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.