The Man with the Iron Hand

by John Carl Parish

In the councils of the Illinois Indians there was much debate. Each chief had his own opinion. It was a time of new and strange happenings. Long had the Illinois tribe lived proud and comfortable in the valley. They had hunted and fished up and down the rivers at their will. In the open spaces before their arbor-like lodges they gambled and smoked and basked in the summer days, the bright sun warming their naked bodies. And when they were tired of basking, they put on their garments of red and black paint, gathered howling in the war dance, and set out on a raid against the Sacs and Foxes west of the Lake of the Illinois, or the Sioux by the headwaters of the Mississippi, or the Osages and Arkansas and other tribes on its southern banks. Often, too, war came to them, and sometimes so desperate that even the Indian women fought hand to hand with the enemy in the spaces between the lodges of the village.

But of late years had come new dangers. Faint whisperings reached them of white-faced men who brought from across the sea weapons that roared like the thunder and smote their victims like bolts of lightning. Their ancient enemies, the Iroquois, bought these weapons with furs and carried their ravages upon the Western tribes with increased deadliness. Then they learned that the white men themselves were beginning to appear on the Great Lakes—first at the eastern end, but finally on the shores of Lake Superior and the Lake of the Illinois.

By and by there pushed out from the Lakes into the valleys of the Wisconsin and the Illinois, and even as far as the Upper Mississippi, the black-robed priest and the lone fur trader. Restless coureurs de bois floated down the rivers in greater numbers. They set up cabins and wintered in the lands which once the Indians alone knew. Priests, having come to visit, came again to stay. Soldiers and explorers pierced the far wilderness. Strange canoes shot up and down the waters. The ringing of axes sounded in the woods, and forts sprang up. These new bold habitants brought hatchets that put the old stone clubs to shame, kettles such as the Indians had never dreamed of, knives with a deadly edge, blankets of bright color and fine texture—and the childlike heart of the Indian was made glad.

A new force had come upon the land and the end of the old days was at hand. No Indian fully realized it. The novelty of the white man’s ways and the charm of his gifts shortened their vision, and so they lived each in the eventful present. But as surely as the river flowed down to the sea, the Great Valley was passing out of their grasp. The wide reaches of meadow, the leagues of hill and plain, the waters that ran past a thousand hills, virgin forest for their game, live soil for their corn, all the freedom and bounty of the greatest valley in the world had been theirs—a valley to roam over at will, to hunt in with the changing seasons, to fight for in the glory of battle among themselves.

The red men did not know that things were really going to be different, for they were not wise in prophecy. But they were restless in mind and they felt some of the dangers of the present; for like children they feared a power they could not understand.

Among the Illinois tribes this vague fear rose and then died out in the more placid courses of their lives. Then lurking suspicion seized upon some event and all was alarm again. So it was with other tribes, for fierce courage and abject terror alternated in the Indian mind.

Over on the shores of the Fox River and about the foot of the Lake of the Illinois lived the nation of Miamis. They were relatives of the Illinois tribes as well as neighbors, and their language was much the same. The fear of the Iroquois, armed with white men’s weapons, had seized such firm hold upon them that once they migrated to the Mississippi. But in a time of peace they had wandered back to their former homes. Now and then trouble arose between Miami and Illinois, and for years they waged war upon each other.

The secret embassy of Monso with his Miami followers left the Illinois uneasy. How did the Miamis know so much about the Iroquois? If the Iroquois came, would the Miamis join them against the people of the Illinois? And what would La Salle and Tonty and the men at the fort do? Round and round went question and answer as the spring came on. Soon would Chassagoac, their greatest chief, be back with his hunters. Perhaps his wisdom might help them.

In the meantime they went about their duties and pleasures in the village. The end of February, 1680, came, and on the last day of the month they saw a great stirring—an unusual bustling about and strutting up and down on the part of the gray-robed Hennepin. Finally he planted his figure solidly in a canoe laden with skins and weapons and knives and kettles. The veteran woodsman, Michael Ako, was with him and Antoine Auguel—called the Picard by his comrades because he came from Picardy in France. Bidding good-bye to those on the bank, the three men slipped swiftly down the current and out of sight. What new move was this?

The Indians wondered until the next day when the village welcomed the return of one of its hunting parties, just arrived from down the river. They had passed Ako and his fellows about sundown the night before and tried to persuade them to return. But no, they were bound for the land of the Sioux, where Ako meant to trade in furs and learn of the country; and the affable friar pronounced himself bound to undertake the great perils of an unknown land to preach to the Indians of the Upper Mississippi. So the red hunters let them pass—the boastful friar and his two companions. Little did the three know what experiences were to befall them before they saw again the lights of white men’s cabins.