Columbus and Other Heroes of American Discovery

by N. D'Anvers

The story of his adventures, as told by Ortiz, rivaled even that of Cabeca in thrilling interest. He had been captured soon after the landing of his party by a chief named Ucita, who decided that he should be burned alive by a slow fire, as a sacrifice to the Evil Spirit. A rough stage was therefore set up on four posts; Ortiz, bound hand and foot, was laid upon it; the fire was kindled beneath him, and he resigned himself to the lingering agonies of a shameful death. Around him on every side gathered his enemies, eager to watch his dying contortions. Their shouts of triumph rung upon his ears, and broke in upon his muttered prayers to the God who alone could help him in his extremity.... Was he dreaming that the bitter cries were hushed in answer to his appeal?—that those whose duty it was to feed the flames were pausing in their task? No, it was no dream; the daughter of the chieftain was kneeling at her father’s feet, pleading, in tones as soft as ever fell from the lips of Spanish maiden, for the life of the stranger. It was but a little gift she asked, and, in granting it, would not her father win honor among the tribes? Would not a living prisoner of a strange race be a brighter gem in a chieftain’s crown than the corpse of a dead enemy? Touched by his child’s entreaties, or more convinced by her arguments, Ucita relented. Ortiz was removed from the stage, and informed by signs that he must henceforth consider himself as a slave. In captivity therefore he remained, to be the hero, three years later, of a second romantic adventure, when he was again condemned to be burned, and again rescued by the chieftain’s daughter, who warned him of his danger in time, and led him to the camp of another chieftain, under whose protection he remained until the arrival of his fellow-countrymen. How the devotion of the Indian girl was rewarded we have been unable to ascertain, for, with the characteristic egotism of the Spanish adventurers, Ortiz dwells in his narrative only on his own escapes, and with his acceptance of the second chieftain’s protection, or rather his entry into his service as a slave, the poor maiden disappears from the story.

Led by Ortiz, De Soto and his army made their way, slowly and with difficulty, in a north-easterly direction, till they came to the east of the Bay of Apalachen, a little beyond the mouth of the Flint, where the peninsula of Florida joins the mainland of the United States. Here the camp was pitched for the winter; messages were sent to Cuba for fresh supplies of men and provisions, and exploring parties were dispatched to reconnoiter the land on either side. The discovery of the harbor of Pensacola on the west was the only result of any importance achieved, and early in the spring of the following year, 1540, the march was resumed, this time under the guidance of a native, who said he would take the white men to a far country, governed by a woman, and abounding in a yellow metal, which was used for making all manner of ornaments, etc. This metal could be none other than gold; and, with fresh hope in their hearts, the explorers pressed on.

Following a north-easterly direction, the wanderers soon entered the district now known as Georgia, and, crossing the Altamaha river on its way to the Atlantic, they left the low alluvial lands and swamps of the coast on their right, and struggled on over the rough hilly country gradually sloping up to the Blue Ridge mountains belonging to the Alleghany or Apalachian range, the El Dorado for which they were seeking ever receding as they advanced, while their course was everywhere marked by blood and pillage.

His own conduct to the unfortunate natives giving him no right to expect any thing but treachery from them, De Soto soon began to entertain suspicions of the fidelity of his guide. Perhaps, after all, he was only leading him into an ambush of dusky warriors. He would try and extract further information from some of the captives in his hands. Four poor creatures were therefore brought before the leader for examination, and the first questioned replied that he knew of no such country as that so eagerly sought.

Enraged at this answer, so unlike what he hoped for, De Soto ordered the wretched man to be burned alive, and the sight of his terrible death so inspired his companions that, when their turn came to be examined, they vied with each other in the descriptions they gave of the fertility and wealth of the land on the north. Again deceived, and that with a readiness only to be accounted for by the consuming lust for gold which blinded his understanding, the leader ordered the march to be resumed, and in the spring of 1540 he was met by an Indian queen, who, hearing of his approach, had hastened to welcome him, hoping perhaps to conciliate him, and save herself and her subjects from the usual fate of the natives at the hands of the white men.

Very touching is the account given by the old chroniclers of the meeting between the poor cacica and De Soto. Alighting from the litter in which she had traveled, carried by four of her subjects, the dusky princess came forward with gestures expressive of pleasure at the arrival of her guest, and taking from her own neck a heavy double string of pearls, she hung it on that of the Spaniard. Bowing with courtly grace, De Soto accepted the gift, and for a short time he kept up the semblance of friendship; but having obtained from the queen all the information he wanted, he made her his prisoner, and robbed her and her people of all the valuables they possessed, including large numbers of pearls found chiefly in the graves of natives of distinction. We are glad to be able to add that the poor queen effected her escape from the guards, taking with her a box of pearls which she had managed to regain, and on which De Soto had set especial store.

The home of the cacica appears to have been situated close to the Atlantic seaboard, and to have been among the villages visited by De Ayllon twenty years previously, the natives having in their possession a dagger and a string of beads, probably a rosary, which they said had belonged to the white men. Unwilling to go over old ground, the Spaniards now determined to alter their course, and taking a north-westerly direction, they reached, in the course of a few months, the first spurs of the lofty Apalachian range, the formidable aspect of which so damped their courage, that they turned back and wandered into the lowlands of what is now Alabama, ignorant that in the very mountains they so much dreaded were hidden large quantities of that yellow metal they had sought so long and so vainly.

The autumn of 1540 found the party, their numbers greatly diminished, at a large village called Mavilla, close to the site of the modern Mobile, (N. lat. 30° 40′, W. long. 80°), where the natives were gathered in considerable force; and it soon became evident that an attempt would be made to exact vengeance for the long course of oppression of which the white intruders had been guilty in their two years’ wanderings.

Intending to take possession of Mavilla in his usual high-handed manner, De Soto and a few of his men entered the palisades forming its defenses, accompanied by the cacique, who, meek enough until he was within reach of his warriors, then turned upon his guests with some insulting speech, and disappeared in a neighboring house. A dispute then ensued between a minor chief and one of the Spaniards. The latter enforced his view of the matter at issue by a blow with his cutlass, and in an instant the town was in a commotion. From every house poured showers of arrows, and in a few minutes nearly all the Christians were slain. De Soto and a few others escaped, and, calling his forces together, the Spanish governor quickly invested the town.

A terrible conflict, lasting nine hours, ensued, in which, as was almost inevitable, the white men were finally victorious, though not until they had lost many valuable lives and nearly all their property. Mavilla was burned to ashes; and when the battle was over, the Spaniards found themselves in an awful situation—at a distance from their ships, without food or medicines, and surrounded on all sides by enemies rendered desperate by defeat. The common soldiers, too, had by this time had enough of exploration, and were eager to return to the coast, there to await the return of the vessels which had been sent to Cuba for supplies. Evading the poor fellows’ questions as to his plans, however, De Soto, who had received secret intelligence that his fleet was even now awaiting him in the Bay of Pensacola, but six days’ journey from Mavilla, determined to make one more effort to redeem his honor by a discovery of importance. With this end in view, he led his disheartened forces northward, and in December reached a small village belonging to Chickasaw Indians, in the state of Mississippi, supposed to have been situated about N. lat. 32° 53′, W. long. 90° 23′.