnerved with the horror of it all, he lost hold of his tomahawk, just as it struck the head of the sleeping Iroquois. The redskin leaped to his feet, uttering a wild yell, which awakened the third sleeper. But he had no chance to rise, as the Algonquin felled him with one, swift blow, while Radisson, recovering his hatchet, hit the second red man with such force, that he fell back, lifeless.

Hurray! Radisson was free!

The Algonquin did not waste precious moments; but, hastily scalping the dead, he threw their bodies into the river, then, packing up all their possessions, they placed them in the canoe, took to the water, and slipped away towards Lake Champlain.

“I was sorry to have been in such an encounter,” writes Radisson. “But it was too late to repent.”

The fugitives were a long way from Three Rivers, on the St. Lawrence, and they knew that many roving Iroquois were hunting in the country between them and the French settlement. They must go carefully, be perpetually on their guard, and then,—they would be among their own people again! Only, caution! caution! And never a sound at any time!

Traveling only at night, and hiding during the day, the fugitives crossed Lake Champlain, entered the Richelieu, and, after many portages, finally swept out upon the wide surface of Lake St. Peter, in the St. Lawrence. They paddled hard and were soon within a day’s journey of Three Rivers, yet they were in greater danger then than at any time in the hazardous trip, as the Iroquois had infested this part of the St. Lawrence for more than a year, and often lay hidden in the rush-grown marshes and the wooded islands, waiting for some unsuspecting French Canadian to pass by. It was four o’clock in the morning when the Algonquin and white boy reached the side of Lake St. Peter. They cooked their breakfast, covered the fire, and lay down to sleep.

At six o’clock, the Algonquin shook Pierre by the shoulder, urging him to cross the lake to the Three Rivers side.

“The Iroquois are lurking about here,” the French boy answered. “I am afraid to go. Let us wait until dark. Then, all will be well.”

“No, no,” answered the brave. “Let us paddle forward. We are past fear. Let us shake off the yoke of these whelps who have killed so many French and black robes (priests). If you do not come now, I will leave you, and I will tell the Governor that you were afraid to come.”

Radisson consented to take a chance at getting to the stockade, although his judgment told him to wait until dark. So the canoe was pushed out from the rushes, and, with strong strokes, the flimsy boat was driven towards the north shore. They were half way across, when Pierre called out: “I see shadows on the water ahead.”

The Indian, who was in the stern, stood up, saying:

“It is but the shadow of a flying bird. There is no danger.”

So they kept on; but, as they progressed, the shadows multiplied, for they were the reflections of many Iroquois, hidden among the rushes. The fugitives now saw them, and, heading their canoe for the south shore, fled for their lives.

On, on they went; but, on, on, came the Iroquois. The redskins came nearer and nearer, there was a crash of musketry and the bottom of the canoe was punctured by a ball. The Algonquin fell dead with two bullet wounds in his head, while the canoe gradually filled with water, settled, and sank, with the young Frenchman clinging to the side. Now a firm hand seized him, and he was hauled into one of the canoes of the Iroquois.

The victors set up a shrill yelp of triumph. Then they went ashore, kindled a great fire, tore the heart out of the dead Algonquin, put his head on a pike, and cast the mutilated body into the flames. Radisson was bound, roped around the waist, and thrown down upon the ground, where he lay with other captives: two Frenchmen, one white woman, and twenty Hurons.

In seventeen canoes, the Iroquois now paddled up the Richelieu River for their own country, frequently landing to camp and cook, at which times young Pierre was pegged out on the sand, and left to be tortured by sand-flies and mosquitoes.

When they reached the village, Radisson was greeted with shouts of rage by the friends of the murdered Mohawks, who, armed with rods and skull-crackers (leather bags loaded with stones) rushed upon him and beat him sorely. As the prisoners moved on, the Hurons wailed the death dirge. But suddenly there broke from the throng of onlookers the Iroquois family that had adopted young Pierre. Pushing through the crowd of torturers, the mother caught Radisson by the hair, crying out: “Orimba! Orimba!” She then cut the thongs that bound him to the poles, and shoved him to her husband, who led the trembling young Frenchman to their own lodge.

“Thou fool,” cried the old chief, turning wrathfully upon the young man. “Thou wast my son! Thou lovest us not, although we saved thy life! Wouldst kill me, too?” Then he shoved him to a mat upon the ground, saying: “_Chagon_—now be merry! It is a fine business you’ve gotten yourself into, to be sure.”

Radisson sank to the ground, trembling with fear, and endeavored to eat something. He was relating his adventures when there was a roar of anger from the Iroquois outside, and, a moment later, the rabble broke into the lodge. He was seized, carried back to the other prisoners, and turned over to the torture. We will draw a veil over what now befell him.

After three days of misery the half-dead Frenchman was brought before the council of the Mohawk Chiefs. Sachem after sachem rose and spoke, while tobacco was sacrificed to the fire-god. The question to be decided was, could the Mohawks afford to offend the great Iroquois chief who was the French youth’s friend? This chieftain wished to have the young man’s life spared. Would they do so?

After much talk and passing of the peace-pipe, it was decided that the young man could go free. The captive’s bonds were cut, he was allowed to leave the council chamber, and, although unable to walk, was carried to the lodge of his deliverer. For the second time his life had been saved.

Spring came at last and the young Frenchman was taken on a raid amidst the enemies of the Iroquois. Then they went on a free-booting expedition against the whites of the Dutch settlements at Orange (Albany), which consisted, at that time, of some fifty thatched log-houses surrounded by the settlements of one hundred and fifty farmers. The raid was a bloodless one, the red warriors looting the farmers’ cabins, emptying their cupboards, and drinking up all the beer in their cellars. Finally they all became intoxicated, and, as they wanted guns, the Dutch easily took advantage of them in trade.

Radisson had been painted like a Mohawk and was dressed in buckskin. For the first time in two years he saw white men, and, although he could not understand the Dutch language, it gave him great pleasure to see some one of his own race again.

As the white Mohawk moved about the fort, he noticed a soldier among the Dutch who was a Frenchman, and, at the same instant the soldier saw, that, beneath all the paint and grease, was a brother. They spoke to each other, threw their arms around one another’s necks, and from that moment Radisson became the lion of Fort Orange.

The Dutch people crowded about him, shook his hand, offered him presents of wine and of money. They wished to ransom him at any price; but he was pledged to return to his Indian parents and he feared the revenge of the Mohawk braves. So he had to decline the kind offer of the white men, returning to his lodge in the Indian country, far more of a hero in the eyes of his Indian allies than ever before.

Young Pierre had not been back among the Iroquois for more than two weeks when he began to pine for the log fortress at Three Rivers. He loathed the filthy food, the smoky lodges, the cruelties of the Mohawks, and he longed to be once more among his own people. Hidden beneath all the grease and war paint was the true nature of the white man, and he determined to escape, even if he had to die for the attempt.

The white Indian left his lodge, early one morning in the month of September, taking only his hatchet, as if he were going to cut wood. Once out of sight of the Mohawk village, he broke into a run, following the trail, through the dense forests of the Mohawk Valley, towards Fort Orange. On, on, he ran until the morning, when, spent with fatigue, he fell exhausted to the ground. After a short sleep, he again arose, pressed forward through the brush, and finally came to a clearing in the forest where a man was chopping wood. He found that there were no redskins in the cabin, then, hiding in it, he persuaded the settler to carry a message to the Fort. While he was absent, he hid behind some sacks of wheat.

The frontiersman had been gone about an hour, when he returned with a rescue party, which conducted the young Frenchman to the Fort. Here he hid for three days, while a mob of Mohawks wandered through the stockade, calling for him by name, but they could not find him. Gifts of money from a Jesuit priest enabled him to take a ship to New York, then a settlement of five hundred houses, with stores, barracks, and a stone church. After a stay of three weeks the ex-Mohawk set sail for Amsterdam, where he arrived in January, 1674.

He took a ship for Rochelle, but alas! he there found that all of his relatives had moved to Three Rivers in New France. Why remain here? In a week’s time he had embarked with the fishing fleet which yearly left France for the Great Banks, and came, early in the Spring of 1675, to Isle Percée, at the mouth of the St. Lawrence. He was a week’s journey from Three Rivers, but Algonquin canoes were on their way up the blue St. Lawrence for a fight with the Iroquois. He jumped into one of them, and, in a very short time, once more sprang ashore at the stockade of Three Rivers where he was welcomed as one risen from the dead.

Not long after this, we find Radisson at the stockade of Onondaga, a French fort built upon a hill above a lake upon the Oswego River. Here the French had established a post, the farthest in the wilderness; and here about sixty Frenchmen were spending the winter, waiting for the Spring to break up the ice so that they could return to Quebec. The redskins seemed to be friendly; but, early in February, vague rumors of a conspiracy against them came to the ears of the white men. A dying Mohawk confessed to a Jesuit priest that the Iroquois Council had decided to massacre half the garrison, and to hold the other half captive until their own Mohawk hostages were released from Quebec. These were held there by the French to ensure good treatment of their own people at this far-distant fortress.

What were the French to do? Here they were, miles and miles from Three Rivers, surrounded by hostiles, with Winter at hand. How could they escape? Radisson was quite equal to the emergency and proposed a way to outwit the savages, which was as cunning as it was amusing. He would invite all of the braves to a big feast, he would get them stupefied with food and with drink, then, when all were asleep, the sixty Frenchmen would take to their boats and would make a break for it down the river. A bold idea—this. Let us see how it worked out?

Radisson told the redskins that he had had a “big dream,” a dream to the effect that the white men were to give a great feast to the Iroquois. They greeted the news with joy, and, as couriers ran through the forest, bidding the Mohawks to the banquet, the warriors hastened to the walls of Onondaga. To sharpen their appetites, they were kept waiting outside for two whole days.

Meanwhile, inside the fort everything was made ready for a hasty departure. Ammunition was scattered in the snow; guns which could not be taken along were either burned or broken; canoes were prepared to be launched; all the live stock, except one solitary pig, a few chickens, and the dogs, was sacrificed for the feast. The soldiers cooked great kettles of meat and kept the redskins from peering into the stockade, lest they discover what was going on.

The evening of the second day arrived, and a great fire was kindled in the outer inclosure of the fort, between the two walls, where blankets were spread for the redskinned guests. Now the trumpets blew a deafening blast, the Mohawks shouted, and the French clapped their hands wildly. As the outer gates were thrown open, in trooped several hundred Mohawk warriors, who seated themselves in a circle around the fire, saying:

“Ugh! Ugh! We much hungry!”

Again the trumpets blared, and twelve enormous kettles of mince-meat were carried around the circle of guests. All dipped deeply into the steaming dish, while one Mohawk chieftain arose solemnly, saying:

“The French are the most generous people on earth. The Great Spirit has indeed blessed the French, to make them so kind to the Mohawks. We are truly glad to be at the feast with our white brothers.”

Other speakers arose, proclaiming the great virtues of the French; but, before they had finished talking, there came a second and a third relay of kettles. Here were plates of salted fowl, of venison, and of bear. The Indians gorged themselves, each looking at his neighbor to see if he could still eat.

“Cheer up! Cheer up!” cried Radisson, as he circled among the braves. “If sleep overcomes you, you must awake! Cheer up! Cheer up! Beat the drum! Blow the trumpet! Cheer up!”

The eyes of the Indians began to roll, for never before had they had such a banquet. Some shook their heads and lolled backwards, others fell over in the dead sleep which comes from long fasting, fresh air and overfeeding. By midnight all were sprawled upon the ground in deep slumber. The moment for action was at hand.

The French retired to the inner court, while the main gate was bolted and chained. The Indians were all outside the French quarters, so they could not see what was going on inside, even if they had been awake. Through the loop-hole of the gate ran a rope attached to a bell which was used to summon the sentry, and to this rope Radisson tied the only remaining pig, so that, when the Indians would pull the rope for admission, the noise of the disturbed porker would give the impression of a sentry’s _tramp, tramp_ on parade. Stuffed soldiers were placed around the palisades, so that, if an Indian should climb up to look into the fort, he would still see Frenchmen there.

The baggage was now stowed away in flat boats, and dugouts were brought out for the rest of the company. The night was raw and cold, while a thin sheeting of ice had formed upon the margin of the river. The fugitives were soon on board their craft, had pushed out into the stream, and were off; while, behind them, the redskins still lay around in a circle of stupid insensibility. Only the barking of a dog disturbed the quiet of the evening.

Piloted by the crafty Radisson, the French left Onondago on the 20th. day of March, 1678. On the evening of April 3d. they came to Montreal, where they learned that New France had suffered intolerable insolence from the Iroquois all winter. On the 23d., they moored safely under the walls of the citadel of Quebec, where all laughed heartily at the good trick which they had worked upon the bloodthirsty Mohawks.

When Spring came and canoes could venture up the river, couriers brought word that the Mohawks at Onondago had been greatly deceived by the pig and the ringing bell. The stuffed figures had led them to believe that the French were there, for more than a week. Crowing of cocks had come from the chicken yard, dogs had bayed in the kennels, and whenever a curious brave had yanked the bell at the gate, he could hear the measured march of the sentry.

When seven days passed by, and not a white man came from the fort:

“The black robes must be at prayers,” whispered the Mohawks.

But they could not pray on for seven days. Suspicions of trickery flashed on the minds of the Iroquois, and a warrior climbed to the top of the palisade. It was empty, and the French had gone!

Two hundred Mohawks immediately set out in pursuit, but there was much ice and snow, so that they had to return, cursing their stupidity, and the cleverness of Pierre Radisson.

* * * * *

Radisson did more than this, he discovered the Great Northwest. When a captive among the Mohawks, he had cherished boyish dreams of discovering many wild nations; and, when his brother-in-law, Groseillers, asked him to take a journey with him far to the westward, he only too readily acquiesced. Late one night in June, Groseillers and he stole out from Three Rivers, accompanied by Algonquin guides. They went as far as Green Bay, spent the winter there, then, when the Spring sun warmed the land, they traveled westward, passed across what is now the State of Wisconsin, and reached a “mighty river rushing profound and comparable to the St. Lawrence.” It was the upper Mississippi, now seen for the first time by white men.

The Spring of 1679 found the explorers still among the prairie tribes of the Mississippi, and from them Radisson learned of the Sioux, a warlike nation to the West, who had no fixed abode, but lived by the chase and were at constant war with another tribe to the north, the Crees.

The two Frenchmen pressed westward, circled over the territory now known as Wisconsin, eastern Iowa and Nebraska, South Dakota, and Montana, and back over North Dakota and Minnesota to the north shore of Lake Superior.

Then Radisson made a snow-shoe trip towards Hudson’s Bay and back again, living on moose meat and the flesh of beaver and caribou. Finally, after adventures exciting and hair-raising, he and Groseillers found their way to Three Rivers.

Although Radisson was not yet twenty-eight years of age, his explorations into the Great Northwest had won him both fame and fortune.

So this is the way that he spent his life. Voyaging, trapping, trading, he covered all this great, wild country, paddled up her rivers, fished in her lakes, smoked the pipe of peace in her settlements. In ten years’ time he brought half a million dollars’ worth of furs to an English trading company which employed him.

Yet, with all his explorations, all his adventures, all his trading, as he grew old, he remained as poor as one of the _couriers de bois_ who used to paddle him up the streams of New France. Until the year 1710 he drew an allowance of £50 a year ($250) from the English Hudson Bay Trading Company, then payments seemed to have stopped. Radisson had a wife and four children to support, but what happened to him, or to them, is unknown to history.

Somewhere in the vast country of New France the life of this daring adventurer went out. And somewhere in that vast possession lies the body of this, the first white man to explore the Great Northwest. Oblivion hides all record of his death, and only the cry of the moose-bird, harsh, discordant—the true call of the wilderness—echoes over the unknown spot where lie, no doubt, the bones of this trickster of the Mohawks and explorer of the wastes of New France.

Memorial tablets have been erected in many cities to commemorate La Salle, Champlain, and other discoverers. Radisson has no monument, save the memory of a valiant man-of-the-woods, reverently held in the hearts of all those who love the hemlock forests, the paddle, the pack, and the magnetic call of the wilderness.

FATHER MARQUETTE:

TRUE MAN OF GOD, AND EXPLORER OF THE MIGHTY MISSISSIPPI.

(1637-1675)

_The wild goose honked its message of fear,_ _As it winged away o’er the marshes sere,_ _And the little brown teal went, “quack, quack, quack,”_ _it fled from the man all dressed in black._ _But he, a priest, had a smile on his lips,_ _For he saw a stream with the sunset kissed,_ _And he raised aloft his hand, with a cross,_ _And blessed the waves, which the wild winds toss._

FATHER MARQUETTE:

TRUE MAN OE GOD, AND EXPLORER OF THE MIGHTY MISSISSIPPI.

(1637-1675)

MANY, many years ago, when the Indian tribes inhabited the wilderness of North America, a good priest came among them to teach them the ways of Christ. He was a Frenchman called Père, or Father Marquette, and he had been born at Laon, France, June 1st., 1627.

Early choosing the profession of priesthood, he entered the Jesuit College at Nancy, where he finally graduated, a man of saintly character, accurate learning and distinguished culture. Yet, disdaining to remain in France, he eagerly looked forward to adventure in the wilderness of North America, and was consequently overjoyed to receive an order to proceed to Canada, then termed New France. He set sail, arrived at the struggling village of Quebec, September 20th., 1666, and, in October of that same year, was sent to Three Rivers, to begin the study of the Indian language and to obtain some knowledge of the life of a missionary.

Some of you have doubtless camped in the Canadian wilderness, where you have seen the Indians, trappers, and guides, who hover around the outfitter’s store, where one buys his food for a canoe trip into the woods. The Canadian wilderness, then, was much wilder than it is now. In those days there were thousands of redskins, where now there are only a few, and in those days the red men were really ferocious, often engaging in great battles with each other, and torturing their prisoners with fire-brands and also making them run the gauntlet.

The French were very kind to the redskins and sent many Jesuit missionaries among them, so the red men liked the Frenchmen, even as they disliked the English. The Englishmen treated them like some inferior sort of dogs, whereas the French priests endeavored to help them in every way possible; taught them medicine, cooking and house-building, and looked after them when they were ill.

Father Marquette was accustomed to the refinement and culture of the France of his day, so it must have been a curious experience for him to be suddenly thrown into the wilderness life. Yet he settled down to his career of a missionary with zeal and enthusiasm, taking up a residence with one Father Drulettes, who lived in a log hut. Here he spent two years of hard study and still harder life, eagerly learning woodcraft, canoeing and the Indian language, which was to be of great assistance to him in later years.

Time passed pleasantly by. Finally it was agreed that young Father Marquette knew sufficient “Indian talk” to make himself understood by the redskins, so, in April, 1668, he was sent forth among the Ottawas. With several others he left Three Rivers for Montreal, traveling by canoe, and from this small settlement journeyed to the Sault de Sainte Marie, a trading post built where the waters of Lake Superior rush tumultuously through boiling rapids towards Lake Huron. Here was the mission of St. Mary, the headquarters of the Jesuit fathers who labored among the Ottawa Indians. Here also were many white fur traders, who wished to barter with the red men.

The Indians were many. The Ottawa tribe consisted of the Chippewas, Beavers, Creeks, Ottawas, Hurons, Menomonees, Pottawattomies, Sacs, Foxes, Winnebagoes, Miamis, Illinois and the Sioux. The natives lived along the shores of Lake Superior, Lake Huron, and through the woods of Michigan and Wisconsin, near the banks of the many rivers in this region.

The “Soo” or Sault Ste. Marie is a busy place to-day, and it was a busy place then, for it was the heart of all Indian activity, being the place from which all the redskins set out upon their trips to the wilderness and to Quebec and Montreal. Now the great locks make continuous travel by water possible between Buffalo and Detroit. In our times as many ships pass this point as did birch-bark canoes in the year of 1600. Yet then, there was as much trade and barter at the “Soo,” in comparison to the Indian and white population, as there is now, with the vast population which surrounds it.

Father Marquette enjoyed himself greatly among the redskins, and particularly loved the long canoe trips in the beautiful rivers and lakes. He was much respected by the Indians, who called him, “the good brother,” and so successful was he in converting them to Christianity that he was sent from Mission Sault Ste. Marie to Mission La Pointe, on Lake Superior, where he arrived in September, 1669. Here he labored among the peaceful red men until the post was abandoned in 1671, because the warlike Sioux had determined to fight with the Hurons.

For the poor Hurons to accept the gauge of battle would have meant their utter destruction, so they fled to the south, taking up their residence at Michillimackinac, on Lake Huron. Thither went the noble Father Marquette, and, seated among them in his black robe, took part in all their many deliberations. He baptized their children, married their young braves, and taught the gospel of Jesus Christ. Here he established the Mission St. Ignace and built a beautiful chapel, to which, years later, worn out and exhausted by his serious labors in the wilderness, his body was carried by the redskins for burial.

As the good priest lived among the red men, he heard stories of a great river which lay to the westward, so he determined to discover and explore it. Wandering trappers brought him news of this stream, and, as he now knew how to talk with these wild men of the north, he easily learned all that they could tell him about it. His heart and mind were stirred with the fever of the adventurer. He _must_, he _would_ go and see what lay far to the westward where were ferocious redskins, wild beasts, and unknown water-courses.

As dreams of exploration floated through the pure and boyish mind of the good Jesuit missionary, a Frenchman, called Joliet, arrived from Quebec. Ah, but he was a roving dog, this Joliet, and, when he heard that the priest was contemplating a trip of exploration and adventure, up went his hands, a smile came to his face, and he exclaimed, “Oh, my good Father Marquette, I am the man to go with you! I, and I alone, shall be your companion in this venture into the wilderness. Here’s my hand upon it!”

So the two adventurers clasped hands, then set about to secure five stout canoemen with backwoods experience, to paddle with them to the great unknown. It was not difficult to find such fellows (_couriers de bois_, they were called).

On May 17th., 1673, Marquette and Joliet, with five as staunch Frenchmen as ever lifted a pack and poled a canoe, started upon an ever-memorable journey of exploration. They went in but two canoes—big birch-bark fellows to be sure—and carried with them guns, clothing, food, robes, books, and scientific instruments. ’Twas a good load to stow away in such small bateaux, but they must have been larger canoes than we use to-day, where only three can comfortably travel. There were two brave men at the head of this expedition; they loved God; they loved France, and they strove to do something for God and Fatherland. They succeeded in both.

From the little mission of St. Ignace the party of explorers followed the right shore of Lake Michigan in a westerly and southerly direction. They first stopped at Green Bay, where they visited the tribe of Menomonees, so called after the wild rice which there grew luxuriously in the rich mud bottoms and swamplands. The red men were very hospitable and begged the good priest in his black robe not to proceed farther. “You will meet a nation which never shows mercy to strangers,” said one chieftain. “They will break your heads with their stone hatchets. The great river which you look for is very dangerous. It is full of horrible monsters which will devour your canoes. There is a big Demon in the path which swallows all who approach him, and the heat is so great that you will all die.”

To this the Jesuit missionary replied,

“I do not fear these things, my red brothers. My God is with me and he will protect me from all these demons.”

So the voyagers bade the doubting redskins good-bye, turned the bows of their canoes towards the setting sun, and went forth upon their journey.

The paddles drove the light birch-bark boats along the shore of Lake Michigan. Many times the voyagers gazed at the magnificent scenery with rapt attention, for they were in the heart of the wilderness, and, as lovers of nature, they enjoyed the magnificence of wooded shore-line and wave-tossed water. On, on, they went, passing from Green Bay to the southern end, and down this into Lake Winnebago: blue, forest-hidden, and shimmering in the rays of the brilliant sunlight.

At the end of this beautiful sheet of water was an Indian village, where now is the town of Oshkosh. Here were many redskins, Mascoutens, Miamis and Kickapoos, some of whom had migrated thither from Virginia and Ohio. Pere Marquette was greeted hospitably, for many of these Indians were Christians and had erected a handsome cross in the center of their town, adorned with skins of the fox and the beaver, with red belts, bows and arrows, all offerings to the Great Manitou, or God of all Gods.

The wandering priest conducted religious services, then asked his hearers for two guides to pilot them to the mighty river, which he heard was to the westward. Joyfully the red men gave him two Miami braves, who, leading him to the branches of the upper Fox, showed him where to take to the land and portage across country to the head-waters of the _Weskonsing_, now the Wisconsin River. The birch-bark boats were soon floating past virgin forests, in which robins and cat-birds caroled songs of welcome to these, the first white men who had ever sailed past upon the surface of the stream, The Miami guides now departed and the adventurers went forward alone.

For seven days the paddles drove the shallow canoes down the slow-moving Wisconsin, and then, upon the morning of the eighth day, the waters widened and the _couriers de bois_ with their venturesome man-of-God suddenly paddled into the muddied current of the mighty _Missi-sepi_, or Great River. It was a point where the Father of Waters was a mile across and was fifty-three feet deep, so, as Pere Marquette gazed upon the turbid current, he had “a joy which he could not express.” For days he had journeyed westward to view the fabled river, and now he saw that wonderful stream of which the wandering fur traders and redskins had told him at the far distant mission of St. Ignace.

It was the tenth of June. Marquette had left the quiet mission on May the seventeenth, nearly a month before this; the journey, so far, had been pleasant, but what lay beyond? Hostile Indians, fever, treacherous currents, death in the stream and death upon the shore! Yet, on, on, went Pere Marquette until he had reached the mouth of the Arkansas. Here he halted, for he believed that he was within three days’ journey of the ocean. The good priest was feverish, for the malarial mosquito hovered over the yellow current of the Mississippi then, even as he does now. Yet, what cared he? His work had been well done and he had added much to the glory of France and to the renown of the Jesuit brotherhood.

Again and again, as they descended the stream, the canoes had struck the backs of monster fish, the sturgeons, which looked and felt like great tree trunks in the water. The boatmen had landed, every day, and had shot wild turkeys, ducks and prairie hens. Near the spot where is now the town of Rock Island, they saw great herds of bison, or buffalo, and they marveled at their stupidity and their ugliness. Whenever the explorers landed they kept a strict guard, for fear of an Indian attack, and as each evening came on, they made a small fire on shore to cook their meals, then entered the two canoes, paddled into the stream, and slept as far from the bank as possible.

As the French adventurers came down the mighty Mississippi, there were, of course, many meetings with the various Indian tribes which had their homes upon its banks. On the 25th. day of June, they saw the tracks of men upon the water’s edge and a narrow, beaten path across the prairie. “It must be a road leading to a village,” said Marquette; “we will reconnoiter it and see what is there!”

Recommending themselves to God, Marquette and Joliet undertook to investigate, and silently followed the narrow path. They walked onward for about two miles and then heard voices. Before them was an Indian village. They halted, and then advanced, shouted with all their energy. The redskins swarmed from their huts, much excited, but, seeing the Black Robes, of whom the traveling Hurons had told them, they quieted down, sending four of their old men to meet the white voyagers.

As the Indians approached, they bore, in their hands, tobacco pipes, finely ornamented and adorned with various feathers. They walked slowly, with the pipes raised to the sun and said nothing at all. These were calumets, or peace pipes, which they carried. As Marquette and Joliet walked towards the village, with an Indian on either side, they saw before them an old man standing before a lodge, with his hands outstretched and raised towards the sun. Looking intently at the priest and his companion, he said:

“How beautiful is the sun, O Frenchmen, when you come to visit us! All our town awaits thee, and thou shalt enter all our cabins of peace. Welcome to the land of the Illinois. Welcome, thrice welcome!”

The visitors entered the cabin, where was a crowd of red men, who kept silence, but eagerly gazed upon the strangers. Finally several spoke, saying:

“Well done, brothers, to visit us!”

Now all sat down, the peace pipe was passed around, they smoked, and then conversed in sign-language. But soon messengers arrived from the Grand Sachem of the Illinois, inviting the Frenchmen to visit his town, where he wished to hold a council with them.

So the seven explorers started for the village of the Grand Sachem, attended by a vast crowd of red men, who, never having seen a Frenchman before, could not apparently see enough of them. At length they reached the lodge of the Grand Sachem, who stood in his doorway holding his calumet, or peace pipe, towards the sun.

“Welcome, my white brothers,” said he. “Welcome to the land of the Illinois.”

Marquette stepped forward, and, presenting the old man with four separate gifts of beads and of knives, said:

“With this first gift, O Sachem, do I march in peace to visit the nations on the great river, which courses to the sea. With this second, I declare that God, the mighty creator, has pity on you, and it is for you to acknowledge and obey him. With this third, I declare that the Great Chief of the French informs you that he has spread peace everywhere, and has overcome the Iroquois, the enemies of you all, and has put them down forever. With this fourth I beg you to tell me the way to the sea, so that I can reach it without having trouble with the nations which I must pass in order to reach it.”

This speech pleased the Great Sachem mightily, and rising, he laid his hand upon a small Indian child, saying:

“I thank thee, Black Gown and thee, Frenchmen, for taking so much pains to come and visit us. Never has the earth been so lovely nor the sun so bright as to-day. Never has our river been so calm or so free from rocks, for your canoes have removed them as they passed. Never has our tobacco had so fine a flavor, nor our corn appeared so beautiful as we behold it to-day. Here is my son that I give thee, so that thou mayest know my heart. I pray thee to take pity on me and all my nation. Thou knowest the Great Spirit who has made us all, then speak thou to him and hear thou his words; ask thou him to give me life and health, and to come and dwell amongst us, that we may know him.”

Saying this, he gave the little Indian boy to Marquette and then presented him with a calumet, or peace pipe. He then urged the Frenchmen to proceed no farther and not to expose themselves to the dangers that would meet them with hostile tribes:

“I would esteem it a great happiness to lose my life for the glory of Jesus Christ,—he who has made us all,” replied Marquette.

The old Sachem marveled much at this answer.

After several days of pleasant intercourse with the Illinois, the voyagers again took to their canoes and sailed southward towards the mouth of the Mississippi. Marquette left the little Indian boy behind him, for he did not wish to take him from his father. They had not gone very far, when they passed a rocky promontory where two great monsters had been painted upon the brown stones by some Indian artist.

“They are as large as a calf,” says Marquette in his diary. “They have horns on their heads like those of a deer, a horrible look, red eyes, a beard like a tiger, a face somewhat like a man’s, a body covered with scales, and so long a tail that it winds all around the body, passing above the head and going back between the legs, ending somewhat like a fish’s tail. Green, red, and black are the colors composing this picture.”

Fortunately there were no monsters in the country similar to these awful pictures, and the worst that the explorers encountered were dangerous masses of fallen trees, through which the canoes had a difficult time to wend a tortuous passage.

Near the mouth of the Ohio River the Frenchmen passed a part of the shore much dreaded by the redskins, who thought that an evil Manitou lived there, who devoured all travelers. The Illinois had warned the good priest to avoid the place. Yet the evil monster turned out to be a small bay full of dangerous rocks, through which the current of the river whirled about with a furious commotion, driving the canoes through a narrow channel filled with frothing spray and whirling spume. The _couriers de bois_ sat tight, paddled hard, and pulled away from this peril.

Yet death soon stared the navigators in the face, for, when they reached the mouth of the Arkansas, armed warriors saw them, plunged into the river, and approached the two canoes, uttering fierce battle cries. Others came from the bank in wooden boats, hurling wooden clubs at the Frenchmen. Many redskins on the shore seized bows and arrows, pointing them at the explorers in a menacing manner. It was certainly a ticklish position and one that called for all the presence of mind that brave Pere Marquette possessed.

Rising in his canoe, the good priest held up the calumet, or peace pipe, which the Illinois had given him.

It apparently had no effect on the young braves, and they came swimming along, knives held in their teeth, ready and eager for a hand-to-hand battle in the muddy water.

Again the good priest raised the pipe of peace.

This time it had some effect, for some old men on the bank called to the young braves to desist in their attack, saying:

“Brothers, our young men shall not hurt you. Come ashore and we will have a big feast. Ugh! Ugh! You are welcome here.”

So the voyagers heaved sighs of relief, paddled ashore, and had a grand banquet. Next day, ten of the men of this tribe guided them farther down the stream, and introduced them to the next tribe, which lived opposite the mouth of the Arkansas River.

They seemed to like good eating as well as do the natives of Arkansas in our day, for they had a noble banquet at which was served boiled dog, roast corn, and watermelon.

As I have said before, Father Marquette was suffering much with fever. As for his companions, they wished to return, for, said one: “If we go farther south, some Spaniards will capture us, or we will be killed by fiercer Indians than we have yet met with.”

So they started to ascend the muddy river, toiling terribly against the current, but ever watchful of a night attack, and careful to sleep in the canoes, well away from the bank. Yet on, on, they went towards the north until the mouth of the river Illinois was reached. Into this they turned, paddled to its source, portaged into gray Lake Michigan, and soon were homeward bound for the busy post of Sault Ste. Marie. Marquette was quite ill with the fever and worn out with the exertion of the long journey, so at Green Bay he remained at the Jesuit mission of St. Francis Xavier, established there some years before. Joliet, on the other hand—apparently an iron man—was feeling splendidly. He had traveled only 2,767 miles in a birch canoe and was as well and hearty as when he had started. A true athlete, this Joliet, and one who must have had muscles of steel!

It was now September, and the explorers had been away for five months. It was also the time of stress and of storm on the Great Lakes, so it was thought best to pass the winter quietly at the little mission, there to write up the report of this wonderful journey. Both adventurers, therefore, sat down to rest, busying themselves in editing their journals. Marquette’s alone has been preserved; as for Joliet’s, his was upset in his canoe, when returning to Quebec in the following Spring, and all of his papers were lost in the frothing current of the raging La Chine rapids of the Ottawa River, near Montreal. Marquette’s account, with maps drawn from memory, reached his superiors in the Jesuit mission at Quebec, and they are to-day of great interest to historians, geographers, and antiquarians.

On the way to Green Bay, the good priest had promised the Illinois Indians that he would return to them in the Spring, in order to preach the gospel. Although much shattered in health, because of the fever which had fastened itself upon him, he again started south in October, 1674. Dismissing his great accomplishment from his mind, again he turned to teach the savages the words of Christ. Reaching the Chicago River, he found it covered with ice, so he remained at a poor log cabin, near the shore of Lake Michigan. He was ill, but brave, and, when the warm breath of Spring again brought tassels to the willows, this noble priest of God pushed southward to the country of the friendly Illinois.

The redskins loved the peaceful soldier of the cross and welcomed him, “as an angel from Heaven.” Easter time soon came, and a great service was held for the red men and their wives and children. First the priest presented the chiefs with gifts of wampum to attest his love and the importance of his mission, then he explained the doctrine of Christianity and his reason for journeying to this wild and distant land. “I cannot stay longer,” he said, in conclusion, “but the peace of God be with you.”

The children of the forest listened to him with great joy and appreciation, and, at the conclusion of his address, begged him to return to them again. They escorted him to his canoe with great pomp and ceremony, many of the warriors accompanying him for thirty miles. Then they waved “good-bye” saying: “Come again to us, good father, for we love you right well. Come again, for you are truly a brother of the Great Spirit.”

Alas! the good priest’s strength now began to fail him and he became so ill and weak that he had to be carried by his faithful attendants. The season was stormy, and, as the Frenchmen paddled northward towards Green Bay, they had to wait in the land-locked harbors of the St. Joseph River, the Kalamazoo, the Grand, and the Muskegon. The white-caps raged on Lake Michigan, so that it was not safe for the frail birch-bark canoe to venture upon the tossing waves.

Poor Father Marquette! your journeys are almost over! Ill, weak, exhausted, the gentle priest had to be carried upon the shoulders of his faithful _couriers de bois_.

“Take me to the shore,” he said, weakly. “Build me a cabin and let me there give up my soul to Christ. I cannot live much longer and it is well. God’s will be done.”

Near the present city of Ludington, upon a plot of rising ground, the expiring Marquette selected a place to die. His companions made a rude, log cabin, laid him upon a bed of evergreens, over which were stretched his blankets, and, as the white-breasted woodthrush sang a soft cadence from the branch of the wild apple tree, the gentle soul of the explorer and Jesuit Missionary went to the Great Beyond. His rough boatmen clustered about him with tears in their eyes, and they have said that, as the noble man-of-God awaited Death, his countenance beamed and was aglow with the spark of a curious and brilliant radiance.

Spring came. Some Huron Indians, whom Marquette had instructed at his mission at La Pointe, heard of his death and burial as they were returning from a hunt in the vast woods of northern Michigan. They sought the grave of this good man, whom they had so tenderly loved. With reverent hands they removed him from his forest sepulchre, carried him to their canoe, and started back to the little chapel which he had built at St. Ignace.

Thirty canoes formed a funeral procession which passed along the Great Lakes for nearly two hundred and fifty miles. When the mission was reached, the cortége approached the land, where a vast concourse of Indians, trappers, soldiers, priests, and half-breeds, paid reverence to this sweet-souled Jesuit missionary. Here, in the little church, he was laid to rest, and here, in 1877, a splendid monument was erected to the memory of that noble Christian gentleman, who had floated down the turbid current of the Mississippi in a memorable journey of exploration. _Pax vobiscum, Pere Marquette!_

THE BURIAL OF GOOD FATHER MARQUETTE.

Lift him gently, redskinned brothers, let no voice disturb his rest, Peace is here, the great blue heron wings his way from out the West. The tiny wren is gently trilling; the swallow dips and darts around, As the veery carols sweetly: “True! His equal ne’er’ll be found.”

Softly, softly, tread so lightly, to the border of the lake; Bow your heads and keep the silence, as the bending branches shake. Place him in the birch barque’s bottom, cover him with blankets fine, Paddle gently, oh, so gently, as the wind sobs through the pine.

Yea! the wind speaks, and it whispers, as the cortége wanders past, “Marquette! Marquette! Son of Jesus! You have reached the land of rest! In the Kingdom of the Blessed, in the Vale of shadows dim, Marquette! Marquette! Son of Jesus! You will rest at last with Him.”

And the wild goose—Old Shebogah—honks a pæan from the sky, Saying: “Farewell, farewell, brother, would that I, myself could die, So that I could wander with you through the vale of shadowy tears, Would that I could traverse with you, through the mist of golden years!”

And the squirrel—little Ooquah—chatters shrilly from the glade; “Farewell! Farewell! Father, when you are gone I’ll be afraid. Yea, I’ll hide from men and maidens, for my friend has passed away, Farewell! Farewell! Father! Sad the scene and sad the day!”

And the beaver, sleek and square-tailed, casts his brown eyes on the lake, Sobbing, mutt’ring; “Farewell! Father! All my kin obeisance make. You, a good man, never harmed us; you, a brave man, never killed; Farewell! Farewell! Father! Man of God in kindness skilled.”

And the blue jay—bad Mootsito—scolding cries out from the oak, “Good night! Good night! Father! Would that I could be your cloak, Would that I could travel with you, would that I could shield from harm, Good night! Farewell! Father! The woods are cold. They’ve lost their charm.”

Gently! Gently! Paddling northward, past the shallow pebbled bays, See the cortége wanders slowly, near the scenes of other days, When the good priest taught the Hurons how to live in peace and love, Taught them how to like each other, true to Him who is above.

So they journey, while the forest echoes with the psalm of Death, So they journey, sad and lonely, ’midst the balsam’s balmy breath. Then, at last, they reach the Mission, here sad rites they chant for him Who has led them gently onward, through the glades of ignorance dim.

Trappers, soldiers, priests and redskins, bare their heads at St. Ignace, Weeping, sobbing, bid him “Farewell!” he, the leader of their race. Weeping, sobbing, cry out: “_Vale!_” While the heron wings away, Croaking: “Good night, good night, Father! Sad the scene and sad the day!”

ROBERT DE LA SALLE:

FRENCH ADVENTURER, AND EXPLORER OF THE VALLEY OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

(1643-1687)

_From Tadoussac the eagles scream; their wild cries sound alarming,_ _As up the stream a vessel sails, her steersman a Prince Charming._ _A man of iron—valiant, strong, his name the Sieur La Salle,_ _Who loved the hemlock forests from Lachine to Roberval._ _Alas! he ventured to the West where redskins wish to kill,_ _There left his bones—’neath barren stones—where Frenchmen wander still._

ROBERT DE LA SALLE:

FRENCH ADVENTURER, AND EXPLORER OF THE VALLEY OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

(1643-1687)

WHILE good Father Marquette was gliding over the muddied waters of the Mississippi, gazing at wonderful sights which no Frenchman had dreamed of heretofore, a man lived upon the banks of the St. Lawrence who brooded over projects of peril and adventure and gazed wistfully towards the Far West. This was no other than Robert, Chevalier de La Salle, a Frenchman who had come to Canada about the year 1667. He had been born at Rouen, in Normandy, of a noble family, and had been well educated in a Jesuit seminary.

Urged onward by a desire for both adventure and money, this vigorous young blade emigrated to Canada. Here he traveled up and down the great river St. Lawrence from Tadoussac to Sault Ste. Marie, and busied himself in trading European merchandise for beaver, bear, and other skins. He built houses for the storage of furs and merchandise, made excursions among the Indian tribes bordering on the shore of Lake Ontario, and penetrated as far as the Huron country in the north, where he lived for some time among the redskins, learning their life, their manners, and their language.

Perhaps some of you have taken the steamer at Toronto, have threaded your way among the beautiful Thousand Isles, and have shot through the foaming spray of the Lachine rapids, before reaching the city of Montreal. This seething cataract was named by the adventurous La Salle, for he hoped to find the St. Lawrence leading into the China Sea, and, to commemorate this anticipation, called the trading station, upon the Island of Montreal—La Chine (or the China) a name which has fastened itself to the rapids, and a name which it has borne to the present day.

Here the adventurous Frenchman was resting when word was brought to him of the expedition of Marquette and Joliet. He felt certain that the Mississippi discharged itself into the great Gulf of Mexico, a fact which inflamed his desire to complete the discovery of that mighty watercourse. He wished to found colonies upon its banks and to open up new avenues of trade between France and the vast countries of the West. Nor did he lose his visions of China and Japan. From the head-waters of the Mississippi, he still hoped to find a passage to those distant countries, and thus, stirred with ideas of conquest and glory for his beloved France, he made a voyage to his native shores towards the end of the year 1677, hoping to gain assistance from the King for his ambitious designs.

The French monarch gave a ready ear to the talk of the venturesome Canadian. He was authorized to push his discoveries as far as he chose to the westward, and to build forts wherever he should think proper. In order to meet the large expense of his labors he was given the exclusive traffic in buffalo skins. Yet he was also forbidden to trade with the Hurons and other Indians, who usually brought furs to Montreal, for fear that he would interfere with the established traders and incur their jealousy and displeasure.

La Salle had the true love of adventure, a passion for exploring unknown lands, and an ambition to build up a great name for himself which should rival that of the early discoverers and conquerors of the New World. He wished, in fact, to die great. Let us see how he succeeded!

Two months after receiving this patent, the adventurer sailed from the shores of France, accompanied by the Chevalier Tonty, the Sieur de La Motte, and a pilot, ship-carpenters, mariners and other persons, about thirty in all. He had also a quantity of arms and ammunition, with a store of anchors, cordage, and other materials necessary for rigging the small vessels which he had determined to construct for the navigation of the lakes.

He arrived at Quebec near the end of September; but here he remained no longer than was necessary to arrange his affairs, for he hastened forward, passed up the dangerous rapids of the St. Lawrence in canoes, and at length reached Fort Frontenac, which he had erected at the eastern extremity of Lake Ontario, where the St. Lawrence issues from that great, blue inland sea.

La Salle was eager for exploration. Busily he prepared to build and equip a vessel above the Falls of Niagara, so that he could navigate the upper lakes. His men worked hard and had, before long, fitted out a brigantine of ten tons in which they stowed away everything needed for the construction of a second vessel. This barque had been made at Fort Frontenac, the year before, with two others, which were used for bringing supplies. It was a small boat, but was suitable for the purpose.

In order to have any success in building a fort and a ship on the waters of the Niagara River, it was necessary to have the good will of the red men who lived in the surrounding country. The Senecas here had their hunting grounds, and they were a powerful tribe, excellent in the hunting field, bloodthirsty on the field of war. So La Motte had orders from La Salle to go on an embassy to this nation, to hold a council with the chiefs, explain his object, and gain their consent.

With some well-armed men, La Motte consequently traveled about thirty miles through the woods, and came, at length, to the great village of these redskins. Before a roaring council fire, around which the Indians gathered with their usual grave and serious countenances, both white men and red delivered many speeches. The French promised to establish a blacksmith at Niagara, who should repair the guns of the red men, and, as a result of this guarantee, the Senecas gave them permission to establish a trading place and fort in the wilderness. Well satisfied with the mission, La Motte and his companions went back to Niagara.

La Salle soon arrived, sailing thither from Fort Frontenac in one of his small vessels, laden with provisions, with merchandise, and materials for rigging the new ship: the first to glide over the waves of these great western lakes. In person he visited the Seneca Indians, and, by soft speech and flattering words, secured their friendship and good-will.

Yet he had enemies, too, for the monopoly which he had gained from the government and the large scale upon which he conducted his affairs, raised, against him, a host of traducers among the traders and merchants of Canada. In order to thwart his designs, they told the Indians that his plans of building forts and ships on the border was in order to curb their power. Agents were sent among the redskins in order to sow the seeds of hostility to this ambitious Frenchman.

These moves against him were well known to La Salle, yet it did not put an end to his plans. About two miles above the Falls of Niagara, he selected a place for a dock-yard at the outlet of a creek, on the western side of the Niagara River. Here the keel of the new vessel was laid, and, in a very short time, her form began to appear. An Indian woman brought word that a plot had been hatched to burn the vessel, while it was on the stocks, yet the redskins did not molest it, and soon she proudly glided into the water. She was called the _Griffin_, in honor of the Count de Frontenac, who had two griffins upon his coat of arms.

It was the month of August, a time of softness and mellow sunlight in the Canadian wilderness, when, bathed in a flood of radiance, the sails of the _Griffin_ were spread to the winds of Lake Erie. Heretofore, only birch-bark canoes had floated upon the surface of this wind-tossed sheet of water, now a real vessel was plowing a westward course over the rocking billows. The voyage was a prosperous one, and, on the 27th. day of August, the little company of explorers, thirty-four in all, reached the Island of Mackinac, where the redskinned denizens of the forest looked with wonder and amazement upon this ship, the first which they had ever seen, calling her the _great wooden canoe_.

The Sieur de La Salle dressed himself in a scarlet cloak, in order to make an impression upon the redskins, and, attended by some of his soldiers, made a visit of ceremony to the head men of the village. Here his missionaries celebrated mass, and here he was received and entertained with much civility by the red men. Yet, although the redskins showed him much courtesy on the surface, their minds had been poisoned by the lies which had been circulated among them by his enemies, and for the same reason several of his followers had deserted. Not deterred by this happening, La Salle again entered his ship, hoisted sail, and soon was coasting along the northern borders of Lake Michigan.

After a voyage of about a hundred miles the _Griffin_ reached Green Bay, where anchor was cast before a small island at its mouth. This island was inhabited by Pottawattomies, and here La Salle found several Frenchmen, who had preceded him in birch canoes, had gathered a supply of stores, and had also collected a vast quantity of furs. With these he loaded his vessel; sent it back to Niagara, for the purpose of satisfying his creditors; and ordered his navigators to return as soon as possible, and to pursue their voyage to the mouth of the Miami River at the south-eastern extremity of Lake Michigan.

The adventurers now remaining consisting of fourteen persons, who were soon paddling down the west shore of Lake Michigan in four bark canoes, laden with carpenters’ tools, a blacksmith’s forge, merchandise, and arms. After a stormy passage, they reached the mouth of the Miami River, since called the St. Joseph. Winter was approaching, hostile natives were near, so La Salle determined to build a fort. A hill was selected as the proper position for the stockade, the bushes were chopped down and logs were cut and hewn, so that a breastwork could be constructed, inclosing a space about eighty feet long, by forty broad. It was surrounded by palisades and was called Fort Miami.

All hands were thus kept busy during the month of November. In spite of this occupation, the men were very discontented, for they had no other food but the flesh of bears, which some Indian hunters killed in the woods. The Frenchmen did not like this, and wished to go into the woods in order to hunt deer and other game. This permission was refused by La Salle, as he saw that they were more bent upon desertion than upon assisting in improving the larder.

As they thus grumbled and worked at the edge of the wilderness, the Chevalier de Tonty came down the lake with two canoes well stocked with deer which he had recently killed. Hurrah! Here was a different kind of meat, at last, and this cheered the spirits of all the company. Yet there was bad news, also, for the good Chevalier brought word of the total loss of the ship which had brought them hither. No sight had ever been had of her, and, although the red men, who lived along the shores of Lake Michigan were closely questioned, no one brought any word of the ill-fated _Griffin_, which doubtless had been swallowed up by the waves of Lake Michigan, while on her way from the island of Mackinac. La Salle was much distressed, yet he had become accustomed to the buffeting of ill fortune in the wilderness, and, consequently turned again towards the wilderness with renewed courage and resolution to go onward, to explore, and to bring back news of these virgin forests and this interesting country.

An Indian hunter, who had been sent out to look for deer, came and told them where there was a portage to the head-waters of the Kankakee River. So, desirous of moving onward, they followed him down stream and paddled for a hundred miles on the muddy waters, which wound through marshes and a dense growth of tall rushes and alder bushes. The adventurers became much in need of provisions, for at this season the buffalo had traveled south; yet, they succeeded in killing two deer, several wild turkeys, and a few swans. Providence also came to their relief, for a stray buffalo was found sticking fast in a marsh, and it was therefore captured with ease.

At length the canoes floated upon the waters of the Illinois River, and, as they paddled onward, the voyagers came upon an Indian village where were great quantities of corn. The inhabitants had departed upon a hunt, so the ravenous Frenchmen appropriated a large store of grain for their own use. They kept on their way, reached a great lake, called Lake Peoria, and found a second Indian village upon the bank, the inhabitants of which met them with great friendliness and good will.

Here La Salle decided to build a fort. It was named Fort Crèvecœur, or the Broken Heart, so called because of the sadness which he had experienced at the loss of the good ship _Griffin_. The men also constructed a brigantine, forty-two feet long and twelve feet broad, in which it was hoped to make further discoveries in the Mississippi. When it had been completed, a priest, called Father Hennepin, was sent down the Illinois River to make further explorations, not in this boat, but in a canoe, accompanied by two Frenchmen and an Indian; while La Salle, himself, determined to begin an overland journey to Fort Frontenac, assisted by three Frenchmen and an Indian hunter. The Chevalier de Tonty was left in command of the fort, with sixteen men and two missionaries.

La Salle had quite an undertaking before him, but he did not quail. He was to travel over land, and on foot, through vast forests and through bogs and morasses, to Fort Frontenac, a distance of twelve hundred miles. He had to journey along the southern shores of Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, ford numerous rivers and cross others on rafts, all of this in a season when snow hid the ground and floating ice rendered traveling most fatiguing. Nothing seemed impossible to his strong heart and unbending resolution. Shouldering his knapsack and musket, he bade adieu to his companions of the wilderness, and set his face towards far distant Canada.

No record has been preserved of the incidents of his long and perilous journey from the slow-moving Illinois to the blue and sparkling St. Lawrence. At any rate, he arrived without mishap at Fort Frontenac, where he was chagrined and mortified to find his affairs in a condition of confusion that was deplorable. His heaviest loss, of course, was that of the _Griffin_, with her cargo valued at twelve thousand dollars; but, besides this mishap, he found that his agents had despoiled him of all the profits of his trade. Some of his employees, in fact, had stolen his goods and had run away with them to the Dutch of New York. A rumor had been circulated to the effect that he and his whole party had been drowned on their voyage up the lakes, so his creditors had seized upon his effects, and had wasted them by forced sales. All Canada seemed to have conspired against him. Many a less resolute heart than his own would have failed, but despair was never known to settle upon the mind of the Chevalier La Salle. He was the first Theodore Roosevelt of the United States.

The adventurer had still one friend left,—Count Frontenac, whose influence and authority was now exerted in his favor. They discussed together the Mississippi problem and determined to give up the plan of navigating this mighty water-course in a ship. Instead, La Salle decided to prosecute his explorations with canoes.

He engaged more men, left Fort Frontenac on the 23d. day of July, 1680, and, although detained by head winds on Lake Ontario, reached Mackinac during the month of September. By offering brandy in exchange for Indian corn, he soon had enough to satisfy his needs, and, embarking on the rough waters of Lake Michigan, at length arrived at the mouth of the river Miami. The fort which he had left there had been plundered and dismantled!

Journeying south, La Salle reached the villages of the Illinois, which he found had been sacked and burned by the Iroquois during his absence. He saw nothing of Tonty and those Frenchmen whom he had left behind him, a proof that they had either been killed or dispersed. So he returned to the Miami River and here spent the winter, visiting the Indian tribes near Lake Michigan. Here he learned that the Iroquois had attacked the settlements of the Illinois with vindictive ferocity, during his absence, driving the red men far westward across the Mississippi. As for the Frenchmen, whom he had left behind him, no one seemed to know what had become of them.

Towards the end of May, 1681, the vigorous explorer left the Miami River, and, after a prosperous voyage, once more entered the harbor of Mackinac. What was his joy to here find the Chevalier Tonty and those Frenchmen, whom he had last seen in the wilderness. They had passed through great dangers, but had at length escaped from the bloodthirsty Iroquois and had reached the French fortress, lean, haggard, but praising God that they had escaped with their lives. La Salle embraced them all, gave them presents of firearms and blankets, and begged them to accompany him again into the wilderness.

The Chevalier was now determined to journey down the entire length of the Mississippi, and, with this end in view, took into his service a company of Frenchmen, together with a number of eastern Indians, Abenakis, and Loups, or Mahingans, as they were called by the French writers. Putting Fort Frontenac in command of the Sieur de La Forest, he journeyed by canoe to Niagara, where a stockade had recently been built, called Fort de Tonty, and thence embarked with his entire company in canoes for the Miami River, which he reached in safety. Six weeks were now spent in making arrangements for the great trip down the river.

There were twenty-three Frenchmen in the party, eighteen savages, ten Indian women, and three children. The redskins insisted on taking these women with them to prepare their food, according to their custom, while they were fishing and hunting. When all was ready the adventurers started for the mouth of the Chicago River, which was found to be frozen.

Undaunted, the explorers passed down the water-course on sleds, down the Illinois to Lake Peoria, and thence to the muddy waters of the Mississippi. They had a peaceful passage southward, hunting much and fishing in the stream, and eventually arrived at the Chickasaw Bluffs. Here redskins were met with, who gave them kind treatment, and, pushing on, the little party soon arrived at a mighty village of the Arkansas Indians.

These redskins were a frank and open-hearted people of gentle manners, and very hospitable. The Sieur de La Salle was treated with marked deference and respect. He took possession of the country in the name of the King of France, erected a cross, and adorned it with the arms of his native country. This was done with great pomp and ceremony, the savages believing that it was a ritual for their amusement. Two weeks were pleasantly spent among the red men and then the voyagers kept on their way.

The journey to the mouth of the mighty water-course was easy and pleasant. Many Indian tribes were met with, but no battles occurred. Finally, on the 6th. day of April, the river was observed to divide itself into three channels, so the Sieur de La Salle separated his company into three divisions and, putting himself at the head of one of them, he took the western channel, the Chevalier de Tonty the middle, and the Sieur Dautray the eastern. The water soon became brackish, then salt, until, at last, the broad ocean opened up before them. La Salle encamped for the night about twelve miles above the mouth of the western branch, and the next day he and Tonty examined the shores bordering on the sea in order to ascertain the depth of the waters in the two principal channels. The day following was employed in searching for a dry place, removed from the tide and the inundation of the rivers, on which to erect a column and a cross. Next day this ceremony was performed.

All the Frenchmen were drawn up under arms, while a column was erected with this inscription:

“_Louis the Great, King of France and Navarre, reigns; the 9th. of April, 1682._”

The _Te Deum_ was now chanted and the soldiers discharged their muskets with shouts of _Long Live the King!_ La Salle then made a formal speech, taking possession of the whole country of Louisiana for the French King, the nations and people contained therein, the seas and harbors adjacent, and all the streams flowing into the Mississippi, which he called the great river St. Louis. A leaden plate was then buried at the foot of a tree, with a Latin inscription, containing the arms of France and the date, and stating that La Salle, Tonty, Lenobe, and twenty Frenchmen were the first to navigate the river from the Illinois to its mouth. The cross was then erected with appropriate ceremonies. At the same time an account of these proceedings was drawn up, in the form of a Proces Verbal, certified by a Notary and signed by thirteen of the principal persons of the expedition.

La Salle felt happy, for he had seen, he had come, he had conquered!

Although the journey up the Mississippi was without danger, La Salle, when he reached the upper courses, was seized with a dangerous illness which made it impossible for him to go forward for forty days. The Chevalier de Tonty was dispatched to Mackinac in order to inform the Count de Frontenac of the particulars of the voyage, and then, by slow stages, La Salle reached the Miami River, where he arrived by the end of September.

Tonty was faithful and accurate in executing his orders, so faithful that, shortly afterwards, when La Salle was well enough to sail for France, he left him in charge of all his interests during his absence.

The explorer met with a favorable reception in the old world, and it was decided that an expedition should be fitted out, for which the Government should provide vessels, troops, munitions, and such other supplies as were wanted: the whole to be under his command. He was authorized to establish colonies in Louisiana, and to take command of the immense country and all of its inhabitants from Lake Michigan to the borders of Mexico. He was given four vessels and was furnished with two hundred and eighty men.

Certainly his own government thought well of him, even if other people did not, so he and his men started for the Gulf of Mexico, determined to there found a colony which would perpetuate the name of France for all time in the Western Hemisphere.

The history of this expedition is an unfortunate one. In four vessels the adventurers crossed the ocean, intending to land at the mouth of the Mississippi. There were about two hundred and eighty persons in all, including many missionaries and soldiers, the latter being an assemblage of vagabonds and beggars from the streets, some of whom had never handled a musket. The vessels touched at the island of Santo Domingo, then crossed over into the Gulf of Mexico, heading, as all thought, for the mouth of the Mississippi. But such was not the case, and the explorers touched land near the borders of Mexico, at the Magdalen River, where the soil was barren and sandy, and where there was little game.

At different times, parties landed, hunted the wild buffalo, and explored the flat and somewhat desolate country. They constructed a fort with the timbers and planks of one of their ships, which floated ashore after the vessel went to pieces, and also with drift wood from the beach. After this was done, the Sieur de La Salle, taking fifty men with him, set out on a tour of discovery, finding a flat game-filled country and a noble river which he called the Vaches, because of the great numbers of wild cows, or buffaloes, seen upon its banks. This name it still retains.

After a journey of considerable length, the Chevalier returned, built a new fort, and then set out upon another journey of discovery. Many of his men died of exposure and rattlesnake bites, but this never disturbed the even calm of his manner. He pressed on, found the great Colorado River, and crossed it, penetrating into the wilderness for many miles. After an absence of more than four months, La Salle was again received with joy by the colonists at the fort. His men were ragged in dress, some without hats, and all were haggard and worn by exposure.

The Indians had always shown themselves to be hostile and had murdered several of the French explorers when they had strayed away from their companies. Of the four vessels which had brought over the expedition, three had returned, and the last, the _la Belle_, had been destroyed by a storm. The Sieur de La Salle was thus cut off from all supplies in a new country, two thousand miles from any civilized settlement to which he could look for succor, and surrounded on every side by hostile savages. It is no wonder that many of his followers were dissatisfied and miserably unhappy, some even plotted to kill their great and gallant leader.

Of the many expeditions which I have taken into the wilderness, with parties of men, none has ever been tranquil throughout. There is always some evil dispositioned fellow along, who raises a disturbance, makes others unhappy, and, by his surly manner, creates uneasiness and distrust, so that all are happy when the settlements have been reached and the malcontents have been allowed to go their ways in peace. So it was here. There were several Frenchmen of a jealous and mean disposition, who, feeling ill-humored because of their hardships in the wilderness, felt it their duty to murder the only true man among them all: the valiant leader. It was easy to succeed in their evil design.

Somewhere on the Mississippi River was the Chevalier Tonty, the staunch friend and companion of La Salle, and a man who was as brave and as valiant as this courageous Frenchman. Why not go in search of him? The proposition was a good one, and La Salle determined to take only the bravest and the strongest; to travel eastward; to reach the Mississippi, and to there find, if possible, his brave and noble companion-in-arms.

This was a wonderful trip. The valiant Frenchman and his companions crossed unknown rivers, broad prairies, and flat plateaus. A crocodile seized one of the soldiers by the leg and dragged him to destruction, in one instance; in another, several of the French adventurers were badly gored by buffalo.

La Salle finally reached the land of the Cencis Indians, the future home of many a Daniel Boone, a perfect paradise for the sportsman and a land of noble rivers, beautiful valleys, and much wild game. He was charmed with it, he reveled in its scenery, its beautiful valleys, its wonderful water courses, yet, here it was that he was to meet his end, an event as sad and tragic as any of the great events of American history.

On the 15th. day of March, 1687, the adventurers came to a place where the Sieur de La Salle had buried a quantity of Indian corn and beans on his last journey, and he ordered his followers, Duhaut, Hiens, Liolot, Larcheveque, Teissier, Nika, and his footman Saget, to go and bring it away. They found the place, but the corn and the beans were spoiled. Nika was fortunate in killing two buffalo, and the others dispatched Saget to inform the commander of this fact, and requested him to send horses for the meat. La Salle, consequently, directed Moraquet, De Marie, and Saget to return with horses and to send back one of them loaded with the flesh of the buffalo, for immediate use, and to wait until the rest was dried.

Moraquet arrived, found that the meat had been smoked, though it was not dry enough for this process, and Duhaut and the others had laid aside certain parts to be roasted for themselves, which, it seems, was the custom on similar occasions. Moraquet, in a passionate manner, reprimanded them for what they had done, and took away, not only the smoked meat, but the pieces which they had reserved, saying, in a menacing tone:

“Comrades, I will do with it as I please!”

This irritated the rest. Duhaut had an old grudge against Moraquet, and was quite ready to take revenge. He brought over Liolot and Hiens to help him accomplish his purpose, and finally the others, and they determined to murder Moraquet, Nika and Saget. In the night, when the unsuspecting victims were asleep, they were butchered with an ax.

The bloody work had commenced, why not let it continue? The conspirators laid a scheme, on the spot, to destroy the Sieur de La Salle. They would shoot him.

Meantime, the courageous leader of the expedition expressed anxiety at the long absence of Moraquet, and seemed to have forebodings of some unhappy event. He feared, indeed, that the whole party might have been cut off by the savages. He determined, finally, to go in search of them, leaving the camp on the 19th. day of March, in charge of Jontel. With Father Anastase, and two natives who had served him as guides, he started out to look for his companions in arms.

The valiant French explorer traveled for about six miles, when he found the bloody cravat of Saget, one of the murdered men, near the bank of a river, and, at the same time, two eagles were seen hovering over their heads, as if attracted by food somewhere on the ground.

La Salle thought that the party must be near, and fired his gun to draw the attention of those whom he wished to find. Duhaut and Larcheveque immediately came across the river and advanced to meet him. La Salle approached, saying:

“Where is the good Moraquet? Has anything happened to him?”

“He is along the river,” answered Larcheveque.

At that moment, Duhaut, who was concealed in the high grass, discharged his musket, and shot the unsuspecting Chevalier through the head. He fell forward upon his face, and Father Anastase, who was standing at his side, expected to share the same fate, until the conspirators told him that they had no design upon his life.

La Salle lived for about an hour, unable to speak, but continually pressed the hand of the good priest to signify that he understood what was said to him. Finally he passed away, and was buried by the kind father, who shed tears over the body of this brave and valiant adventurer.

Thus perished the wise Chevalier: generous, engaging, adroit, skillful, and capable of any accomplishment. He died in the full vigor of life, in the midst of his career and his labors, without the consolation of having seen the results of his great explorations. In some of the higher attributes of character, such as personal courage and endurance, undaunted resolution, patience under trials, and perseverance in contending with obstacles and struggling through embarrassments that might appall the stoutest heart, there is, I believe, no man who surpassed this Sieur de La Salle. He was cool and intrepid at all times, never yielding for a moment to despair, or even to despondency, and he bore the heavy burden of his responsibilities manfully until the end. To him and to good Father Marquette must be mainly ascribed the discovery of the vast regions of the Mississippi Valley and its subsequent occupation and settlement by the French. His name must therefore always hold a high position among those adventurous souls who struggled to conquer, to colonize, and to explore the vast American Continent, when it was a wilderness inhabited by wild men and wild beasts, and unknown to those of a white complexion.

A SONG OF THE MISSISSIPPI

Down where the muddied waters run and boil in a rushing flood, On the banks of the stream, as if in a dream, a stalwart Frenchman stood. And the mocking bird from a blossoming spray sang a song which was joyous and gay; As the welcoming sun shone on cutlass and gun, these words he trilled through the day:

“_La Salle! La Salle! O brave La Salle!_ _You’re a man of France, I know,_ _La Salle! La Salle! O good La Salle!_ _You can shoot with the gun and the bow._ _La Salle! La Salle! O true La Salle!_ _I salute your courage and love,_ _For the lilies of France, may they wave, may they dance, o’er this watery waste from above._”

And the Frenchman raised his eyes on high and sighed as he gazed afar, Where the buffalo grunted and roared on the plain, and the dun-colored prong-horns are. And he swore an oath, it was round and long, to protect this land for France, By hook and crook, by sword and book, by pike and silvery lance.

“_La Salle! La Salle! O brave La Salle!”_ _Sang the bird on the waving branch,_ _“La Salle! La Salle! O good La Salle!_ _You’re a soldier true and staunch._ _O take this land, with its silvery sand, for the King and Queen you serve;_ _And bring us peace; make the redskins cease,_ _From warfare make them swerve._”

So the Frenchman stayed, and his men were afraid to leave the land he’d found, Yet they hated their leader bold and brave, and determined to have him downed. And they hatched a plot, the bloodthirsty lot, to shoot the bold and good, Alas! ’twas sad that men were so bad, for they killed him where he stood.

And the Mississippi gurgled on; it romped, it waved, it ran, It pushed by silvery beaches, and it curled by the homes of man, While the mocker sat on the whispery branch, it sang and caroled away:

“_La Salle! La Salle! O brave La Salle!_ _Too bad! Too bad! Good day!_”

ROBERT EDWIN PEARY:

DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH POLE.

(1856-)

_Where the green bergs go careening past,_ _ And the white bears gambol and fight,_ _Where the little auks whimper and whisper a tale_ _Of the Ice King’s palace of white._ _Where the musk-oxen frisk and frolic,_ _Where the walrus fondles his mate,_ _’Tis there that a man, who was built on a plan_ _Of steel, went forth to his fate._

_O’er the glittering hills of the ice-pack,_ _O’er the floe and the treacherous lead,_ _The brown dogs hauled the loaded sledge_ _With courage and quickening speed._ _With Eskimos tried and trusted,_ _With a negro of steadfast soul,_ _He shook out the flag of the U. S. A._ _And placed it on top of the Pole._

ROBERT EDWIN PEARY:

DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH POLE.

(1856-)

IMAGINE the sensation which was caused when there suddenly appeared in the newspapers the following telegram:

“April the 6th., 1909. Stars and Stripes nailed to the Pole.

PEARY.”

People were astonished and looked amazed. Could it be possible that the North Pole had at last been discovered, after hundreds of years of effort upon the part of numerous adventurers, many of whom had never come back to tell the tale? Was it true that, after twenty-three years of effort, Commander Peary had at last reached the most northern point upon the earth’s surface? Yes, it seemed to be the fact. At last the North Pole had been trod upon by the foot of a white man.

Instantly the news was scattered from St. John’s, New Brunswick, and from New York, to the four corners of the globe, and a great shout of enthusiastic congratulation went up from every place where civilized men were gathered together, for all the world had been watching the plucky commander of the United States Navy, who, for twenty-three years, had been working upon the problem of how to reach the North Pole. “Hurrah! Hurrah for Peary!” was heard on every side. “He has been victorious where hundreds have failed. Again Hurrah!”

Those who disbelieved the first telegram were soon assured by others that the Pole had really been reached, for Mr. Herbert L. Bridgman, Secretary of the Peary Arctic Club, was telegraphed to as follows:

“Pole reached. _Roosevelt_ safe.

PEARY.”

And, still later, the Commander’s devoted wife at South Harpswell, Maine, received the message:

“Have made good at last. I have the old Pole. Am well. Love. Will wire again from Chateau.

BERT.”

Now there could be no doubt that the great feat had really been accomplished and soon a wireless message from Indian Harbor, Labrador, told that the good ship _Roosevelt_ was there with all safe on board, and was steaming southward as fast as she was able.

At length she arrived at New York. A throng of newspapermen and citizens gathered immediately around the bold explorer, who, with his companions, was given a royal welcome home. This was as it should have been, for Peary was the only man who had really stood upon the very top of this sphere upon which we live.

Robert Edwin Peary, who “nailed the Stars and Stripes to the North Pole,” was born in Cresson, Pennsylvania, May 6th., 1856. When still a mere lad he moved to Portland, Maine, and, after studying in private schools and an academy in North Bridgton, Maine, he entered Bowdoin College, graduating in 1877. He now became a draughtsman in the U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey, then passed a stiff examination and entered the United States Navy as a Civil Engineer, ranking as a Lieutenant. In 1884, or three years later, he was an assistant government engineer in the surveys for the proposed route for the Nicaragua Canal, inventing several rolling locks for the use of the workmen. He became engineer-in-chief of the Nicaragua Survey.

About this time he began to have ideas connected with the search for the North Pole, and, obtaining a short leave of absence, made a trip into Greenland, accompanied by a Dane called Margaard. A faithful negro, named Matthew Henson, who had served with him in Nicaragua, followed him to the Arctic on this trip, and continued to be with him upon all his subsequent expeditions.

Upon his return to civilization, the explorer immediately began to spend his spare time in preparing for another expedition to the north. He married, meanwhile, Miss Josephine Diebitsch whom he had met in Maine when a young man.

In 1891-92 he again made a trip into the frozen fastnesses of the polar region, which was financed by the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia. The Expedition was thoroughly organized before the men started north, and supplies were left at convenient points, so that starvation would not kill off the adventurers as it had done to so many other explorers.

Establishing headquarters at McCormick Bay, on the western coast of Greenland, Peary and his men made sledge excursions along Whale Sound, Inglefield Gulf, and Humboldt Glacier, proving that the coasts of Greenland converged at the northern portion, doubtless forming an island of what was thought to be a peninsula. Although his leg was broken when crossing Melville Bay, the brave explorer persisted in his work, and returned in September, 1892, with a brilliant record of results accomplished.

With one companion, Astrup, he had ascended to the summit of the great ice cap which covers the interior of Greenland, 5,000 to 8,000 feet in elevation, and had pushed northward for 500 miles over a region where no white man had ever been before. The temperature was from 10 degrees to 50 degrees below zero. On July 4th., 1892, he discovered Independence Bay, and found a valley nearby, which was radiant with gorgeous flowers and was alive with murmuring bees. Here also were many musk-oxen, browsing lazily upon the long, rank grasses.

The explorer now determined to spend his life in an attempt to reach the Pole, which lay 396 geographical miles farther north than any man had yet penetrated on the western hemisphere. He was convinced that the only way to eventually reach his goal was by adopting the manner of life, the food, the snowhouses, and the clothing of the Eskimos, who had learned how to combat the rigors of Arctic weather by centuries of experience. He must also utilize the game of the northland, the walrus, the musk-oxen, and the reindeer, in order to keep his men in fit condition and of good temper when the long winter night came upon them. Lastly he must train the Eskimos so that they should become his sledging crew.

The first north polar expedition lasted for four years, from 1898 to 1902, and Peary failed to get nearer than 343 miles of the Pole. Each year dense packs of ice blocked his passage to the polar ocean and he was compelled to make his base 700 miles from the Pole, or 200 miles south of the headquarters of Nares, from which point he could reach the Pole in one season. But during this period, he explored and mapped hundreds of miles of the coastline of Greenland and of the islands to the west and north.

The navigator and explorer now designed and constructed the _Roosevelt_, a boat built to withstand the crush of the masses of ice, and with this he battled a way to the desired haven upon the shores of the polar sea. From this place he made a wonderful march to the point 87° 6´, or nearer to the Pole than any man had ever been. He would have reached the Pole, this time, but winds of excessive fury opened great leads and robbed him of the prize and nearly of his own life. This was in 1906.

Commander Peary was now resolved to make his next advance upon the Pole by the same route as he had just used. His previous efforts had been financed by Mr. Morris K. Jessup, whose interest in Polar explorations, and faith in Peary, made him willing at all times to furnish whatever money the Commander required. But the kind Mr. Jessup was now dead and the explorer knew that he would have a difficult time to raise the funds to equip another expedition.

Commander Peary had established a training school for the Eskimos and their dogs at Etah, and he now learned of the departure of Dr. Frederick A. Cook, who had served with him upon a previous expedition, and Mr. John R. Bradley, a noted sportsman, to this point. He knew that these men might use his Eskimo friends, with their dogs, for a “dash” to the Pole, while he was held behind a prisoner in New York, because of the lack of funds. Yet, what could he do without the money?

The _Roosevelt_ was in bad shape and needed overhauling. She was built in Maine by the Peary Arctic Club for the expedition of 1905 and was designed by the explorer himself. She was a three-masted, fore-and-aft schooner-rigged steamship, built entirely of white oak with treble frames close together, double planked. Her walls were 24 to 30 inches thick. Her heavy bow was backed by 12 feet of solid deadwood. Her keel was 16 inches thick and was reënforced with false keels and a keelson. Her stern, reënforced by iron, had a long overhang to protect the rudder from the ice, and the rudder itself was so arranged that it could be lifted out of the water, when jammed or entangled.

It was out of the question to go in 1907, but, by the next season a great deal of work had been done and sufficient funds had been secured to make the good, old ship strong and ready again, and to fill her with necessary stores. A crew was secured, presents for the Eskimos were on board, and material for sledges, dog harness, guns, ammunition, and scientific instruments. The ship’s sides were strengthened, her machinery was made as good as new, and so, at last, she steamed up the East River, outward bound.

On July 7th., 1908, she stopped near Sagamore Hill, Long Island, the home of the then President Roosevelt, and the chief Executive grasped the explorer by the hand, bidding him: “Good luck and God speed!”

The voyager replied that he had never before felt so confident of winning the Pole and would reach it, this time, or “bust.”

Mr. Roosevelt laughed and waved “good-bye,” as the staunch craft, which bore his name, plowed forth into the Atlantic.

Reaching Etah in safety, a number of Eskimos were taken on board, and, pointing her nose toward the north, the _Roosevelt_ disappeared into a murky fog. A ship called the Erik was nearby, and soon returned to civilization with the last words from Peary and his men. This was in August, 1908.

Meanwhile, the _Roosevelt_ was steadily pushed northward, through the defiles of Kennedy and Robeson channels, where the moving ice opened here and there and allowed the vessel to steal between the floes. Three weeks later the Arctic Ocean came in sight. Entering it, the steamer was turned to the left and was pushed along the coast as rapidly as could be done against the ice pack. Commander Peary meant, if possible, to reach Cape Columbia, a headland well to the west and on the north coast of Grant Land. Yet he could not do this, for the ice, which pressed against the promontory of Cape Sheridan, shut off any progress beyond that point. Thus, on the first day of September, the _Roosevelt_ was laid to in a snug harbor under the protection of Cape Sheridan, and the crew went into winter quarters.

The men amused themselves hunting polar bears, musk-oxen, and caribou during the long months which had to be passed before the “dash” could be attempted. The continuous night at length wore itself to a close, and, in February, the first gray light of the approaching Arctic dawn began to dispel the darkness.

Upon the fifteenth of that month, 1909, a sledging expedition left the ship in the direction of Cape Columbia, which was to be the base camp in the “dash” for the goal of Peary’s ambition. This overland trip consumed a fortnight, Cape Columbia being reached on March 1st. Here the adventurers were 420 miles from the North Pole in a straight line, and, with parties to support him and leave food, the daring Peary now started towards the top of the earth. In order to get away from open water he had gone far westward in the effort to avoid the usual eastward drift of the polar ice and open water, which would defeat his efforts.

At last he was off. Open leads—cracks in the ice filled with water—delayed him greatly during the first ten days of the expedition, so that by March the eleventh the party had only reached the 84th. parallel. He kept on, found the ice more even, and by the seventeenth, had reached the eighty-sixth. On the twenty-third of that month he outdistanced the best record of a Norwegian, that of Nansen. Here his last supporting party was sent back, the leader of which, Professor Ross G. Marvin of Cornell University, lost his life by drowning in an open lead, April the tenth.

The chosen few, gaunt, hollow-eyed, and energetic, pressed towards their goal, and, on March the 24th., the best Italian record was distanced. On, on, they crept over the ice-pack, the dogs trotting along briskly, and pulling the little sledges slowly but surely towards the apex of the earth. Living on pemmican (dried meat, sugar, and raisins) and tea, the leader and his companions kept up both their strength and their spirits. On March 27th., the 87th. parallel was passed, and on the 28th. Peary’s own record of “farthest north” was distanced. The goal was near and confidence increased with every mile of the advance.

When traveling in this region, heretofore, the gallant explorer had been often hindered by leads of open water and massive hummocks of ice. Fate was now propitious and the ice seemed to be more flat and solid than Peary had ever experienced before. On April 2nd., the 88th. parallel was crossed. Two days later the 89th. parallel was left behind, and in two days more, on April the sixth, the little party reached the center of the northern hemisphere, and Commander Peary stood at the North Pole. Hurray! Hurray! The goal had been reached!

With the explorer were four trusted Eskimos and the negro Henson, who had been with him on every expedition. The Eskimos were Ooqueah, Ootah, Seeglo, and Egingwah. Each of them placed a different flag upon an ice cap at the uttermost end of the earth. These were the banners of the Navy League, the D. K. E. Fraternity, the Red Cross Flag, the D. A. R. Peace Flag, and the flag of the United States carried by the explorer for fifteen years. All cheered for the Pole and for the flag, and then had a right merry feast upon the very apex of the earth. No ice was needed in the water which they drank!

The explorer had been so exhausted when he arrived at the Pole that he had to seek a few hours’ sleep. Then he arose and wrote the following words in his diary:

“The Pole at last. The prize of three centuries. My dream and goal for twenty years. Mine at last! I cannot bring myself to realize it. It seems all so simple and commonplace!”

Yet, here he was, and he shook hands with all the Eskimos, who seemed to be childishly pleased at the feat which they had accomplished. Again they gave “three times three,” with a vim, for the North Pole.

The Commander had good reason to be delighted, for, as he says: “For more than a score of years that point on the earth’s surface had been the object of my every effort. To its attainment my whole being, physical, mental and moral, had been dedicated. Many times my own life and the lives of those with me had been risked. My own material and forces and those of my friends had been devoted to this object. This journey was my eighth into the Arctic wilderness. In that wilderness I had spent nearly twelve years out of the twenty-three between my thirtieth and my fifty-third year, and the intervening time spent in civilized communities during that period had been mainly occupied with preparations for returning to the wilderness. The determination to reach the Pole had become so much a part of my being, that, strange as it may seem, I long ago ceased to think of myself, save as an instrument for the attainment of that end. To the layman this may seem strange, but an inventor can understand it, or an artist, or any one who has devoted himself for years upon years to the service of an idea.”

At about four o’clock on the afternoon of April 7th., the explorers turned their backs on the Pole, leaving with a sense of sadness, for this was certainly a scene which their “eye would never see again.” The journey home was fraught with danger. Would they make it?

The extraordinary speed which they had made in reaching the Pole was exceeded in the journey home. In sixteen days Cape Columbia had been reached, for the dogs were good ones, and they averaged twenty-six miles of travel a day. On April the 23rd., Peary entered his “igloo,” or ice-house, at “Crane City,” Cape Columbia.

In one march of forty-five miles, Cape Hecla was reached, and the _Roosevelt_ in another of equal length. The Commander’s heart thrilled, as, rounding the point of the cape, he saw the little black ship lying there in her icy berth, with her sturdy nose pointing straight to the Pole. His dreadful trip was over and Victory perched upon the masts of the intrepid vessel.

The ship was soon made ready for the homeward voyage. In ten days’ time she was prepared to sail, and, on July 18th., with only the tragic memory of the lost and lamented Marvin to lessen the high spirits of all, the _Roosevelt_ pulled slowly out from the cape and turned her nose again to the south. On September 25th., she steamed into Indian Harbor, in Labrador, and the first dispatch went on the wires: “Have made good at last, I have the Pole.”

Yet, much of the glory of Peary’s Arctic discovery had been spoiled by Dr. Frederick A. Cook, an impostor, who had come from the north, some months before, had stated that he had reached the Pole, and had spread the news broadcast over the civilized world. Many had believed him, and he was given receptions, balls, the freedom of cities, until his records were found to be worthless and his story finally discredited. His advent into the arena at this time was most unfortunate for the gallant Peary, to whom belongs all the glory and honor which is due a brave man who did a big deed.

The _Roosevelt_ at last reached the little town of Sydney, Cape Breton, where Mrs. Peary and the children were to meet the explorer. As the vessel neared the city, the entire water-front was alive with people. The seaport to which the adventurous navigator had returned so many times, unsuccessful, gave him a royal welcome as the _Roosevelt_ steamed into view, flying at her masthead a flag which had never before entered any port in history,—the North Pole flag.

The success of the expedition was due to the experience, the courage, endurance, and devotion of its members, who put all that there was in them into the work; and to the unswerving faith and loyalty of the Peary Arctic Club, which furnished the funds without which nothing could have been accomplished. Again, THREE CHEERS FOR PEARY! He is a hero of whom all may be proud.

THE MISTY MAID

Away up North, in the frozen sea, where the booby walrus breed, There lives a Maid, dressed all in white, who rides a snowy steed. Her eyes are blue and her tresses gold, she has cheeks of a crimson stain, On her head a helmet of dazzling hue, on her bosom a breastplate plain.

_Oh! hear the penguins laffin, saying, “Baffin! Baffin! Baffin!”_ _Oh! Hear the penguins laffin, while the cutting blizzards sigh,_ _Oh! Hear the penguins laffin, saying, “Baffin! Baffin! Baffin!”_ _The little penguins all bob low as the Misty Maid goes by._

She’s seen the trail of Nansen, and she’s hovered o’er Peary’s head, She’s cried at the fate of Hudson, at the boat of a hundred dead, She’s watched the fires of Davis, she’s fastened the anchors of Kane, And she’s been near the tents of Franklin, by the icy wind-ripped lane.

_Oh! hear the penguins laffin, saying, “Baffin! Baffin! Baffin!”_ _Oh! Hear the penguins laffin, while the cutting blizzards sigh,_ _Oh! Hear the penguins laffin, saying, “Baffin! Baffin! Baffin!”_ _The little penguins all bob low as the Misty Maid goes by._

Yes, the Maid is a Maid of sorrow, her cheeks with tears are dim; For the skeletons of a thousand men she’s seen on the North Pole rim. As she prances on her snow white steed she beckons to stay away, For her home is a home of frozen death—yea! pain and death alway.

_But hear the penguins laffin, saying, “Baffin! Baffin! Baffin!”_ _The penguins still are laffin while the cutting blizzards sigh;_ _You can hear them always laffin, saying, “Baffin! Baffin! Baffin!”_ _The little penguins all bob low as the Misty Maid goes by._

The Maid is a girl of sadness, and the Maid is a girl of woe, For she’s Mistress of the Polar Sea, of the ice and the darkling floe; The Maid has seen the starving crew, she has viewed the drowning boat, And her eyes are dim, and her face is cold, for she hears the rattling throat.

_But hear the penguins laffin, saying, “Baffin! Baffin! Baffin!”_ _You can always hear them laffin, while the cutting blizzards sigh._ _Oh! Hear the penguins laffin, saying, “Baffin! Baffin! Baffin!”_ _The little penguins all bob low as the Misty Maid goes by._

And the snowy owl, with his wintry cowl, sighs a song of bitter woe, While the narwhal swims, and the musk-ox grins, at the crushing ice-pack flow, For the great white bear sneaks to his lair, where the little seals are lying, And out of the mist, with the moonlight kissed, a great weird song comes sighing:

_Don’t_ follow the Maid of the Northland; _don’t_ gaze at her laughing eyes; For the Maid knows naught but sorrow, and naught but the ice king’s lies; _Don’t_ look at the Maid of the Polar Seas, her wand is a witch’s staff, Just stay away from the North Sea gray. _Don’t go where the penguins laugh!_

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

THE history of these adventurous men shows that the human mind, ever curious and ever anxious to discover new and unknown facts, will stimulate the endeavors of staunch physical beings to do feats of daring and energy which those of more contented and passive mentality will never feel either willing or able to accomplish.

Leif Ericson, Hudson, Pizarro, Peary, all were propelled onward upon their missions of discovery and of adventure by that curious spark of daring and love of adventure which has stimulated a Roosevelt and a Dillon Wallace.

It is the mind that drives onward the body; it is the bump of curiosity which propels the adventurer to take the risks and the hazards which are necessary for exploration of unmapped countries.

Restless, dare-devilish souls will always exist, and, now that there are no parts of the North American continent which are unknown to the geographer and the man of scientific bent, those who are prompted onward by the spirit of hazardous adventure must search for the unknown in the unmapped and untouched regions of Africa or of South America. Here vast wildernesses call to those of adventurous blood to come and to admire; to struggle with the elements and to battle with the currents of their water-courses and the unmarked trails of their mountains. But no treasure of the Montezumas, nor gold of the Incas, lie where the restless grasp of the invader can reach out and appropriate as in the days of the dauntless Cortés and the avaricious Pizarro.

So, live on! O Spirit of Adventure, without which there would be no sparkle to life, no zest to the journey into the wilderness, no tang to the canoe trip through the unknown chain of lakes, or the beaver-dammed water course. Live on! and may you ever exist in the minds of young America, so that, when the great call shall go up for those of Viking soul and De Soto daring to rise and press onward for the honor of the flag, there will be thousands of adventurers who have been trained to the hazard of the camp, the slap of the paddle, and the gleam of the rifle-barrel.

They, like the intrepid Peary, will “nail the good, old flag” to the very ends of the earth, for it represents “liberty, equality, fraternity”—three glorious qualities for the maintenance of which every true-minded boy, when he grows to be a man, will be willing to give his time, his energy, and, if necessary—his life.

THE END.

INDEX

Albuquerque, 188-189

Almagro, Diego, 220-221, 223-229, 246-247

Almedo, Father, 129-130, 158, 170

Alvarado, Lieutenant, 159-161, 170, 177

Alvarado, Moscoso de, 269

Anastase, Father, 403-404

Antonio, Father, 70-71, 75, 78-81

Astrup, Mr., 414

Atamara, 63-65, 68

Balboa, Vasco Nuñez de, 87-105, 195, 219-220

Barentz, William, 311

Bartola, Sergeant, 79

Bayard, Chevalier, 174, 294

Berardi, 47

Bonaparte, Napoleon, 228

Bjarni, son of Herjulf, 6-9

Bradley, John R., 416

Bridgman, Herbert L., 412

Cacama, 144, 155-156, 170

Cæsar, Julius, 228

Candia, Pedro de, 228

Capac, Huascar, 233, 235, 242-245

Capac, Huayna, 233

Capac, Manco, 233

Carthagena, Juan de, 193

Cartier, Jacques, 276

Cempoalla, Cacique, 128

Champlain, Samuel de, 273

Charles I, of Spain, 229-231, 235, 239, 246, 251-252, 266

Charles V, 109, 122, 126-127, 135, 143-144, 156, 181, 189-190, 194, 199, 205-206

Chastes, Seigneur de, 273, 275-277

Cilapulapu, 199-200

Colman, John, 319

Columbus, Christopher, 8, 13, 17-39, 47, 56, 58, 88, 95, 110, 181, 192

Columbus, Ferdinand, 18, 20

Cook, Dr. Frederick A., 416, 422

Coronado, Francisco Vasquez de, 267

Cortés, Hernando, 109-183, 205-206, 219, 430

Cortés, Martin, 182

Cuilahua, 144

Dautray, Sieur, 397

Davis, Richard Harding, 56

Diebitsch, Miss Josephine, see Peary, Mrs. Robert Edwin

Dolores, Doña, 67

Drulettes, Father, 364

Duhaut, 402-404

Egingwah, 420

Emanuel I, 56, 58, 66

Encisco, 89-92, 100

Enriquez, Carlo, 261

Ericson, Freydis, 11-12

Ericson, Leif, 3-13, 429

Ericson, Thorstein, 5, 10-11

Eric the Red, 5-7, 10

Escobar, 166

Escovedo, Rodrigo de, 32

Esequera, Perez de, 69

Falero, Roy, 189

Ferdinand V, 22-23, 25, 28, 32-35, 37, 46-47, 52, 65-66, 70-71, 78, 81, 91-92, 96-97, 99-100, 189

Fernandez, Garcia, 18-19

Finnibogi, 11

Florida, Adelantodo of the Land of, 71

Florin, Juan, 205

Francis I, 210, 215

Frontenac, Count de, 389, 394, 398

Gama, Vasca de, 308

Gosnold, Bartholomew, 316

Grijalva, 112, 116

Groseillers, 358-359

Guacanagari, 31

Guatemozin, 176, 178-180

Guitierrez, Pedro, 27

Helgi, 11

Henry IV, 274, 277, 286, 290

Henry VIII, 109

Hennepin, Father, 393

Henson, Matthew, 413, 420

Herjulf, 6, 8

Hiens, 402-403

Holguin, Garci, 179-180

Hudson, Hendrick, see Hudson, Henry

Hudson, Henry, 305-334, 429

Hudson, John, 309, 311, 333

Idona, 64

Ilacomilo, 59

Isabella I, 18-23, 28, 32-33, 35-37, 46-47, 52, 156, 189

Jessup, Morris K., 416

John II, 187, 189, 198

Joliet, Father, 367-377, 386

Jontel, 403

La Motte, Sieur de, 387-393

Lamudio, 91-92, 96

Larcheveque, 402, 404

La Salle, Robert de, 385-405

Leif Ericson, see Ericson, Leif

Leif the Lucky, see Ericson, Leif

Lenobe, 398

Leon, Juan Ponce de, 63-83

Leon, Ponce de, see Leon, Juan Ponce de

Leon, Velasquez de, 153, 170

Leonora, of Portugal, 187

Liolot, 402-403

Lothair, 3-5

Louis XIV, 386, 397-398

Luque, Hernando de, 220-221, 224, 228

Magarino, 170

Magellan, Ferdinand, 46, 187-202

Malinche, Marina, 118, 124-125, 138-139, 147, 153-154, 157, 168, 179-180

Margaard, 413

Marle, De, 402

Marquette, Father, 363-379, 385-386, 405

Martin, Alonzo, 97

Marvin, Professor Ross G., 419, 422

Medici family, 47

Mendoza, Luis de, 193-194

Montaño, Francio, 175-176

Monteleone, Duke of, 182

Montezuma, Emperor, 118-127, 132-172, 176, 178, 205

Monts, Sieur de, 277-278

Moraquet, 402-404

Moya, Marchioness, 20

Murat, Joachim, 174

Nansen, Fridtjof, 419

Nares, 415

Narváez, 159, 161, 170, 254, 257

Navarre, Henry of, see Henry IV

Nicuesa, 89-92

Nika, 402-403

Nomi, 64

Ojeda, 47, 52-56

Olaf Tryggbesson, 6-7

Olatheta, 77-81

Olid, 177

Ooqueah, 420

Ootah, 420

Ortiz, Juan, 254

Peary, Mrs. Robert Edwin, 413, 422

Peary, Robert Edwin, 277, 309, 411-423, 429-430

Pedrarias, 100-105

Perez, Juan, 17-20, 35

Peru, Incas Atahuallpa Capac, of, 219-220, 233-245, 247, 251, 430

Pinzon, Francis, 23

Pinzon, Martin Alonzo, 19, 23, 32

Pinzon, Vincent, 23

Pizarro, Francisco, 98, 104, 219-247, 251, 254, 430

Pizarro, Francisco de Alcantara, 231-232

Pizarro, Gonzalo, 231-232, 246

Pizarro, Hernando, 231-232, 246

Pizarro, Juan, 231-232

Pocahontas, 254

Pontgrave, Captain, 278-280

Quanhpopoca, 152, 154

Quetzalcoatl, God of the Air, 114, 120-121, 127, 135-136

Quito, Princess, 233

Radisson, Pierre Esprit, 339-360

Richelieu, Cardinal, 295

Rodriguez, Sebastian, 19-20

Rolfe, John, 254

Ruiz, 224-226, 228

Saget, 402-403

Salamanca, Juan de, 175

Sandoval, Captain, 159, 170, 177, 180

Sannatowah, 73-75

Seeglo, 420

Smith, Captain John, 307, 313, 316

Soto, Diego de, 261

Soto, Hernando de, 65, 87, 251-270, 430

Tafur, Captain, 228-229

Talavera, 21

Tegesta, 75-76

Teissier, 402

Tenhtlile, 118-121

Tezcuco, King of, see Tezcusans

Tezcusans, King of, 113, 121

Thorwald, 11-12

Tlacopan, King of, 121

Tonty, Chevalier, 387-393, 395-399, 401

Totonacs, Chief of, 123-127

Triana, Rodrigo de, 27

Tual, 199

Tubanama, 99, 101

Tuscaloosa, 259-262, 266

Valverde, Father, 239-240

Velasquez, Diego, 111-112, 117, 127

Verrazano, Giovanni, 205-215

Vespucci, Americus, see Vespucci, Amerigo

Vespucci, Amerigo, 45-59

Vespucci, Anastatio, 45

Vespucci, Geralamo, 46

Xuarez, Catalina, 112

Selections from L. C. Page & Company’s Books for Young People

THE BLUE BONNET SERIES

_Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $ 2.00 _The seven volumes, boxed as a set_ 14.00

A TEXAS BLUE BONNET By CAROLINE E. JACOBS.

BLUE BONNET’S RANCH PARTY By CAROLINE E. JACOBS AND EDYTH ELLERBECK READ.

BLUE BONNET IN BOSTON By CAROLINE E. JACOBS AND LELA HORN RICHARDS.

BLUE BONNET KEEPS HOUSE By CAROLINE E. JACOBS AND LELA HORN RICHARDS.

BLUE BONNET—DÉBUTANTE By LELA HORN RICHARDS.

BLUE BONNET OF THE SEVEN STARS By LELA HORN RICHARDS.

BLUE BONNET’S FAMILY By LELA HORN RICHARDS.

“Blue Bonnet has the very finest kind of wholesome, honest, lively girlishness and cannot but make friends with every one who meets her through these books about her.”—_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

“Blue Bonnet and her companions are real girls, the kind that one would like to have in one’s home.”—_New York Sun._

THE HENRIETTA SERIES

By LELA HORN RICHARDS

_Each one volume, 12mo, illustrated_ $1.90

ONLY HENRIETTA

“It is an inspiring story of the unfolding of life for a young girl—a story in which there is plenty of action to hold interest and wealth of delicate sympathy and understanding that appeals to the hearts of young and old.”—_Pittsburgh Leader._

HENRIETTA’S INHERITANCE

“One of the most noteworthy stories for girls issued this season. The life of Henrietta is made very real, and there is enough incident in the narrative to balance the delightful characterization.”—_Providence Journal._

STORIES BY I. M. B. OF K.

_Each one volume, 12mo, illustrated_ $1.75

THE YOUNG KNIGHT

The clash of broad-sword on buckler, the twanging of bow-strings and the cracking of spears splintered by whirling maces resound through this stirring tale of knightly daring-do.

THE YOUNG CAVALIERS

“There have been many scores of books written about the Charles Stuarts of England, but never a merrier and more pathetic one than ‘The Young Cavaliers.’”—_Family Herald._

THE KING’S MINSTREL

“The interesting situations are numerous, and the spirit of the hero is one of courage, devotion and resource.”—_Columbus Dispatch._

“It is told with spirit and action.”—_Buffalo Express._

“The story will please all those who read it, and will be of particular interest for the boys for whom it was intended. It is a tale of devotion to an ideal of service and as such will appeal to youth.”—_Portage Register-Democrat._

“There is a lofty ideal throughout, some court intrigue, a smattering of the decadence of the old church heads, and a readable story.”—_Middletown Press._

THE BOYS’ STORY OF THE RAILROAD SERIES

By BURTON E. STEVENSON

_Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated_ $1.75

THE YOUNG SECTION-HAND; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALLAN WEST.

“The whole range of section railroading is covered in the story.”—_Chicago Post._

THE YOUNG TRAIN DISPATCHER

“A vivacious account of the varied and often hazardous nature of railroad life.”—_Congregationalist._

THE YOUNG TRAIN MASTER

“It is a book that can be unreservedly commended to anyone who loves a good, wholesome, thrilling, informing yarn.”—_Passaic News._

THE YOUNG APPRENTICE; OR, ALLAN WEST’S CHUM.

“The story is intensely interesting.”—_Baltimore Sun._

THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY SERIES

Of Worth While Classics for Boys and Girls

_Revised and Edited for the Modern Reader_

_Each large 12mo, illustrated and with a poster jacket in full color_ $2.00

THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY

By W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS.

THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS

By C. M. YONGE.

ERLING THE BOLD

By R. M. BALLANTYNE.

WINNING HIS KNIGHTHOOD; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF RAOULF DE GYSSAGE.

By H. TURING BRUCE.

“Tales which ring to the clanking of armour, tales of marches and counter-marches, tales of wars, but tales which bring peace; a peace and contentment in the knowledge that right, even in the darkest times, has survived and conquered.”—_Portland Evening Express._

BARBARA WINTHROP SERIES

By HELEN KATHERINE BROUGHALL

_Each one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated_ $2.00

BARBARA WINTHROP AT BOARDING SCHOOL BARBARA WINTHROP AT CAMP BARBARA WINTHROP: GRADUATE BARBARA WINTHROP ABROAD

“Full of adventure—initiations, joys, picnics, parties, tragedies, vacation and all. Just what girls like, books in which ‘dreams come true,’ entertaining ‘gossipy’ books overflowing with conversation.”—_Salt Lake City Deseret News._

“High ideals and a real spirit of fun underlie the stories. They will be a decided addition to the bookshelves of the young girl for whom a holiday gift is contemplated.”—_Los Angeles Saturday Night._

DOCTOR’S LITTLE GIRL SERIES

By MARION AMES TAGGART

_Each large 12mo, cloth, illustrated, per volume_, $1.75

THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE GIRL

“A charming story of the ups and downs of the life of a dear little maid.”—_The Churchman._

SWEET NANCY: THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE GIRL.

“Just the sort of book to amuse, while its influence cannot but be elevating.”—_New York Sun._

NANCY, THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE PARTNER

“The story is sweet and fascinating, such as many girls of wholesome tastes will enjoy.”—_Springfield Union._

NANCY PORTER’S OPPORTUNITY

“Nancy shows throughout that she is a splendid young woman, with plenty of pluck.”—_Boston Globe._

NANCY AND THE COGGS TWINS

“The story is refreshing.”—_New York Sun._

THE PEGGY RAYMOND SERIES

By HARRIET LUMMIS SMITH

_Each one volume, cloth, decorative, 12mo, illustrated, per volume_ $1.75

PEGGY RAYMOND’S SUCCESS; OR, THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACE.

“It is a book that cheers, that inspires to higher thinking; it knits hearts; it unfolds neighborhood plans in a way that makes one tingle to try carrying them out, and most of all it proves that in daily life, threads of wonderful issues are being woven in with what appears the most ordinary of material, but which in the end brings results stranger than the most thrilling fiction.”—_Belle Kellogg Towne in The Young People’s Weekly, Chicago._

PEGGY RAYMOND’S VACATION

“It is a clean, wholesome, hearty story, well told and full of incident. It carries one through experiences that hearten and brighten the day.”—_Utica, N. Y., Observer._

PEGGY RAYMOND’S SCHOOL DAYS

“It is a bright, entertaining story, with happy girls, good times, natural development, and a gentle earnestness of general tone.”—_The Christian Register, Boston._

PEGGY RAYMOND’S FRIENDLY TERRACE QUARTETTE

“The story is told in easy and entertaining style and is a most delightful narrative, especially for young people. It will also make the older readers feel younger, for while reading it they will surely live again in the days of their youth.”—_Troy Budget._

PEGGY RAYMOND’S WAY

“The author has again produced a story that is replete with wholesome incidents and makes Peggy more lovable than ever as a companion and leader.”—_World of Books._

FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES

_Each one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated by photographs, per volume_ _$2.00_

BY CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON

(“Uncle Chas.”)

“_If you see that it’s by ‘Uncle Chas.’ you know that it’s historically correct._”—_Review._

FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS FAMOUS SCOUTS FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN AND ADVENTURERS OF THE SEA FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN AND HEROES OF THE BORDER FAMOUS DISCOVERERS AND EXPLORERS OF AMERICA FAMOUS GENERALS OF THE GREAT WAR

Who Led the United States and Her Allies to a Glorious Victory.

FAMOUS AMERICAN ATHLETES OF TODAY

_Cloth 12mo, illustrated from specially autographed photographs_ _$2.50_

“From Lindy to Bobby Jones, including Helen and Trudy, they are all here—and a right fine company they are. We are not acquainted with anyone who will not enjoy these fascinating stories of virile people.”—_Monthly Book Talk._

FAMOUS AMERICAN ATHLETES OF TODAY, Second Series.

_A companion volume to the above_ _$2.50_

Included in this volume are Charles Francis Adams, Secretary of the Navy; Rear Admiral Richard Evelyn Byrd, and Miss Amelia Earhart, three figures bigger than those usually engaged in merely competitive games—but good sports nevertheless.

By EDWIN WILDMAN

THE FOUNDERS OF AMERICA (Lives of Great Americans from the Revolution to the Monroe Doctrine)

THE BUILDERS OF AMERICA (Lives of Great Americans from the Monroe Doctrine to the Civil War)

FAMOUS LEADERS OF CHARACTER (Lives of Great Americans from the Civil War to To-day)

FAMOUS LEADERS OF INDUSTRY.—First Series

FAMOUS LEADERS OF INDUSTRY.—Second Series

By TRENTWELL M. WHITE

FAMOUS LEADERS OF INDUSTRY.—Third Series $2.50

The author includes the foremost figures in the fields of radio, banking, chain stores, electrical manufacturing, aeronautics, railroads, automobiles, high finance and newspaperdom.

“These biographies drive home the truth that just as every soldier of Napoleon carried a marshal’s baton in his knapsack, so every American youngster carries potential success under his hat.”

—_New York World._

By CHARLES LEE LEWIS

_Professor, United States Naval Academy, Annapolis_

FAMOUS AMERICAN NAVAL OFFICERS With a complete index.

“In connection with the life of John Paul Jones, Stephen Decatur, and other famous naval officers, he groups the events of the period in which the officer distinguished himself, and combines the whole into a colorful and stirring narrative.”—_Boston Herald._

STORIES BY EVALEEN STEIN

_Each one volume, 12mo, illustrated_ $1.65

GABRIEL AND THE HOUR BOOK A LITTLE SHEPHERD OF PROVENCE THE CHRISTMAS PORRINGER THE LITTLE COUNT OF NORMANDY PEPIN: A Tale of Twelfth Night CHILDREN’S STORIES THE CIRCUS DWARF STORIES WHEN FAIRIES WERE FRIENDLY TROUBADOUR TALES

“No works in juvenile fiction contain so many of the elements that stir the hearts of children and grown-ups as well as do the stories so admirably told by this author.”—_Louisville Daily Courier._

“Evaleen Stein’s stories are music in prose—they are like pearls on a chain of gold—each word seems exactly the right word in the right place; the stories sing themselves out, they are so beautifully expressed.”—_The Lafayette Leader._

MINUTE BOYS SERIES

By JAMES OTIS and EDWARD STRATEMEYER

_Each, one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, fully illustrated, per volume_ $1.50

This series of books for boys needs no recommendation. We venture to say that there are few boys of any age in this broad land who do not know and love both these authors and their stirring tales.

These books, as shown by their titles, deal with periods in the history of the development of our great country which are of exceeding interest to every patriotic American boy—and girl. Places and personages of historical interest are here presented to the young reader in story form, and a great deal of real information is unconsciously gathered.

THE MINUTE BOYS OF PHILADELPHIA THE MINUTE BOYS OF BOSTON THE MINUTE BOYS OF NEW YORK CITY THE MINUTE BOYS OF LONG ISLAND THE MINUTE BOYS OF SOUTH CAROLINA THE MINUTE BOYS OF THE WYOMING VALLEY THE MINUTE BOYS OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY THE MINUTE BOYS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS THE MINUTE BOYS OF BUNKER HILL THE MINUTE BOYS OF LEXINGTON THE MINUTE BOYS OF YORKTOWN

THE YOUNG PIONEER SERIES

By HARRISON ADAMS

_Each 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.65

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO; OR, CLEARING THE WILDERNESS.

THE PIONEER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES; OR, ON THE TRAIL OF THE IROQUOIS.

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI; OR, THE HOMESTEAD IN THE WILDERNESS.

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSOURI; OR, IN THE COUNTRY OF THE SIOUX.

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE YELLOWSTONE; OR, LOST IN THE LAND OF WONDERS.

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE COLUMBIA; OR, IN THE WILDERNESS OF THE GREAT NORTHWEST.

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE COLORADO; OR, BRAVING THE PERILS OF THE GRAND CANYON COUNTRY.

THE PIONEER BOYS OF KANSAS; OR, A PRAIRIE HOME IN BUFFALO LAND.

“Such books as these are an admirable means of stimulating among the young Americans of to-day interest in the story of their pioneer ancestors and the early days of the Republic.”—_Boston Globe._

“Not only interesting, but instructive as well and shows the sterling type of character which these days of self-reliance and trial produced.”—_American Tourist, Chicago._

“The stories are full of spirited action and contain much valuable historical information. Just the sort of reading a boy will enjoy immensely.”—_Boston Herald._

HILDEGARDE-MARGARET SERIES

By LAURA E. RICHARDS

Eleven Volumes

The Hildegarde-Margaret Series, beginning with “Queen Hildegarde” and ending with “The Merryweathers,” make one of the best and most popular series of books for girls ever written.

_Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $ 1.75 _The eleven volumes boxed as a set_ $19.85

LIST OF TITLES

QUEEN HILDEGARDE HILDEGARDE’S HOLIDAY HILDEGARDE’S HOME HILDEGARDE’S NEIGHBORS HILDEGARDE’S HARVEST THREE MARGARETS MARGARET MONTFORT PEGGY RITA FERNLEY HOUSE THE MERRYWEATHERS

HONOR BRIGHT SERIES

By LAURA E. RICHARDS

_Each one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated_ $1.75

HONOR BRIGHT

“This is a story that rings as true and honest as the name of the young heroine—Honor—and not only the young girls, but the old ones will find much to admire and to commend in the beautiful character of Honor.”—_Constitution, Atlanta, Ga._

HONOR BRIGHT’S NEW ADVENTURE

“Girls will love the story and it has plot enough to interest the older reader as well.”—_St. Louis Daily Globe-Democrat._

DELIGHTFUL BOOKS FOR LITTLE FOLKS

By LAURA E. RICHARDS

THREE MINUTE STORIES

_Cloth decorative, 12mo, with eight plates in full color and many text illustrations_ $1.75

“Little ones will understand and delight in the stories and poems.”—_Indianapolis News._

FIVE MINUTE STORIES

_Cloth decorative, square 12mo, illustrated_ $1.75

A charming collection of short stories and clever poems for children.

MORE FIVE MINUTE STORIES

_Cloth decorative, square 12mo, illustrated_ $1.75

A noteworthy collection of short stories and poems for children, which will prove as popular with mothers as with boys and girls.

THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS (Trade Mark)

By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON

_Each large 12mo, cloth, illustrated, per volume_ $2.00

THE LITTLE COLONEL STORIES

(Trade Mark)

Being three “Little Colonel” stories in the Cosy Corner Series, “The Little Colonel,” “Two Little Knights of Kentucky,” and “The Giant Scissors,” in a single volume.

THE LITTLE COLONEL STORIES: Second Series

(Trade Mark)

Tales about characters that appear in the Little Colonel Series.—“Ole Mammy’s Torment,” “The Three Tremonts,” and “The Little Colonel in Switzerland.”

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOUSE PARTY (Trade Mark)

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOLIDAYS (Trade Mark)

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HERO (Trade Mark)

THE LITTLE COLONEL AT BOARDING SCHOOL (Trade Mark)

THE LITTLE COLONEL IN ARIZONA (Trade Mark)

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S CHRISTMAS VACATION (Trade Mark)

THE LITTLE COLONEL, MAID OF HONOR (Trade Mark)

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S KNIGHT COMES RIDING (Trade Mark)

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S CHUM, MARY WARE (Trade Mark)

MARY WARE IN TEXAS MARY WARE’S PROMISED LAND

_These thirteen volumes, boxed as a set, $26.00_

THE ROAD OF THE LOVING HEART

_Cloth decorative, with special designs and illustrations_ $1.25

In choosing her title, Mrs. Johnston had in mind “The Road of the Loving Heart,” that famous highway, built by the natives of Hawaii, from their settlement to the home of Robert Louis Stevenson, as a memorial of their love and respect for the man who lived and labored among them, and whose example of a loving heart has never been forgotten. This story of a little princess and her faithful pet bear, who finally _do_ discover “The Road of the Loving Heart,” is a masterpiece of sympathy and understanding and beautiful thought.

THE JOHNSTON JEWEL SERIES

_Each small 16mo, decorative boards, per volume_ $0.75

IN THE DESERT OF WAITING: THE LEGEND OF CAMELBACK MOUNTAIN.

THE THREE WEAVERS: A FAIRY TALE FOR FATHERS AND MOTHERS AS WELL AS FOR THEIR DAUGHTERS.

KEEPING TRYST: A TALE OF KING ARTHUR’S TIME.

THE LEGEND OF THE BLEEDING HEART

THE RESCUE OF PRINCESS WINSOME: A FAIRY PLAY FOR OLD AND YOUNG.

THE JESTER’S SWORD

THE LITTLE COLONEL’S GOOD TIMES BOOK

Uniform in size with the Little Colonel Series $2.50 Bound in white kid (morocco) and gold 6.00 Cover design and decorations by Peter Verberg.

“A mighty attractive volume in which the owner may record the good times she has on decorated pages, and under the directions as it were of Annie Fellows Johnston.”—_Buffalo Express._

THE SANDMAN SERIES

Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume $1.75

BY WILLIAM J. HOPKINS

THE SANDMAN: HIS FARM STORIES.

“Mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who take the little ones to bed and rack their brains for stories will find this book a treasure.”—_Cleveland Leader._

THE SANDMAN: MORE FARM STORIES.

“Children will call for these stories over and over again.”—_Chicago Evening Post._

THE SANDMAN: HIS SHIP STORIES.

“Little ones will understand and delight in the stories and their parents will read between the lines and recognize the poetic and artistic work of the author.”—_Indianapolis News._

THE SANDMAN: HIS SEA STORIES.

“Once upon a time there was a man who knew little children and the kind of stories they liked, so he wrote four books of Sandman’s stories, all about the farm or the sea, and the brig _Industry_, and this book is one of them.”—_Canadian, Congregationalist._

BY JENNY WALLIS

THE SANDMAN: HIS SONGS AND RHYMES.

“Here is a fine collection of poems for mothers and friends to use at the twilight hour. They are not of the soporific kind especially. They are wholesome reading when most wide-awake and of such a soothing and delicious flavor that they are welcome when the lights are low.”—_Christian Intelligencer._

BY HELEN I. CASTELLA

THE SANDMAN: HIS FAIRY STORIES.

This time the Sandman comes in person, and takes little Joyce, who believes in him, to the wonderful land of Nod. There they procure pots and pans from the pansy bed, a goose from the gooseberry bush, a chick from the chickweed, corn from the cornflower, and eat on a box from the boxwood hedge. They have almost as many adventures as Alice in Wonderland.

BY HARRY W. FREES

THE SANDMAN: HIS ANIMAL STORIES.

THE SANDMAN: HIS KITTYCAT STORIES.

THE SANDMAN: HIS BUNNY STORIES.

THE SANDMAN: HIS PUPPY STORIES.

“They are written in a style that will appeal most strongly to children, and the promise of a Sandman story before retiring will be found an adequate relief to many a tired mother. The simplicity of the stories and the fascinating manner in which they are written make them an excellent night cap for the youngster who is easily excited into wakefulness, for the Sandman stories never frighten the kiddie.”

—_The Pittsburgh Leader._

By W. S. PHILLIPS.

(EL COMANCHO)

THE SANDMAN:

HIS INDIAN STORIES.

The Indian tales for this Celebrated Series of Children’s Bedtime Stories have been written by a man who has Indian blood, who spent years of his life among the Redmen, in one of the tribes of which he is an honored member, and who is an expert interpreter of the Indian viewpoint and a practised authority on Indians as well as a master teller of tales.

By MAE V. LEBERT

THE SANDMAN:

HIS JAPANESE STORIES.

“Miss LeBert creditably carries on the series that Page has made famous over a period of years. She has grasped finely the spirit of Japan and its legends, and in turn sets down on paper delicate, fragile bits of beauty. A charming book for any boy or girl.”

—_Ohio State Journal._

FOOTNOTE:

[1] A small star-like flower growing close to the ground and blooming through the planting season, when the redskins laid warfare aside.

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

—Obvious errors were corrected.

—Spanish spelling and accents are very different depending on how old is the writing; these differences have been retained.