PARKMAN’S ACCOUNT[1]

Hernando de Soto was the companion of Pizarro in the conquest of Peru.  He had come to America a needy adventurer, with no other fortune than his sword and target.  But his exploits had given him fame and fortune, and he appeared at court with the retinue of a nobleman.  Still, his active energies could not endure repose, and his avarice and ambition goaded him to fresh enterprises.  He asked and obtained permission to conquer Florida.  While this design was in agitation, Cabeca de Vaca, one of those who had survived the expedition of Narvaez, appeared in Spain, and for purposes of his own, spread abroad the mischievous falsehood that Florida was the richest country yet discovered.  De Soto’s plans were embraced with enthusiasm.  Nobles and gentlemen contended for the privilege of joining his standard; and, setting sail with an ample armament, he landed at the Bay of Espiritu Santo, now Tampa Bay, in Florida, with six hundred and twenty chosen men, a band as gallant and well appointed, as eager in purpose and audacious in hope, as ever trod the shores of the New World.  The clangor of trumpets, the neighing of horses, the fluttering of pennons, the glittering of helmet and lance, startled the ancient forest with unwonted greeting.  Amid this pomp of chivalry, religion was not forgotten.  The sacred vessels and vestments with bread and wine for the Eucharist were carefully provided; and De Soto himself declared that the enterprise was undertaken for God alone, and seemed to be the object of His especial care.  These devout marauders could not neglect the spiritual welfare of the Indians whom they had come to plunder; and besides fetters to bind, and bloodhounds to hunt them, they brought priests and monks for the saving of their souls.

The adventurers begun their march.  Their story has been often told.  For month after month and year after year, the procession of priests and cavaliers, crossbowmen, arquebusiers, and Indian captives laden with the baggage, still wandered on through wild and boundless wastes, lured hither and thither by the ignis-fatuus of their hopes.  They traversed great portions of Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, everywhere inflicting and enduring misery, but never approaching their fantom El Dorado.  At length, in the third year of their journeying, they reached the banks of the Mississippi, a hundred and thirty-two years before its second discovery by Marquette.  One of their number describes the great river as almost half a league wide, deep, rapid, and constantly rolling down trees and drift-wood on its turbid current.

The Spaniards crossed over at a point above the mouth of the Arkansas.  They advanced westward, but found no treasures—­nothing, indeed, but hardships, and an Indian enemy, furious, writes one of their officers, “as mad dogs.”  They heard of a country toward the north where maize could not be cultivated because the vast herds of wild cattle devoured it.[2] They penetrated so far that they entered the range of the roving prairie tribes; for, one day, as they pushed their way with difficulty across great plains covered with tall, rank grass, they met a band of savages who dwelt in lodges of skins sewed together, subsisting on game alone, and wandering perpetually from place to place.  Finding neither gold nor the South Sea, for both of which they had hoped, they returned to the banks of the Mississippi.