The Melancholy Encampment. The
Fleet at Pensacola. Singular Resolve
of De Soto. Hostility of the Natives. Beautiful
Scenery. Winter Quarters on the Yazoo. Feigned
Friendship of the Cacique. Trickery of
Juan Ortiz. The Terrible Battle of
Chickasaw. Dreadful Loss of the Spaniards.
For twenty-three days the Spaniards
remained in their miserable quarters, nursing the
sick and the wounded. As nearly all their baggage
had been consumed in the flames, they were in a condition
of extreme destitution and suffering. Parties,
of those who were least disabled, were sent on foraging
expeditions, penetrating the country around to a distance
of about twelve miles. They found the villages
deserted by the terror-stricken inhabitants. But
they obtained a sufficient supply of food to meet
their immediate wants. In the thickets and ravines
they found the bodies of many Indians, who had died
of their wounds, and had been left unburied by their
companions. They also found in many of the deserted
hamlets, wounded Indians, who could go no farther,
and who were in a starving and dying condition.
De Soto kindly ordered that their wounds should be
dressed, and that they should be fed and nursed just
as tenderly as his own men. Several captives
were taken. De Soto inquired of them if another
attack were meditated. They replied that all
their warriors were slain; that none were left to
renew the battle; that their chief had sent his son
to watch the movements of the Spaniards, and had summoned
his warriors from a great distance for their extermination.
Nearly all were to be slain. The survivors were
to be held as slaves. All their possessions and
especially the magnificent animals they rode, were
to be divided as the spoils of the conqueror.
They said that their chief, upon the arrival of De
Soto with his advance guard, was holding a council
with his officers, to decide whether they should immediately
attack those who had already arrived, or wait until
the whole army was within their power. The passion
and imprudence of one of their generals had precipitated
the conflict.
The loss of the natives was even greater
than De Soto had at first imagined. The thousands
of Indian warriors who were within the spacious houses,
shooting their arrows through windows, doors and loopholes,
were many of them cut off from all escape, by the devouring
flames. Bewildered, blinded, stifled by the smoke,
and encircled by the billowy fire, they miserably
perished.
While De Soto was thus encamped around
the smouldering ruins of Mobila, he heard of the arrival
of his fleet at Pensacola, then called the bay of
Achusi. As he was but about one hundred miles
from that point, an easy march of a few days would
bring him to reinforcements and abundant supplies.
The tidings of their arrival at first gave him great
satisfaction. His determined spirit was still
unvanquished. He immediately resolved to establish
his colony on the shores of Pensacola Bay, whence
he could have constant water communication with Cuba
and with Spain. Having obtained a fresh supply
of military stores and recruits from the ships, he
would recommence his pursuit after gold.
While one cannot but condemn his persistence
in a ruinous course, the invincible spirit it develops
wins admiration. Indeed if we accept the facts
of the affair at Mobila, as above described, and those
facts seem to be fully corroborated by a careful examination
of all the reliable annalists of those days, impartial
history cannot severely condemn De Soto in that dreadful
occurrence. But it cannot be denied that he would
have acted much more wisely, had he followed the counsel
of Isabella, previously given, and withdrawn from scenes
thus fraught with violence, cruelty and blood.
As De Soto was conversing with some
of his officers, of his plan of still prosecuting
his journey in search of gold, he was told, not a
little to his dismay, that his soldiers would not follow
him. It was said that they were all thoroughly
disheartened, and anxious to return to their homes,
and that immediately upon reaching their ships, they
would insist upon reembarking, and abandoning a land
where they had thus far encountered only disasters.
The thought of returning to Cuba an
impoverished man, having utterly failed in his expedition,
surrounded by ragged and clamorous followers, and
thus in disgrace, was to De Soto dreadful. Not
making sufficient allowance for the difference in
those respects between himself and his followers,
he found it difficult to credit the representations
which had been made to him. He therefore dressed
himself in a disguise, and secretly wandered about
by night among the frail huts of the soldiers, and
soon found, by listening to their conversation, his
worst fears confirmed. It became clear to his
mind that immediately on his return to the ships,
his present followers would disband and shift for
themselves, while it would be in vain for him to attempt
to raise another army.
Speaking of the distress with which
these considerations oppressed the mind of De Soto,
Mr. Irving well says, referring in confirmation of
his statement, both to the account given by the Portuguese
Narrative, and that by the Inca:
“Should his present forces desert
him, therefore, he would remain stripped of dignity
and command, blasted in reputation, his fortune
expended in vain, and his enterprise, which had
caused so much toil and trouble, a subject of
scoffing rather than renown. The Governor was
a man extremely jealous of his honor; and as
he reflected upon these gloomy prospects, they
produced sudden and desperate resolves.
He disguised his anger and his knowledge of the schemes
he had overheard, but he determined to frustrate them
by turning back upon the coast, striking again into
the interior, and never seeking the ships nor
furnishing any tidings of himself, until he had
crowned his enterprise gloriously by discovering
new regions of wealth like those of Peru and
Mexico.
“A change came over De Soto from
this day. He was disconcerted in his favorite
scheme of colonization, and had lost confidence
in his followers. Instead of manifesting his
usual frankness, energy and alacrity, he became
a moody, irritable, discontented man. He
no longer pretended to strike out any grand undertaking,
went recklessly wandering from place to place,
apparently without order or object, as if careless
of time and life, and only anxious to finish his existence.”
On the morning of the 15th of November,
1540, the troops, much to their consternation, received
orders to commence their march to the north, instead
of to the south. The established habits of military
discipline, and the stern manner of De Soto, repelled
all audible murmurs. Each soldier took with him
two days’ provision, which consisted mainly
of roasted corn pounded into meal. It was not
doubted that in the fertile region of that sunny clime
they would find food by the way. But winter was
approaching which, though short, would certainly bring
with it some days and nights of such severe cold that
an unsheltered army would almost perish.
After traversing a very pleasant country
for five days, without meeting any adventure of any
especial interest, they came to a river wide and deep,
with precipitous banks, which is supposed to have been
the Tuscaloosa, or Black Warrior. The point at
which they touched this stream, upon whose banks they
had already encamped, was probably near the present
site of Erie, in Greene County. Here they found
upon the farther banks of the river, a populous village
called Cabusto. De Soto as usual sent a courier
with a friendly message to the chief, saying “that
he came in friendship and sought only an unobstructed
path through his realms.”
The chief returned the defiant reply
“We want no peace with you.
War only we want; a war of fire and blood.”
As De Soto, troubled by this message,
moved cautiously forward, he found an army of fifteen
hundred natives drawn up on the banks of the stream
to prevent the passage; while the opposite banks were
occupied by between six and seven thousand warriors,
extending up and down the river for a distance of
six miles. There was nothing for the Spaniards
to do but to press forward. To turn back, in sight
of their foes, was not to be thought of. After
a pretty sharp skirmish, in which the Spaniards attacked
their opponents, the natives sprang into their canoes,
and some by swimming crossed the river and joined the
main body of the Indians upon the opposite bank.
Here they were obviously prepared,
to make a desperate resistance. Night came on,
dark and chill. The Spaniards bivouacked on the
open plain, awaiting the morning, when, with but about
seven hundred men, they were to assail eight thousand
warriors, very strongly posted on bluffs, with a deep
and rapid river flowing at their feet. The Indians
gave the Spaniards no repose. During the darkness
they were continually passing the river at different
points in their canoes, and then uniting in one band,
with hideous outcries assailing the weary travellers.
The military genius of De Soto successfully beat them
off through the night. He then intrenched himself
so as to bid defiance to their attacks, and employed
one hundred of his most skilful workmen in building,
under the concealment of a neighboring grove, two very
large flat boats.
Twelve days passed before these barges
were finished. By the aid of men and horses,
they were brought to the river and launched. In
the morning, before the dawn, ten mounted horsemen
and forty footmen embarked in each boat, the footmen
to ply the oars as vigorously as possible in the rapid
passage of the river to a designated spot, where the
horsemen were immediately to spur their steeds upon
the shore, and with their sabres open a passage for
the rest of the troops. De Soto was anxious to
pass in the first boat, but his followers entreated
him not to expose his life, upon which everything
depended, to so great a peril.
The moment the boats were dimly seen
by the watchful natives, a signal war-whoop rang along
the bank for miles. Five hundred warriors rushed
to the menaced spot, to prevent the landing. Such
a shower of arrows was thrown upon the boat that every
man was more or less wounded. The moment the
bows touched the beach, the steel-clad horsemen plunged
upon the foe, and cut their way through them with blood-dripping
sabres. Other native warriors were however hurrying
to the assistance of their comrades. In the meantime
the boats had with great rapidity recrossed the river,
and brought over another detachment of eighty men
with De Soto himself at their head. After a sanguinary
conflict the Spaniards obtained complete possession
of the landing place. Though unimportant skirmishes
were kept up through the day, the remaining troops
were without difficulty brought across the river.
At nightfall not an Indian was to be seen. They
had all withdrawn and fortified themselves with palisades
in a neighboring swamp.
The Spaniards found opening before
them a beautiful and fertile country, well cultivated,
with fields of corn and beans, and with many small
villages and comfortable farm-houses scattered around.
They broke up their boats for the sake of the nails,
which might prove of priceless value to them in their
future operations. Leaving the Indians unmolested
in their fortress, they journeyed on five days in a
westerly direction, when they reached the banks of
another large river, which is supposed to have been
the Tombigbee.
Here De Soto found hostile Indians
arrayed on the opposite bank, ready to oppose his
passage. Anxious to avoid, if possible, any sanguinary
collision with the natives, he tarried for two days,
until a canoe had been constructed by which he could
send a friendly message across to the chief.
A single unarmed Indian was dispatched in the canoe
with these words of peace. He paddled across
the river, and as soon as the canoe touched the shore
the savages rushed upon him, beat out his brains with
their war-clubs, and raising yells of defiance, mysteriously
disappeared.
There being no longer any foe to oppose
the passage, the troops were easily conveyed across
on rafts. Unassailed, they marched tranquilly
on for several days, until, on the 18th of December,
they reached a small village called Chickasaw.
It was pleasantly situated on a gentle eminence, embellished
with groves of walnut and oak trees, and with streams
of pure water running on either side. It is supposed
that this village was on the Yazoo river, in the upper
part of the State of Mississippi, about two hundred
and fifty miles northwest of Mobile.
It was midwinter, and upon those high
lands the weather was intensely cold. The ground
was frequently encumbered with snow and ice, and the
troops, unprovided with winter clothing, suffered severely.
De Soto decided to take up his winter quarters at
Chickasaw, there to await the returning sun of spring.
There appears to have been something senseless in
the wild wanderings in which De Soto was now persisting,
which have led some to suppose that care, exhaustion,
and sorrow had brought on some degree of mental derangement.
However that may be, he devoted himself with great
energy to the promotion of the comfort of his men.
Foraging parties were dispatched in all directions
in search of food and of straw for bedding, while
an ample supply of fuel was collected for their winter
fires.
There were two hundred comfortable
houses in this village, and De Soto added a few more,
so that all of his men were well sheltered. So
far as we can judge from the narratives given, the
native inhabitants, through fear of the Spaniards,
had abandoned their homes and fled to distant parts.
De Soto did everything in his power to open friendly
relations with the Indians. He succeeded, through
his scouts, in capturing a few, whom he sent to their
chief laden with presents, and with assurances of
peace and friendship.
The Cacique returned favorable replies,
and sent to De Soto in return fruit, fish, and venison.
He, however, was very careful not to expose his person
to the power of the Spaniards. His warriors, in
gradually increasing numbers, ventured to enter the
village, where they were treated by De Soto with the
greatest consideration. He had still quite a
large number of swine with him, for they had multiplied
wonderfully on the way. The Indians, having had
a taste of pork, found it so delicious that they began
to prowl around the encampment by night to steal these
animals. It is said that two Indians who were
caught in the act were shot, and as this did not check
the thievery, a third had both his hands chopped off
with a hatchet, and thus mutilated was sent to the
chief as a warning to others.
It is with great reluctance that we
give any credence to this statement. It certainly
is not sustained by any evidence which would secure
conviction in a court of justice. It is quite
contrary to the well-established humanity of De Soto.
There can be no possible excuse for such an act of
barbarity on the part of any civilized man. If
De Soto were guilty of the atrocity, it would, indeed,
indicate that his reason was being dethroned.
The chief had taken up his residence
about three or four miles from the village. Four
of the Spanish soldiers one night, well armed, stole
from their barracks, in direct violation of orders,
and repairing to the dwelling of the Cacique, robbed
him of some rich fur mantles, and other valuable articles
of clothing. With that even-handed justice which
has thus far characterized De Soto, he who had ordered
two Indians to be shot for stealing his swine, now
ordered the two ringleaders in this robbery of the
Indian chief to be put to death.
The priests in the army, and most
of the officers, earnestly implored De Soto to pardon
the culprits. But he was inflexible. He would
administer equal justice to the Indian and the Spaniard.
The culprits were led into the public square to be
beheaded. It so happened that, just at that time,
an embassage arrived from the Cacique with complaints
of the robbery, and demanding the punishment of the
offenders. Juan Ortiz, the interpreter, whose
sympathies were deeply moved in behalf of his comrades
about to be executed, adopted the following singular
and sagacious expedient to save them:
He falsely reported to the Governor
that the chief had sent his messengers to implore
the forgiveness of the culprits to say that
their offence was a very slight one, and that he should
regard it as a personal favor if they were pardoned
and set at liberty. The kind-hearted De Soto,
thus delivered from his embarrassment, gladly released
them.
On the other hand, the tricky interpreter
sent word to the Cacique that the men who had robbed
him were in close imprisonment, and that they would
be punished with the utmost severity, so as to serve
as a warning to all others.
Many circumstances led De Soto to
the suspicion that the chief was acting a treacherous
part; that he was marshalling an immense army in the
vicinity to attack the Spaniards; that his pretended
friendliness was intended merely to disarm suspicion,
and that the warriors who visited the village were
spies, making preparation for a general assault.
In this judgment subsequent events proved him to be
correct.
Early in the month of March there
was a dark and stormy night, and a chill north wind
swept the bleak plains. The sentinels were driven
to seek shelter; no one dreamed of peril. It
was the hour for the grand assault. Just at midnight
the Cacique put his martial bands in motion.
They were in three powerful divisions, the central
party being led by the chief in person. These
moccasoned warriors, with noiseless tread, stealthily
approached their victims. Suddenly the air resounded
with war-whoops, blasts of conch shells, and the clangor
of wooden drums, rising above the roar of the storm,
when the savages, like spirits of darkness, rushed
upon the defenceless village. They bore with them
lighted matches, made of some combustible substance
twisted in the form of a cord, which, being waved
in the air, would blaze into flame. The village
was built of reeds, with thatch of dried grass.
The torch was everywhere applied; the gale fanned
the fire. In a few minutes the whole village
was a roaring furnace of flame.
What pen can describe the scene which
ensued of tumult, terror, blood, and woe! What
imagination can conceive of the horrors of that night,
when uncounted thousands of savages, fierce as demons,
rushed upon the steel-clad veterans of Spain, not
one of whom would ask for quarter! every one of whom
would fight with sinewy arm and glittering sabre to
the last possible gasp.
Nothing could throw the veteran Spaniards
into a panic. They always slept prepared for
surprise. In an instant every man was at his post.
De Soto, who always slept in hose and doublet, drew
his armor around him, mounted his steed ever ready,
and was one of the first to dash into the densest
of the foe. Twelve armored horsemen were immediately
at his side. The arrows and javelins of the natives
glanced harmless from helmet and cuirass, while every
flash of the long, keen sabres was death to an Indian,
and the proud war-horses trampled the corpses beneath
their feet.
The fierce conflagration soon drove
all alike out into the plain. Many of the Spaniards
could not escape, but perished miserably in the fire.
Several of the splendid horses were also burned.
Soon all were engaged hand to hand, fighting in a
tumultuous mass by the light of the conflagration.
There was, perhaps, alike bravery on either side.
But the natives knew that if defeated they could flee
to the forests; while to the Spaniards defeat was
certain death, or captivity worse than death to every
one.
De Soto observed not far from him
an Indian chief of herculean strength, who was fighting
with great success. He closed in upon him, and
as he rose in his saddle, leaning mainly upon the right
stirrup, to pierce him with his lance, the saddle,
which in the haste had not been sufficiently girded,
turned beneath him, and he was thrown upon the ground
in the midst of the enemy. His companions sprang
to the rescue. Instantly he remounted, and was
again in the thickest of the foe. The battle
was fierce, bloody, and short. So many of the
horsemen had perished during their long journey that
many of the foot soldiers were protected by armor.
At length the savages were put to flight. Pursued
by the swift-footed horses, they, in their terror,
to add speed to their footsteps, threw away their
weapons, and thus fell an easy prey to the conqueror.
The Spaniards, justly exasperated
in being thus treacherously assailed by those who
had assumed the guise of friendship, pursued the fugitives
so long as they could be distinguished by the light
of the conflagration, and cut them down without any
mercy. A bugle-blast then sounded the recall.
The victors returned to an awful scene of desolation
and misery. Their homes were all in ashes, and
many of the few comforts they had retained were consumed.
Forty Spaniards had been slain, besides many more
wounded. Fifty horses had perished in the flames,
or had been shot by the natives. Their herd of
swine, which they prized so highly, and which they
regarded as an essential element in the establishment
of their colony, had been shut up in an enclosure
roofed with straw, and nearly every one had perished
in the flames.
This disaster was the most severe
calamity which had befallen them. Since landing
at Tampa Bay, over three hundred men had fallen from
the attacks of the natives. De Soto was thrown
into a state of the deepest despondency. All
hope seemed to be extinguished. World-weary, and
in despair, he apparently wished only to die.
Distress was all around him, with no possibility of
his affording any relief. Sadly he buried the
dead of his own army, while he left the bodies of the
natives thick upon the plain, a prey for wolves and
vultures. The smouldering ruins of Chickasaw
were abandoned, and an encampment was reared of logs
and bark at a distance of about three miles; where
they passed a few weeks of great wretchedness.
Bodily discomfort and mental despondency united in
creating almost intolerable gloom.
Terribly as the natives had been punished
they soon learned the extent of the calamity they
had inflicted upon the Spaniards. Through their
spies they ascertained their diminished numbers, witnessed
their miserable plight, and had the sagacity to perceive
that they were very poorly prepared to withstand another
attack. Thus they gradually regained confidence,
marshalled their armies anew, and commenced an incessant
series of assaults, avoiding any general action, and
yet wearing out the Spaniards with the expectation
of such action every hour of every night.
In the daytime, De Soto sent out his
horsemen to scour the country around in all directions
for a distance of ten or twelve miles. They would
return with the declaration that not a warrior was
to be found. But before midnight the fleet footed
savages would be swarming around the encampment, with
hideous yells, often approaching near enough to throw
in upon it a shower of arrows. Occasionally these
skirmishes became hotly contested. In one of
them forty Indians were slain, while two of the horses
of the Spaniards were killed and two severely wounded.
In their thin clothing the Spaniards
would have suffered terribly from the severe cold
of the nights, but for the ingenuity of one of their
number, who invented a soft, thick, warm matting or
coverlet which he wove from some long grass that abounded
in the vicinity. Every soldier was speedily engaged
in the manufacture of these beds or blankets.
They were made several inches in thickness and about
six feet square. One half served as a mattress,
and the other folded over, became a blanket.
Thus they were relieved from the cold, which otherwise
would have been almost unendurable.
The foraging parties succeeded in
obtaining a supply of corn, beans, and dried fruit.
Here De Soto was compelled to remain, to heal his
wounded, for the remainder of the month of March.
He was very anxious to escape from the hostile region
as soon as possible. As an illustration of the
scenes which were occurring almost every night during
this sad encampment, we may mention the following.
The night was cold and dark.
The defiant war-cries of the savages were heard in
all directions and no one could tell how great their
numbers, or upon what point their attack would fall.
Several camp-fires were built, around which horsemen
were assembled ready to meet the foe from whatever
point, in the darkness, he might approach. Juan
De Gusman was the leader of one of these bands.
He was a cavalier of high renown. In figure,
he was delicate, almost feminine, but he had the soul
of a lion.
By the light of the blazing fagots,
he discerned a numerous band of Indians stealthily
approaching. Leaping upon his horse, and followed
by five companions, and a few armored footmen, he plunged
into the midst of them. He aimed his javelin,
at apparently the leader of the savages, a man of
gigantic stature. The Indian wrenched the lance
from his hand, seized him by the collar, and hurled
him from his saddle to the ground. Instantly
the soldiers rushed in, with their sabers, cut the
savage to pieces and after a short conflict in which
a large number of the natives were slain, put the
rest to flight.
It may seem strange that so few of
the Spaniards were killed in these terrible conflicts,
in which they often cut down hundreds and even thousands
of their foes. But it should be remembered that
their coats of mail quite effectually protected them
from the flint pointed arrows of the Indians.
The only vulnerable point was the face, and even this
was sometimes shielded by the visor. But the bodies
of the natives, thinly clad, were easily cut down
by the steel blades of the cavaliers.