“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.