Chapter XII: Part 12

DeSoto discovered all this, and he had so often cheered them with dazzling phantoms, while he had only poverty and distress to offer, that he knew not whither to turn in an extremity so dire. A difficulty now faced him that required greater courage than that needed to resist Indian arrows, for his men were quietly fomenting rebellion. They had learned from Indian visitors to the camp, that a fleet of Spanish ships, under Maldinado, was lying off the present location of Pensacola, awaiting the return of DeSoto. This was corroborated by other reports from the coast. This impelled a determination on the part of the men, to break away and seek the shores of the south. DeSoto would himself have turned southward at this juncture, but for his humiliating failure. The vision of his sumptuous home in distant Spain rose often before him, and in his dreams he had pictured a palace rivalling that of royalty, in consequence of his discovery of gold, but he was destined never to see that home again.

The worst at last came. His apprehensions were fully confirmed when he learned that under the leadership of some of his most trusted men, a conspiracy was hatching to leave him to his fate, and make their way southward, some proposing to sail home, others to join a new expedition to Peru. In order to satisfy himself fully, DeSoto quietly slid about the camp at night, and by a process of eavesdropping gain what he might. Among his men were some who had deserted Pizarro at a juncture, and DeSoto began to prepare for the worst. This was the severest trial of his eventful life. He had no means of knowing who were his friends, or indeed whether he had any. The crisis was extreme.

Turning the matter over in his mind, DeSoto finally resolved on a desperate course. He had been planning to found a Spanish settlement in this particular region, and had gone so far as to send an Indian agent to Ochus, where the plans of colonization were being arranged. Goaded to the extreme of desperation, he proposed to make a bold show of authority and force. It was now just a month since the battle, and all his men had so far recovered from their wounds that they were again able to take up the line of march. Reserving his plan to himself, on the morning of November 18, he suddenly issued an order to get ready to move at once. His men did not know what direction he would go, but to their astonishment, he turned northward. He accompanied his order with a threat to kill any man who undertook to disobey. This was quite unusual, indeed, nothing like it had before occurred, and it took the men quite off their guard. Before the troops could confer or consult, every man was in his saddle and strung out on the line of march. By this means DeSoto surprised the men instead of their surprising him. He was really without authority in a step so arbitrary. The expedition was entirely voluntary, but DeSoto saw that unless he could by a single stroke, shatter the rising revolt, he should be totally undone.

Giving up the idea of a colony, DeSoto moved toward the northwest, beyond the confines of the present County of Clarke, and through the territory of Marengo and Greene, as they now are, and, after five days, reached the Black Warrior River about where the village of Erie now is. Here he encountered resistance. The news of the disaster at Maubila had spread to the remotest settlements, arousing the Indians to vengeance, and at Erie, they appeared 1,500 strong, painted, and bearing clubs and bows. As though nothing was before them, the Spaniards moved steadily on, the Indians falling back, while they filled the air with their arrows. On reaching the river, the Indians in haste filled their waiting canoes and rowed rapidly across, and such as could not find place in the boats, plunged in and swam the stream. On the opposite side, the Indians met a large reinforcement that had gathered to dispute the passage of the river by DeSoto. The Spaniards began leisurely to fortify, giving but slight heed to the wild demonstrations on the opposite side, which the Indians observing, quietly dispersed and disappeared, save a number who were left to watch the object of the Spaniards.

Detailing a hundred men to cut timbers and construct rafts, DeSoto quietly rested till the arrangements were complete, when he began to cross with his force, giving no attention to the showers of arrows from the foe. Struck by his cool determination, the Indians fled precipitately.

No region before entered, had so impressed DeSoto, as this one. He was charmed by its natural grandeur. The late dry fall had enlivened the autumnal scenery, the grass was still green, which, together with the flaming foliage of the forests, lent magnificence to a wide scene. The soil was of a deep black, and the surface somewhat rolling, the billows of green and the delicious color of the engirdling woods, affording a view lovelier than any he had ever before witnessed. The troop was now passing through the upper part of Greene County, where it borders on Pickens.

Five days more brought the Spaniards to the bank of the Little Tombeckbe. The Spaniards were impressed by the fact that in proportion to the fertility of the country, was a sparseness of population, the explanation being that the Indian detests prairie mud, making his home on the uplands, and descending to the fertile plains only to replenish his store of meat. Again at the Little Tombeckbe, the Indians appeared in hostile array, and DeSoto, eager to avoid battle, sent a friendly Indian across the stream to negotiate terms of peace. Him they slew within sight of the Spaniards, and then strangely fled to the woods, and DeSoto crossed without further interruption. He was now on the eastern border of Mississippi, but the final act of the tragedy was yet to come.

THE CLOSING SCENE

Though we have followed the daring and dashing DeSoto to the western confines of the state, the story would be incomplete without a record of the closing scene of his career. His life was thrilling in incident, even to the end. Entering the territory which long afterward came to be called Mississippi, DeSoto found it the most fertile and prosperous of the regions yet visited. Thriving Indian towns abounded with evidence of the most advanced Indian civilization he had yet met.

Though delayed, winter at last set in with unusual severity, and DeSoto decided to spend the cold season in that quarter. He was eager for the good will of the inhabitants, and sought by every possible means to gain it. Foraging over the country, his men would return with supplies, and always with prisoners. These DeSoto would liberate with much show of kindness, and dismiss them with presents to their chief. This would surprise the prisoners, and more the chiefs themselves. This resulted in bringing to his camp the chief of the Chickasaw tribe, the fiercest and most warlike of all those on the continent, and notably the most advanced. This chief, not to be outdone by the kindness of the Spaniard, brought as a present, one hundred and fifty rabbits, besides four mantles of rich fur. Nor did he cease with a single visit, but came again and again and chatted with DeSoto with unrestrained familiarity around his camp fire. The Indian was studiously diplomatic, and after several visits, disclosed to DeSoto that he had a certain rebellious subject whom he wished the Spaniard to subdue for him. This task, the chief further disclosed, was one attended with such complications as to prevent his action in the matter, and yet if DeSoto would intervene with sternness, the chief would see to it that it would not be forgotten.

DeSoto sent his men against the rebellious subaltern, burned his village and forced him to sue for terms with the chief. On occasion, when the chief would spend a few hours with him, DeSoto would send him home on one of his finest horses, much to the delight of the savage. But a strain came in their relations when after the fight with the insubordinate Indian, those of the tribe who had accompanied DeSoto's men back to camp were served with savory and toothsome bits of pork. The Indians had never before tasted swine meat, and they were so delighted, that they showed their appreciation by several nightly visits to the pig pens, and by a stealthy appropriation of some of the choicest rooters. DeSoto was willing to divide, but protested against his pig sties becoming the prey of nightly marauders. His men lay in wait for the red rogues, who caught three, two of whom they killed, and in order to advertise a warning to future offenders, cut off the hands of the third at the wrist, and set him free. This was one exception to the rule working both ways. The Spaniards had never scrupled to steal from the Indian, or to take, by force, whatever might please them, but so soon as somebody's else ox was gored, the rule of roguish reciprocity ceased its operation. The standard of the Spaniard was, might makes right. An early spring came with its balminess, its singing birds, and first blossoms, and DeSoto was actuated to move onward, and yet he was reluctant to quit the ease of so many months. He was worn down by the strain to which he had so long been subjected. He sought to rally himself, but his gait had lost much of its elasticity, his eye was not so lustrous, and the stylus of care had marked deep crowfeet on his brow. Whatever there was of nobleness in him, was turned into a sense of sternness. Presuming that he knew the Indian character, he had lost much already, but he proved not to be an apt scholar in Indianology. He had courted the good will of the chief of Chickasaws, and had been requited by a return of civility, but the Spaniard really had a contempt for Indian character, and contempt always clouds justice, and when exercised, leads often to serious error.

Now that he was about to quit his encampment, DeSoto made a peremptory order on the Chickasaw chief for 200 of his ablest men to become his burden bearers. The Chickasaws were the proudest and most arrogant of the Indian tribes, and rather than be humbled, they preferred death. As allies, they were valuable, as foes, formidable.

On the receipt of the order from DeSoto, the gentleness of the lamb was turned into the wrath of the lion, but the Indian chief wisely curbed his spirit, and sent an evasive answer, not without a dignified phase of manliness, and an expression of remindfulness that DeSoto did himself slight credit by failing to understand the stuff, of which himself, the chief, was made. This was not the first time that DeSoto had encountered men in these western wilds who were wiser than he took himself to be. DeSoto saw too late that he had turned loose a storm which he might not be able to manage. Moscoso was summoned, told to be on his guard, and to get ready for the worst. DeSoto impressed him with the importance of the utmost vigilance, but Moscoso saw nothing in it all, and continued lax.

Though the trees were budding, and the young leaves were peeping from their coverts, there came on one of the last nights in March, one of those cold snaps to which this latitude is subject. A cold wind roared from the north, and furiously soughed through the trees. In its suddenness, the Spaniards made unusual preparation for comfort that night, and huddled together on their bunks of straw and dried leaves. The camp was as silent as a cemetery, save the howling of the wind. The fires died down, and the men were fast asleep. Suddenly there came a din of confusion rarely heard, mingled with the howling of the wind. From four different quarters came the sound of the beating of wooden drums, the hoarse notes of sea shells, and the unearthly shrieks of thousands of warriors. When the sleepers awoke, the roofs of dry hay were afire, and the Indians were already in the camp. They had wisely chosen that terrible night for the extinction of the invaders, and on nothing less were they bent. The Spaniards had often had recourse to fire, and the Indians thought they would test its virtue. Fire-tipped arrows, shot into the straw-thatched roofs had fired them, while the dry wattled cane of which the huts were built, lent loud detonations by the explosion of their joints. The fire-tipped arrows, DeSoto later learned, was by the use of a decoction from certain herbs known only to these Indians as a means of occasioning fire.

Springing from his couch, DeSoto was the first to gain his horse, and a cavalier mounted his own at the same moment. With sword and lance, they spurred their horses into the midst of the host of savages, dealing death with every movement. Half-dressed, the other troopers followed in quick succession, and soon the camp was the scene of a hand-to-hand fight. DeSoto had failed to fasten the girth of his saddle sufficiently, and by a sudden turn of his horse in one of his desperate sallies, he was thrown hard to the ground, just as he had laid an Indian low. He was speedily rescued by his men, and securing his girth, he fought as never before. While the fight was at its height, fifty of his men chose the moment as an opportune one to desert, but DeSoto had them brought back and join in the fray. The Indians were routed, but not till forty Spaniards had been killed. This had the effect of welding the Spaniards afresh, and ended all insubordination.

There was no more sleep in the Spanish camp that night. Moscoso was summoned, roundly abused, and cashiered in the presence of the troops, and Beltecar was appointed in his stead. After burying his dead, DeSoto set out on a renewed march, encountered resistance again at Alilome, where, after another fierce engagement, he routed the enemy, but lost fifteen more men, making in all three hundred and fifteen, of the six hundred, with whom he started, and in May, 1541, reached the Mississippi River, of which he is the reputed discoverer. Here he lingered a year, making an excursion into Arkansas, and on his return, was stricken with swamp fever. His system was ill prepared for this attack, and from the first, he was aware that he must die. He summoned his men about him, restored Moscoso to command, begged his men to be subject to the new commander, and yielded to the last foe--death.

To prevent the possible mutilation of his body, his men hewed out a coffin from the trunk of a huge oak, placed the body within it, sealed it securely and bore it to the middle of the deep Mississippi and lowered it in its current. Thus died this chivalrous son of Spain, and though a monster of cruelty, none in the annals of that ill-fated land was ever braver.

ORIGINAL MOBILE

Following the death of DeSoto, it was one hundred and sixty-two years before another white man was in Alabama. During this century and a half, there was developed such a spirit of exploration as the world had never before known. The new regions of the earth were visited by explorers from a number of European nations, chief among which were Spain, Portugal, France, England, and Holland. The French came to vie with the Spaniards in the comprehensiveness of expedition and exploration, and from Canada, the French found their way to the upper limits of the navigable waters of the Mississippi, and followed it to the gulf.

From their established possessions west of the great river, the French came later to skirt the upper waters of the gulf, and were much impressed by the sinuous character of the long shore front, with its numerous inlets and indentations, its promontories, bays, and rivers. It was by means like these that they first entered Mobile Bay, and finally came to found Mobile. Biloxi had previously been established, and was an important colonial center to the enterprising French of that period. In order to impress the native savage and ward off interference, the French would erect forts of mud, poles, and grass, which, while appearing formidable to the Indians, they were flimsy and frail. The savages themselves relied on their strong-timbered forts for defense, and they had an idea that those of the French were similarly strong.

Attracted by the beautiful sheet of water known to us as Mobile Bay, the French entered it from the gulf through its deep mouth, flanked on the one side by a long tongue of land, and on the other by an island. Once on the bosom of the bay, its shores were explored, and on the present location of Mobile was erected Fort St. Louis, which was intended as a permanent name, but Iberville, the great sea captain of the French, insisted on calling it Mobile, from the name of the tribe of Indians on the boundary of the territory of which the original fort was built. The name is supposed to mean "paddling."

From its inception, Mobile came to be to the French an important center. By nothing was Iberville more impressed than by the magnificent timbers with which the forests were stocked. Nothing was more important at that time than heavy oaken timber for ship building, and to the practical eye of the great navigator, it seemed an excellent place for the erection of a saw mill. Later developments of the geographical advantages of the location, led to its adoption as the headquarters and seat of government for this region of the French possessions. Seaward, it was open to the world as a port of navigation.

It was found that the river, on the west bank of which is the location, was like the base of the letter Y, with its prongs, fifty miles to the north, penetrating regions at great distances in the interior, which regions were already populous with Indians, and of fabulous fertility of soil. While, like the Spaniards, the French dreamed of mines of gold, they were not unmindful of the importance of colonization.

One of the first chief cares of these early colonizers was that of winning to their loyalty the native tribes, as an agency against the English, who were equally desirous of the possession of the fertile region. Bienville, the French governor of Louisiana, was ambitious to extend the dominions of his royal master as far eastward as possible, and vied with the English in seeking the alliance of the native tribes. From no point were these natives so easily reached, as from the fort just erected on the swell of land on the western side of this river pouring into the beautiful bay. Sufficient space was therefore at first cleared, a stockade was built, a few dingy tents were erected about it, while on the premises might have been seen a few specimens of imported swine, chickens, and horses moving domestically about.

There was, however, lacking one element of civilization, concerning which Bienville proceeded to make complaint to the home government at Paris. The improvised homes were minus the presence of the gentler sex. On receipt of this information, the King of France forthwith instructed the bishop of Quebec to send to the Mobile region twenty-three young women of good families, to become the wives of these original founders. In due time these twenty-three blushing maidens reached the fort under the care of four Sisters of Charity. Governor Bienville at once issued a proclamation announcing their arrival, and very practically proceeded to place a premium on manly worth, by stating that no man would be allowed to claim the heart and hand of these waiting damsels, who did not first prove himself capable of supporting a wife. The result was a rapid improvement of the manhood of the community, eventuating in another fact, namely, that not many moons waned before every one of the Canadian prospectives became a wife.

These were the first marriage rites, under Christian sanction, ever solemnized on the soil of Alabama. This meant homes, and homes meant the beginning of a new order of civilization. This romantic touch to our early civilization in Alabama is worthy of record.

From that primitive beginning in the wild woods of south Alabama, and from conditions as crude and uncanny as those named, our chief port had its beginning little more than two centuries ago. As a common center of importance, it was visited by numerous deputations of Indians, from points near and remote, skimming with their light canoes the deep waters of the Alabama and Tombigbee Rivers. While this was true, trade was established with the Spaniards as far south as Vera Cruz, and from the region of the great lakes of the north, came French traders to Mobile. While the conditions were such as to excite the most optimistic outlook, there were counter conditions of vexation and of perplexity. These early years were full of anxiety and harassment to Bienville. In his efforts to conciliate the native tribes, he encroached on the territory of the active emissaries of the English, as competitors of native alliance, and thus the Indian became a shuttle in the loom of primitive politics between the French and the English. The Indians were incited to lure the French into the interior by false representations, and straightway to massacre them. To question their statements, meant unfriendliness, to trust them, meant death. Abundant trouble was in store for the French governor in the immediate future.

FORT TOMBECKBE

Just above the point where the bridge of the Southern Railway spans the Tombigbee, at Epes station, in Sumter County, may be seen a clump of cedars on a high chalky bluff overlooking the river. This is a historic spot, for here Governor Bienville had built Fort Tombeckbe, as an outpost of civilization. The barest traces of the old fort are left in the slight mounds still to be seen, but it was at one time an important base to Bienville.

By tampering with the savages in the interior of Alabama, English emissaries had occasioned such confusion as to give to Bienville much annoyance. Whatever may be said of the conduct of England in this connection, and it was reprehensible enough, it was at par with that which was done by the French. Both nations took advantage of the untutored savage, and laid under requisition his worst passions, in order each to avenge itself on the other. On the part of England, however, this continued much later, and that nation was responsible for many of the atrocities perpetrated on Americans.

On one occasion, two artful warriors appeared at Mobile with every possible show of interest in the government of Bienville, and with extravagant asseverations of loyalty to his government. Bienville was responsive to demonstrations like this, for nothing he so much desired as the loyalty which these red men professed. These savages advised the French governor that they had carefully accumulated much corn at a given point up the river, and if he desired it, they were in position to sell it cheaply. As provisions were growing scarce at the fort, this was cheering news to Bienville, and he promptly sent five men from the garrison to fetch it. Only one of the five returned, and he with an arm almost cut from his shoulder, the rest of the party having been massacred. Bienville was at once impressed that it was necessary to teach the Indians that he was not to be trifled with, and taking forty men in seven canoes, he ascended the river to the scene of the late massacre. Finding ten empty Indian canoes tied to the bank, he knew that their settlement was not far distant, and from the smoke seen rising above the tree tops, he was able to locate the village. Hiding his men in the underbrush till night, he crept stealthily to the encampment and opened fire. The Indians were scattered in all directions, and loading his boats with provisions, Bienville leisurely returned to the fort. How many of the Indians were killed in this night attack, was not ascertained, but Bienville suffered the loss of three men. These offensive Indians were of the Alabamas, whom to punish more effectually, Bienville incited against them both the Choctaws and the Chickasaws, promising rewards to those who would kill the greater number. That the Alabamas were effectually punished, abundant proof was afforded by the numerous warriors who sought their way to Mobile to compare the number of scalps which they bore, dangling from their belts. Beads, hatchets, pipes, and ammunition were given the savages in reward for their work of death.

Fort Tombeckbe had been built at the point already designated, which was within the territory of the Choctaws, whose special service Bienville now needed, since the Chickasaws had revolted against him. Meantime they had also become most hostile toward the Choctaws, therefore Bienville concluded that their service could be the more readily enlisted in his proposed expedition against the Chickasaws. In order to subdue the hostile Chickasaws, Bienville proposed a unique expedition which he would head in person. The dominions of the Chickasaws were remote from Mobile, but he would make Fort Tombeckbe the base of his operations, while he would bring them again into subjection.

Accordingly Bienville summoned the garrisons from Natchez and Natchitoches to co-operate with the one at Mobile in the up-country expedition. As it was regarded as a sort of picnic outing, a company of volunteers, composed of citizens and merchants from New Orleans asked to join in the excursion. Everything was gotten in readiness. Thirty rough dugouts, and an equal number of flat boats or barges, were arranged along the shore ready to join in the diversion of subduing the Chickasaws. In due time, Governor Bienville appeared in gay uniform, plumed hat, and bright sword, and headed the expedition which sailed from Mobile on the morning of April 1, 1736. The day might have been taken as indicative of that which was to come, for never was a body of men more fooled than were these.

There were pomp and circumstance on this occasion. Banners, trappings, and bunting were galore. Boats, little and large, were well filled, men, young and old, business men and merchants, adventurers and gamblers, idlers and jail birds, men of fortune and men of leisure, rough mariners and veteran soldiers, friendly Indians and forty-five negroes, made up the medley of the expedition. The Indians belonged to the general command, while the negroes were a separate command under a free, intelligent mulatto, named Simon. They shove from the shore in the current. Lillied flags wave and flutter in glinting curve, varied colored banners are displayed, and the incongruous expedition starts. Amidst the yells of the hosts, the cannon booming from the fort, the report of which rebounds and re-echoes along the shore, while the gay and hilarious host shouts itself hoarse, the expedition starts. For twenty-three days they pull against the current in their ascent of the Tombigbee. Messengers were dispatched in advance to advise Captain DeLusser, at Fort Tombeckbe, of the coming of the mighty multitude, and to provide against their hunger by cooking several barrels of biscuits. DeLusser cooked for life, by day and by night, but he had only about two-thirds the quantity of biscuits needed for the hungry host on its arrival. No trip could have been more laborious, as the barges had to be dragged against the current by seizing the overhanging branches and vines, when possible, and at other times employing beaked rods by means of which, when grappling with trees or rocks the barges were pulled slowly along. All this was forgotten when the fort was reached, and men could again refresh themselves.

"When the shore is won at last,
Who will think of the billows past?"

Bienville was much disappointed to find that just before his arrival there had been a revolt at the fort, and the conspirators were now in irons awaiting his coming. The plan of the conspirators was to kill DeLusser and the commissariat, and return to the Chickasaws two men who had been delivered from their hands, and who had been previously reduced by the Chickasaws to slavery. By thus conciliating the Chickasaws, the conspirators hoped to have aid given them in reaching Canada, where they would join the British. Bienville made short work of them, for after a brief court martial, they were marched out on the prairie and shot. The most significant event connected with the coming of Bienville was that of the assembling of six hundred Choctaw warriors, who had heard much of Bienville and under their leaders, Mingo and Red Shoes, had now come to offer their service. To impress them with his importance, Bienville regaled the warriors with a dress parade of his host, only a part of which knew anything about military evolutions, but where the Indians knew nothing of regularity, the purpose was equally served. With great delight the savages witnessed the drill, and announced themselves ready to join Bienville in his campaign against the Chickasaws, fifty miles away. With his body of five hundred and fifty, and the six hundred Choctaws, and the reinforcements under D'Artaguette of three hundred more, which last body was to join him later, Bienville felt confident of success, but he little knew the character of the foe that he was to meet.

CAMPAIGN AGAINST THE CHICKASAWS

Never felt one surer of success than Bienville when he took up afresh his expedition against the Chickasaws. By prearrangement, D'Artaguette was to descend from the Illinois region, and meet him near the stronghold of the Chickasaws and aid him in their subjection. Of ardent temperament, Bienville was easily made overconfident, and yet he had but little on which to rely. Save the veterans of the command, he had little else.

The motley horde that had enlisted under his banner at Mobile, was not worthy of trust in an emergency, nor did he know how far he could depend on his Indian allies, for Red Shoes hated the white man, only he hated the Chickasaws the more. He was going not so much in aid of the French, as he was to punish the Chickasaws. This made his influence a doubtful quality, and that influence was great with the Choctaws. But if Bienville could have the command of D'Artaguette to aid him, which was destined not to be, he could possibly succeed, though the Chickasaws were the fiercest fighters among the tribes, and they had among them English officers, who were training them for the coming attack.

The command was again ready to move, but the keen edge of the novelty and enthusiasm was now blunted, on the part of at least a large contingent of the command, which was going simply because they had to go. The scene was a peculiar one, as the boats were ranged along the bank of the river at Fort Tombeckbe. With refreshing complacency, the French took possession of the boats, Simon and his seventy-five black followers owned their crafts, and the Canadians and Indian allies were left to make their way, as best they could, along the river to the point where all were to unite to go against the Chickasaws.

On May 22, 1736, they reached the region where Cotton Gin Port, Mississippi, now is, where Bienville built a temporary fort which he named Fort Oltibia, and after securing his stores, locking his boats to the trees, and appointing a guard to protect them, he started with twelve days' rations to the Chickasaws' stronghold, still twenty-seven miles in the interior.

It was a rainy season, the prairie mud was deep, the inland streams were up, the country a tangled region of underbrush, the banks of the streams slippery with lime mud, and most of the host already demoralized. They started inland, the men sometimes being forced at times to wade waist deep in crossing the streams, the march was slow and laborious, and the prospect grew dimmer with decreasing enthusiasm, as they proceeded. There was straggling not a little, but from more of this Bienville was saved, by reason of the fact that they were in the enemy's country, and a sense of common interest welded them together. They marched past fortified villages of the Chickasaws, which villages Bienville disregarded, but he found it next to impossible to restrain the Choctaws, in their hatred of the Chickasaws from attacking these. One fortified village, Schouafalay, the Choctaws did attack, much against the judgment of Bienville.

There was partial relief afforded the troops when they emerged from the tangled wilderness and reached the open prairie. Here was an abundance of game, of much of which the troops availed themselves, while they were cheered not a little by the patches of ripe strawberries growing in wildness on the plain, and by the unbroken green of the prairie dashed here and there by patches of beautiful blossoms.

They were now within six miles of the object of attack. Here it was proposed that the commands of Bienville and of D'Artaguette were to unite, but the latter failed to appear. The scouts sent on in advance by Bienville, reported that they could not find D'Artaguette and could learn nothing of his whereabouts. This was a sore disappointment to Bienville, for he had counted much on D'Artaguette and his veterans, but he could not now stop. He still had about one thousand five hundred in his command, and he was confident of success.

Bienville's plan was to pass around Ackia, where the Chickasaws were strongly fortified, and proceed to the town of Natchez, overthrow the Indians there, and by that means inspire the troops, and at the same time demoralize the Chickasaws. In a council of officers now called, he advocated this plan, but the Choctaw leaders would not listen to a proposal like this. They wanted to attack the Chickasaws outright, crush them, and then quietly return. Some of the French officers concurred in the proposed policy of the Choctaws, while not a few coincided with Bienville. The Choctaws seemed almost uncontrollable in their frantic desire to reach the Chickasaws. To have heard them rave, one would have thought that there was little use of the French in the expedition, at all.

Nothing was now left but to traverse the remaining six miles, and give battle to the waiting Chickasaws. The line of march was again taken up, and another half day brought them within full view of the battlements of the enemy. The conditions were not such as to occasion much inspiration. The fortifications were imposing, and seemed sufficiently strong to resist any force.

On an eminence stood the fort of heavy logs. Around it were palisades with port holes just above the ground, while just within the palisades was a trench, in which the defenders would stand, rest their guns within the port holes, and fire with ease on the plain below without the slightest exposure of their bodies. Outside the palisades were a number of strongly fortified structures or cabins. The fort itself was of triangular shape, with the roof of heavy green logs, overlaid with a thick stratum of dried mud, a double security against fire, should the French undertake the use of combustibles. The imposing fortifications had a disheartening effect even on the officers of the French troops, and much more the men.

A careful inspection was made, and there was nothing left but to plan for the attack. The French were to open the battle, and the Choctaws were left to attack as they might wish. The Indians occupied a camp some distance from the others, and proceeded to paint and to deck themselves for battle. They stood in readiness, as though waiting for the battle to open. All plans were gotten in readiness, and at two o'clock in the afternoon the fight was to begin by regular assault from the outset.

BATTLE OF ACKIA

At two o'clock on the afternoon of May 26, 1736, the battle of Ackia was opened by Chevalier Noyan, who, as his troops advanced within carbine shot of the fort, could easily see English officers within the palisades directing the defense.

The French were moving to the attack in the open, without personal shields, which were too heavy to be brought so great a distance, and they had to resort to portable breastworks made of heavy ropes, closely woven together in strips of about four feet in width and about twenty feet in length. This wide strip of roping had to be borne at either end by strong men, who were of course exposed, while the firing line was somewhat protected. These mantelets, for such the movable fortifications were called, were carried by negroes, whom the French forced into this perilous service. A broadside of musketry was opened on the fort, in response to which the garrison vigorously replied, and among the casualties was that of killing one of the negroes, while another was wounded, whereupon every black man who was supporting the mantelets threw them down and fled the field. Without a waver in their line, the French pressed on to the attack.

The grenadiers led the advance and moved on into the outside village. The battle was now on in earnest, and one of the ablest of the French commanders, Chevalier de Contre Coeur, was killed, together with a number of grenadiers, but the fortified cabins were taken without, as well as some smaller ones, to the latter of which fire was applied. This quick advantage gained, led to an enthusiastic determination to carry the fort by assault. Noyan, at the head of his troops, saw the advantage and was ready to lead the charge. With sword upraised, he commanded the advance, but on looking back he found that all the troops, save a mere handful, had fled back to the fortified cabins, leaving the officers. The enemy taking advantage of this juncture, fired more vigorously still, and another of the brave commanders, Captain DeLusser, the same who commanded at Fort Tombecke, fell. The officers bringing up the rear urged, besought, exhorted the troops who had sought shelter in the cabins to rejoin their officers, but to no purpose. They were promised the reward of promotion, but that did not avail. Finally the officers sought to appeal to their pride by proposing to take such as would follow and themselves make the assault, to all of which the troops were agreed, but they did not propose to face again the galling fire of the Chickasaws. Suiting the action to the word, the officers proceeded to the assault, for which they paid severely, for every prominent leader was shot down wounded--Noyan, Grondel, Montburn and De Velles. Though bleeding and suffering, Noyan supported himself and, much exposed, held his ground with a remnant of troops. Hoping to elicit those from the cabins, he ordered an aide to request the secreted troops to come to his rescue, as he was wounded. As the officer turned to obey, he was shot dead.

The assault had been carried to within a short distance of the main walls where the officers lay bleeding from their wounds, the foremost of whom was the gallant Grondel. A number of Indian warriors issued from the fort to scalp him, on observing which a sergeant with four men rushed to his rescue, drove the Indians back into the fort, and raised his body to bear it off the field. Just as they started, every rescuer was killed. A stalwart Frenchman named Regnisse, seeing what had happened, dashed toward the body alone, under a galling fire, lifted the wounded man to his back and bore him off, though not without the receipt of another wound by Grondel.

Meanwhile, where were the courageous Choctaws who were so eager for the fray and who were the chief cause of bringing on the fight? While the French were exposed to a raking fire, these six hundred painted warriors remained at a safe distance on the plain, giving frequent vent to shouting and shrieking and yelling, interspersed now and then with dancing, and shooting into the air. This was the utmost of the service rendered by the Choctaw allies.

Though with a courageous few, Noyan had come under the shadow of the walls of the fort, he could do no more unsupported, and so proceeded to return, in order, to the fortified cabins, where he found his men crouching in fear, when he at once notified Bienville of the peril of the situation. He asked for a detachment to bear off the dead and wounded, and notified the governor that without troops to support him, nothing more could be done to capture the fort.

At this juncture, Bienville saw a demonstration made on the part of the savages in the fort, from an unconjectured quarter, to capture the cabins in which were gathered the men and officers, and made haste to send Beauchamp, with eighty men, to head off the movement, rescue the troops and to bring away the wounded and the dead. Beauchamp moved with speed, turned back the movement, and while many of the dead and wounded were recovered, he could not recover all. In this movement Beauchamp lost a number of men. So hot was the firing from the fort, that he was compelled to leave a number to the barbarity of the Chickasaws.

As Beauchamp was retiring in an orderly way, the Choctaws issued from their camp with much impetuosity and fury, as though they had at last resolved to carry everything before them. Fleet of foot, and filling the air with their wild yelling, they dashed toward the fort, but just then a well-directed fire into their ranks, from the Chickasaws, created a speedy rout, and they fled in every direction.

Had Bienville been able to bring his cannon so far into the interior, he would have demolished the fort in short order, but as it was, everything was against him. Instead of his plans being executed as originally formed, they fell to pieces, step by step, and his defeat was the most signal. Thus ended the campaign against the Chickasaws, the fiercest and most warlike of all the tribes. After all the imposing grandeur at the outset of the campaign it ended in a fiasco. The situation was much graver than Bienville seemed to apprehend. He was in the heart of the enemy's country, without substantial support. His Choctaw allies had failed him, and in a grave crisis his own men had forsaken him. Nothing would have been easier than for the Chickasaws to cut him off from his boats, and extinguish the entire command, but, themselves unapprised of the conditions, they kept well within the enclosure of the fort. Other difficulties were in store for the unfortunate Bienville.

AFTER THE BATTLE, WHAT?

The battle of Ackia had lasted three hours, but during that brief time there were some as excellent exhibitions of bravery, as well as sad defections of soldiery, as can well be conceived. However, all the dramatic and tragical scenes were not confined to the battle, as other interesting details are to follow. The day was now closing. For about two hours, the utmost quiet had fallen on the scene. The noisy Choctaws, in a camp adjoining, had become strangely silent. Not a note of activity came from the fort, not a man was to be seen. The horses and cattle of the Chickasaws, grazing on the prairie when the battle began, had fled far across the plain, but now that the day was closing, and the firing had ceased, they came wending their way across the expanse to a small stream that flowed at the base of the hill.

In a group the French officers were standing, discussing the scenes of the recent conflict, and indignant at the conduct of the Indian allies; they turned jocularly to Simon, the negro commander, and chid him on the cowardice of his black crew. Simon was polite and bright, and was much in favor with the officers. While he smiled in return to the jocularity of the officers, he glanced about him, suddenly picked up a long rope, and said: "I'll prove to you that a negro is as brave as anybody, when it is necessary to be," and with this dashed toward the herd of cattle and horses, selected a milk-white mare, hastily made a halter, mounted on her back, and sped the entire circuit of the walls of the fort, perhaps a distance of a quarter of a mile. He was fired on by hundreds of rifles from the fort, but dashed back to the group of officers without having received a scratch, leaped from the back of the mare, gracefully saluted the officers and bowed, while they cheered his exploit. No one doubted the courage of Simon after that feat.

That night the French slept on their arms. Not a note came from the fort. There was funereal silence everywhere. When, however, light broke over the scene on the following morning, a horrible spectacle met the gaze of the French. The Chickasaws had sallied forth during the night and had borne within the fort the dead left on the scene, had quartered them, and had hung from the walls portions of the bodies of the unfortunate slain. This act of barbarous defiance, added to the sting of defeat, infuriated many of the officers and men, and they demanded to be given another chance at the Chickasaws and they would demolish the fort. Incensed and insulted, they became almost uncontrollable, but Bienville admonished coolness and prudence, for he had had enough, and was now more concerned about how he should get away with his crippled command. As the Choctaw allies had proved an incubus to Bienville from the start, and a source of annoyance and of embarrassment, the governor thought to enlist them in the removal of his stores and of the wounded. To this proposal they at first demurred, then became sullen, and finally refractory, and proposed to abandon the French outright, leave them to their fate, and hunt again their homes to the south.

Bienville was a shrewd diplomat and sagacious, and knew full well that if such an emergency should come, and the Choctaws would reach the boats first, take them and the stores left at Fort Oltibia, float down the river, and leave him and his men to perish in the wilds. In order to avert this calamity he proceeded on a policy of conciliation. It was ascertained that Red Shoes was the instigator of the discontent, who was as merciless as he was shrewdly ambitious of influence and leadership. Bienville dreaded him, and had distrusted him all along, but there was no way of disposing of him, and he had to accompany the command. The governor sent for the chief, who appeared before him accompanied by the despicable Red Shoes. Bienville not only persuaded the chief to remain steadfast, but gained his consent to have his warriors become burden-bearers of the camp equipage. At this agreement between the two leaders, Red Shoes indignantly protested, and in his rage snatched his pistol from his belt and would have shot the chief on the spot, had not Bienville seized his brawny arm and prevented the commission of the deed.

The march back to the boats was tedious and irksome, covering only four miles the first day. Two of the wounded men died on the way and were buried in the woods. The showers under which the march to the fort had prevailed, ceased for a week or more, followed by a season of hot, dry weather, the river at that point had shrunk, and the water was scarcely of sufficient depth to float the craft. As quickly as possible, things were gotten in readiness, the Choctaws were again left to shift for themselves, and Bienville and his command drifted down the river to Fort Tombeckbe. Here he left De Berthel in command, with a year's supply of provisions, a quantity of merchandise with which to trade with the Indians, the wounded men to be cared for till restored, and Bienville, with spirit much subdued and humiliated over his discomfiture, returned to Mobile.

But what had become of D'Artaguette and his three hundred? His fate was the saddest. In seeking to comply with the request of Bienville to join him in the expedition against the fort, he had fallen in with a body of Chickasaws, who, by superior numbers, had overwhelmed him and captured him and his entire command. Himself and his men were prisoners in the fort during the engagement, and the ammunition used by the Chickasaws was that captured from the ill-fated D'Artaguette. Up to the time of the attack on the fort, D'Artaguette and his men were as well treated as Indians can treat the captured, but on the retirement of Bienville, D'Artaguette and his men were tied to stakes and burned.

For all the disasters attendant on the ill-starred campaign, including that of the fate of D'Artaguette, Bienville was held responsible by the Paris government, with which he lost favor, and the wane of influence and of power followed. Bienville was a victim of conditions over which no mortal could have had control, but it was a juncture of conditions that sometimes comes to the most meritorious of men, into which Bienville was brought, and he had to be sacrificed. While the work that he did laid the foundation of the civilization of three southern commonwealths, he was removed in dishonor, and left the scene of action and sank from view forever.

THE RUSSIAN PRINCESS

About the year 1721, a body of German colonists reached Mobile, and settled in the region adjoining. Among them was a woman of unusual personal beauty and of rare charm of manner. Her dress, and especially her jewels, indicated not only her station, but her wealth. She caused it to be understood that she was the daughter of the Duke of Brunswick Wolfenbuttel and the wife of Alexis Petrowitz, the son of Peter the Great, and accounted for her strange presence in the wilds of south Alabama, as due to the fact that she had been cruelly treated by the heir to the Russian throne; that she had fled the dominion of the great Peter, and for security, had sought the most distant region known to her. She furthermore asserted that the younger Peter had duly advertised the death of his wife, but insisted that the monstrous Muskovite had done this in order to conceal the scandal of her forced flight from his castle, and in order, too, to explain her absence from the court circles of St. Petersburg.

All this she explained to be a mere ruse, and that she was the real princess who had escaped his tyranny, preferring the inhospitable wilderness of a distant continent, to the royal palace with its tyrannous cruelty. The story received general credence, since the splendor of her attire and her familiarity with the inner secrets of the Russian court proved that she was no ordinary personage. Besides all this, there was increased evidence afforded by her conduct. Her beautiful face was saddened by some evident trouble over which she seemed to brood, as with a far-away look she would sit and muse for hours together. How else could all this be explained, save by the story which she related? This is just the evidence one would look for in substantiation of a story of cruelty.

The prepossessing manner of the princess, her immense fortune, and her ability to discuss Russian affairs, served to win not alone the confidence of all, but their sympathy as well. Her wrongs were the burden of her conversation, and her own reported station in life elicited much deference, which was duly and promptly accorded by all alike.

Great as the credence was, as a result of the recital of her wrongs, it received a reinforcement from another source that seemed to place it beyond question. Chevalier d'Aubant, a young French officer, had seen the wife of the Russian prince, and he declared that this was none other than she. He could not be mistaken, for he had seen her at St. Petersburg. This insistence settled the identity of the princess in the estimation of all.

But d'Aubant did not stop at this point of mere recognition. His profound sympathy awoke interest, which brought him frequently within the circle of the charms of the fair Russian, and, in turn, interest deepened into tenderness of affection. To the vivacious Frenchman, the glitter of wealth was far from proving an obstruction to the valiantness with which he assailed the citadel of her heart. At any rate, the chevalier and princess became one, lived in comparative splendor for years, and removed to Paris, where, in sumptuous apartments, they resided till the death of the chevalier.