There was bustle of no common sort in the fortress of La Caroline. The breezes of September had purged and relieved of its evil influences the stagnant atmosphere of summer. The sick of the garrison had crawled forth beneath the pleasant shadows of the palms, that grew between the fortress and the river banks, and there were signs of life and animation in the scene and among its occupants, which testified to the favorable change which healthier breezes and more encouraging moral influences, were about to produce among the sluggish inhabitants of our little colony. There were particular occasions for movement apart from the cheering aspects of the season. Enterprise was afoot with all its eagerness and hope. Men were to be seen, in armor, hurrying to and fro, busy in the work of preparation, while Monsieur Laudonniere himself, just recovered from a severe illness, conspicuous in the scene, appeared to have cast aside no small portion of his wonted apathy and inactivity. He was in the full enjoyment of his authority. He had baffled the disease which preyed upon him, and had defeated the conspiracy by which his life and power had been threatened. He was now disposed to think lightly of the dangers he had passed, though his having passed them, in safety, had tended greatly to encourage his hope and to stimulate his adventure. He now stood, in full uniform, at the great gate of the fortress, reading at intervals from a paper in his grasp, while extending his orders to his lieutenants. He was evidently preparing to make considerable use of his authority. It is, perhaps, permitted to a Gascon to do so, at all seasons, even when he owes his security to better wits than his own, and has achieved his successes in his own despite. Our worthy captain of the Huguenot garrison upon the river of May, was not the less disposed to insist upon his authority, because it had been saved to him without his own participation. It might have been difficult, under any circumstances, to persuade him of that, and certainly, the conviction, even if he had entertained it, would, at this juncture, have done nothing to dissipate or lessen the confident hope which prompted his present purposes. The present was no ordinary occasion. It was as an ally of sovereigns that Laudonniere was extending his orders. He had, already, on several occasions, permitted his lieutenants to take part in the warfare between the domestic chieftains, and he was now preparing to engage in a contest which threatened to be of more than common magnitude and duration. A warfare that seldom knew remission had been long waged between the rival warriors, whose several dominions embraced the western line of the great Apalachian chain. Already had the Huguenots fought on the side of the great potentate Olata Utina, commonly called Utina, against another formidable prince called Potanou. He was now preparing to second with arms the ambition of Kings Hostaqua and Onathaqua, who were preparing for the utter annihilation of the power of the formidable Potanou. Of the two former kings, such had been the account brought to Laudonniere, that he at first imagined them to be Spaniards. They were described as going to battle in complete armor, with their breasts, arms and thighs covered with plates of gold, and with a helmet or headpiece of the same metal. Their armor defied the arrows of the savages, and proved the possession of a degree of civilization very far superior to anything in the experience or customs of the red-men. Subsequently it was ascertained that they were Indians like the rest, differing from the rest, however, in this other remarkable trait, that, while all the other tribes painted their faces red, these warriors of Hostaqua and Onathaqua employed black only to increase the formidable appearance which they made in battle. The golden armor used by this people, and the excess of the precious metals which this habit implied, were sufficient inducements for our Huguenot leader to attempt his present enterprise. It had furnished the argument of the conspirators against him, that he done so little towards the discovery of the precious metals; having provoked that cupidity, which his necessities alone compelled him to refuse to gratify. His error, at the present moment was, in employing other than the discontents of his colony in making the discovery. But of this hereafter.
Laudonniere had not been wholly neglectful, even while he seemed to sleep upon his arms, of the reported treasures of the country. He had sent two of his men, La Roche Ferrière a clever young ensign, and another, to dwell in the dominions of King Utina, and these two had been absent all the summer, engaged in rambling about the country. Others, as we have seen, were sent in other directions. Lieutenant Achille D’Erlach, the brother of the favorite Alphonse, had been absent in this way, during all the period when Laudonniere was threatened by conspiracy; and it was now decreed that, even while his brother continued absent, Alphonse should depart also. The eagerness of Laudonniere would admit of no delay. His curiosity had just received a new impulse from a present which had been sent him by Hostaqua, consisting of a “Luzerne’s skinne full of arrows, a couple of bowes, foure or five skinnes painted after their manner, and a chaine of silver weighing about a pounde weight.” These came with overtures of friendship and alliance, which the Huguenot chief did not deem it polite to disregard. He sent to the savage king, “two whole sutes of apparell, with certain cutting hookes or hatchets,” and prepared to follow up his gifts, by sending a small detachment of picked soldiers, under Alphonse D’Erlach, still more thoroughly to fathom the secrets of the country, but ostensibly to unite with Hostaqua and his ally against the potent savage Potanou, who was described as a man of boundless treasures, also.
The bearer of these presents from Hostaqua was an inferior chieftain named Oolenoe. This cunning savage, of whom we shall know more hereafter, did not fail to perceive that the ruling passion of our Huguenots was gold. It was only, therefore, to mumble the precious word in imperfect Gallic—to extend his hand vaguely in the direction of the Apalachian summits, and cry “gold—gold!” and the adroit orator of the Lower Cherokees, on behalf of his tribe or nation, readily commanded the attention of his gluttonous auditors. His arguments and entreaties proved irresistible, and the present earnestness of Laudonniere, at La Caroline, was in preparing for this expedition. To conquer Potanou, and to obtain from Hostaqua the clues to the precious region where the gold was reputed to grow, with almost a vegetable nature, was the motive for arming his European warriors. It was also his policy, borrowed from that of the Spaniards, to set the native tribes upon one another;—a fatal policy in the end, since they must invariably, having first destroyed the inferior, turn upon the superior, through the irresistible force of habit. But, even with the former object, we do not perceive that there was any necessity to take any undue pains in its attainment. Tribes that live by hunting only, must unavoidably come into constant collision. No doubt the natural tendency of the savage might be stimulated and made more inveterate and active, by European arts; and Laudonniere, however Huguenot, was too little the Christian to forbear them. With this policy he proposed to justify himself to those who were averse to the present enterprise. One of these was his favorite, Alphonse D’Erlach, the youth to whom he owed his life. This young man, on the present occasion, approached him where he stood, eager and excited with the business of draughting the proper officers and men for the present hopeful expedition. At a little distance, stood the stern old savage, Oolenoe, grimly looking on with a satisfaction at his heart, which was not suffered to appear on his immovable features. The artist of the statuesque might have found in his attitude and appearance, an admirable model. While his eye caught and noted every look and movement, and his ear every known and unknown sound and accent, the calm unvarying expression of his glance and muscles was that of the most perfect and cool indifference. They only did not sleep. He leaned against a sapling that stood some twenty paces removed from the entrance of the fort, a loose cotton tunic about his loins, and his bow and quiver suspended from his shoulders, in a richly-stained and shell-woven belt, the ground work of which was cotton also. A knife, the gift of Laudonniere, was the only other weapon which he bore; but this was one of those very precious acquisitions which the Indian had already purposed to bury with him.
As Alphonse D’Erlach approached his commander, a close observer might have seen in the eyes of Oolenoe, an increased brilliancy of expression. The sentiment which it conveyed was not that of love. It is with quick, intelligent natures to comprehend, as by an instinct of their own, in what quarter to find sympathies, and whence their antipathies are to follow. Oolenoe had soon discovered that D’Erlach was not friendly to his objects. With this conviction there arose another feeling, that of contempt, with which the extreme youth, and general effeminacy of the young man’s appearance, had inspired him. He did not seem the warrior,—and the Indian is not apt to esteem the person of whose conduct in battle he has doubts. Besides, the costume of D’Erlach was that of dandyism; and, though the North American savage was no humble proficient in the arts of the toilet, yet these are never ventured upon until the reputation of the hunter and warrior have been acquired. Of the abilities of D’Erlach, in these respects, Oolenoe had no knowledge; and his doubts, therefore, and disrespects, were the natural result of his conviction that the youth was suspicious of, and hostile to, himself. Of these feelings, D’Erlach knew nothing, and perhaps cared as little. His features, as he drew nigh to Laudonniere, were marked with more gravity and earnestness than they usually expressed; and, touching the wrist of his commander, as he approached him, he beckoned him somewhat farther from his followers:
“It is not too late,” said he, “to escape this arrangement.”
“And why seek to escape it, Alphonse?” replied the other, with something like impatience in his tones.
“For the best of reasons. You can have no faith in this savage. If there be this abundance of gold in the country, why brings he so little. Where are his proofs? But this is not all. But lately our enemy, jealous of our presence, and only respectful because of his fears, we can have no confidence in him, as an ally. He will lead the men whom you give him, into ambuscade—into remote lands, where provision will be found with difficulty,—require to be fought for at every step, and where the best valor in the world, and the best conduct will be unavailing for their extrication.”
“To prevent this danger, Alphonse, you shall have command of the detachment,” said Laudonniere, with a dry accent, and a satirical glance of the eye.
“I thank you, sir, for this proof of confidence,” replied the other, no ways disquieted, “and shall do my best to avoid or prevent the evils that I apprehend from it; but——”
“I have every confidence in your ability to do so, Alphonse,” said the other, interrupting him in a tone which still betrayed the annoyance which he felt from the expostulations of his favorite. The latter proceeded, after a slight but respectful inclination of the head.
“But there is another consideration of still greater importance. Your security in La Caroline is still a matter of uncertainty. You know not the extent of the late conspiracy. You know not who are sound, and who doubtful, among your men. Le Genré, Fourneaux, Le Genevois, and La Roquette, are still in the woods. You are weakening yourself, lessening the resources of the fortress, and may, at any moment——”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Laudonniere, with renewed impatience. “You are only too suspicious, Alphonse. You make too much of this conspiracy. It does not seem to me that it was ever so dangerous. At all events, the danger is over, the ringleaders banished and in the woods, and will rot there, if the wolves do not devour them. They, at least, shall not be made wolves of for me.”
D’Erlach bowed in silence. His mouth was sealed against all further expostulation. He saw that it was hopeless—that his captain had got a fixed idea, and men of few ideas, making one of them a favorite, are generally as immovable as death. Besides, Alphonse saw that the obligations which he had so lately conferred upon his commander, in baffling the conspiracy of Le Genré, by his vigilance, had somewhat wounded his amour propre. It is a misfortune, sometimes, to have been too useful. The consciousness of a benefit received, is apt to be very burdensome to the feeble nature. The quick instinct of Alphonse D’Erlach readily perceived the condition of his captain’s heart. A momentary pause ensued. Lifting his cap, he again addressed him, but with different suggestions.
“Am I to hope, sir, that you really design to honor me with this command?”
“Certainly, if you wish it, Alphonse.”
“I certainly wish it, sir, if the expedition be resolved on.”
“It is resolved on,” said Laudonniere, with grave emphasis.
“I shall then feel myself honored with the command.”
“Be it yours, lieutenant. In one hour be ready to receive your orders.”
“One minute, sir, will suffice for all personal preparation;” and, with the formal customs of military etiquette, the two officers bowed, as the younger of them withdrew to his quarters. In one hour, he was on the march with twenty men, accompanied by Oolenoe and his dusky warriors.
The little battalion of Alphonse D’Erlach marched along the edge of a wood which skirted a pleasantly rising ground—one of those gentle undulations which serve to relieve the monotonous levels of the lower regions of Florida. Deep was the umbrage—dense in its depth of green, and dark in its voluminous foliage, the thicket which overlooked their march. Their eyes might not penetrate the enclosure, from which eyes of hate were yet looking forth upon them. The wood concealed the outlaws who had lately made their escape from La Caroline, after the exposure of their conspiracy. They had not ceased to be conspirators. Bold, bad men—sleepless discontents, yearning for plunder and power—the defeat of their schemes, and the necessity of their sudden flight from the scene of their operations, had not lessened the bitterness of their feelings, nor their propensity to evil. Fierce were the glances which they shot forth upon the small troop which D’Erlach conducted before their eyes on his purposes of doubtful policy. Little did he dream what eyes were looking upon him. Could they have blasted with a glance or curse, he had been transformed with all his followers where he passed. But the three conspirators had no power for more than curses. These, though “not loud, were deep.” With clenched fists extended towards him on his progress, they devoted him to the wrath of a power which they did not themselves possess; and, watching his course through the parted foliage, until he was fairly out of sight, they delivered themselves, in muttered execrations, of the hate with which his very sight had inspired them. Stephen Le Genevois was the first to speak. He was a stalwart savage, of broad chest, black beard, and most dauntless expression.
“Death of my soul!” was his exclamation; “but that we have lost so much by the game, it were almost merry to laugh at the way in which that brat of a boy has outwitted us. We have been children in his hands.”
“He is now in ours,” said La Roquette, gloomily.
“Aye, if the Indian keeps his faith,” was the desponding comment of Fourneaux.
“And why should he not keep faith,” said Le Genevois. “He has good reason for it. When did the hope of plunder fail to secure the savage?”
“You must give him blood with it,” responded Fourneaux.
“Aye, it must be seasoned. He must have blood,” echoed La Roquette.
“Well, and why not? Do we not give him blood? will he not have this imp of Satan in his power? may he not feed on him if he will? Aye, and upon all his twenty!” exclaimed Le Genevois, fiercely.
“True—but——”
“But, but, but—ever with your buts! You lack confidence, courage, heart, Fourneaux—you despair too easily! I wonder how you ever became a conspirator!”
“I sometimes wonder myself. Ask La Roquette, there. He can tell you. I owe it all to his magic.”
“What says your magic now, Roquette—have you any signs for us?”
“Aye, good ones! We shall have what we desire. I have seen—I have said! Be satisfied.” This was spoken with due solemnity by the person in whom the credulity of his companions had found sources of power unknown to their experience.
“But why not show us what you have seen? Speak plainly, man. Out with it, and leave that mysterious shaking of the head, which has really nothing in it.”
Such was the language of the more manly and impetuous Le Genevois. It provoked only a fierce glance from the magician.
“All in good time,” said the latter. “Be patient. We shall soon hear from Oolenoe.”
“Good! and you have seen that we shall be successful?” demanded Fourneaux.
“We shall be successful.”
“That will depend upon ourselves, rather than upon your visions, I’m thinking,” said Le Genevois. “We must have courage, my friends. The signs are not good when we call for signs. If we despond, we are undone.”
“Stay—hark!” said Fourneaux, interrupting him eagerly. “I hear sounds.”
“The wind only.”
“No!—hist.”
They bent forward in the attitude of listeners, but heard nothing. They had begun again to speak, when an Indian, covered with leaves artfully glued upon his person, stood suddenly among them. They started to their feet and grasped their weapons.
“Ami!” was the single word of the intruder, at he stretched out his arms in signification of friendship.
“Said I not?” demanded the magician, confidently. “This is our man.”
His assurance was confirmed by the savage, who spoke the French sufficiently to make himself understood. He came from Oolenoe, and a few sentences sufficed to place both parties in possession of their mutual plans. The outlaws were not without friends in La Caroline. They were to find their way once more into that fortress. They had no fears from the sagacity of Laudonniere, during the absence of the youthful but vigilant D’Erlach; and, for the latter, he was to be disposed of by Oolenoe. And now the question arose, who should venture to “bell the cat?” who should venture himself within the walls of La Caroline?
“Ah!” said one of the conspirators, “if we could only bring Le Genré to his senses. He would be the man.”
“Speak nothing of him,” cried Le Genevois, quickly; “he is no longer a man. He is a priest. That defeat has killed his courage. He repents, and is constantly writing to Laudonniere for mercy and pity, and all that sort of thing. He must not know what we design.”
“Who has seen him lately?”
“I know not. He was crossed to the other side of the river by Captain Bourdet in his boats. He crossed to seek refuge with the people of Mollova.”
“He is not far, be sure. He will linger close to the fort, in the hope to get back to it, and, finally, to France. He is not to be thought of in this expedition.”
“Who then?” was the demand of Le Genevois. “Somebody must muzzle the cannon. Who? Who will take the peril and the glory of the enterprise, and in the character of an Indian will put his head in the jaws of the danger?”
The question remained unanswered. Fourneaux excused himself on a variety of pleas, not one of which would be satisfactory with a brave man. La Roquette declared that his magical powers were always valueless when any restraint was set upon his person; in other words, he could better perform his incantations when the danger threatened everybody but himself. He certainly would not think of risking them within La Caroline, while Laudonniere was in power. Besides “he had no arts of imitation. He had no abilities as an actor.” Stephen Le Genevois smiled as he listened to their pleas and excuses.
“My friends!” he exclaimed. “Did you think that I would suffer a good scheme to be spoiled by such as you? I but waited that you should speak. This adventure is mine, and I claim it. I will return to La Caroline. I will play the spy, and take the danger. Mark ye, now, comrade!”—addressing the Indian,—“prepare me for the business. Clothe me in copper, and make me what you please. I have no beauty that you need fear to spoil.”
Thus saying, he threw off, with an air of scornful recklessness, the costume which he wore. Wild was the toilet, and wilder still the guise of our buoyant Frenchman. In an open space within the thicket, beneath a great moss-covered oak, which wore the beard of three centuries upon his breast, the chief conspirator yielded himself to the hands of the Indian. A keen knife shore from his head the thick black hair with which it was covered. A thin ridge alone was suffered to remain upon the coronal region, significant of the war-lock of that tribe of Apalachia, to which Oolenoe belonged. The small golden droplets which hung from the Frenchman’s ears, were made to give way to a more massive ornament of shells, cunningly strung upon a hoop of copper wire. His body, stripped to the buff, was then stained with the brown juices of a native plant, which, with other dye-stuffs, the Indian produced from his wallet. His brow was then dyed with deeper hues of red—his cheeks tinged with spots of the darkest crimson, while a heavy circlet of black, about his eyes, gave to his countenance the aspect of a demon rather than that of a man. This done, the savage displayed a small pocket mirror before the eyes of the metamorphosed outlaw. With an oath of no measured emphasis, the Frenchman bounded to his feet, his eyes flashing with a strange delight.
“It will do!” he shouted. “It likes me well! Were I now in France, there would be no wonder beside myself. I should stir the envy of the men—I should win the hearts of the women. I should be the loveliest monster. Ho! Ho! Would that my voice would suit my visage!”
A cotton tunic with which the Indian had provided himself, was wrapped round the loins of our new-made savage, his feet were cased with moccasins, and his legs with leggins made of deerskin—a bow and quiver at his shoulder—a knife in his girdle—a string of peäg or shells about his neck;—and his toilet was complete. That very night, accompanied by his Indian comrade, Stephen Le Genevois entered the walls of La Caroline, bearing messages from Oolenoe and Alphonse D’Erlach—the latter of which, we need scarcely say, were wholly fraudulent. The credulous Laudonniere, delighted with assurances of success on the part of his lieutenant, was not particularly heedful of the nature of the evidence thus afforded him, and laid his head on an easy pillow, around which danger hovered in almost visible forms, while he, unconsciously, dreamed only of golden conquests, and discoveries which were equally to result in fame and fortune. His guardian angel was withdrawn. His mortified vanity had driven from his side the only person whose vigilance might have saved him. His own unregulated will had yielded him, bound, hand and foot, into the power of a relentless enemy.
Sweet were the slumbers of Monsieur Laudonniere, commandant of the fortress of La Caroline. Anxious was the wakening of Stephen Le Genevois, the conspirator, who, in garbing himself after the fashion of the Indian, had not succeeded in clothing his mind in the stolid and stoic nature of his savage companion. The conspirators watched together in one of the inner chambers of the fortress. They had not restricted themselves to watching merely. Already had Le Genevois made his purpose known to one of his ancient comrades. The name of this person was La Croix. He was one of the trusted followers of Laudonniere, whose superior cunning alone had saved him from suspicion, even that of D’Erlach, at the detection of the former conspiracy. La Croix, in the absence of the latter, was prepared for more decisive measures. He was one of those whose insane craving for gold had surrendered him, against all good policy, to the purposes of the conspirators. He was now in charge of the watch. As captain of the night, he led the way to the gates, which, at midnight, he cautiously threw open to the two companions of Le Genevois. Fourneaux and Roquette had been waiting for this moment. They were admitted promptly and in silence. Darkness was around them. The fortress slept,—none more soundly than its commander. In silence the outlaws led by La Croix, all armed to the teeth, made their way to his chamber. The sentinel who watched before it, joined himself to their number. They entered without obstruction and without noise; and, ere the eyes of the sleeper could unclose to his danger, or his lips cry aloud for succor, his voice was stifled in his throat by thick bandagings of silk, and his limbs fastened with cords which, at every movement of his writhing frame, cut into the springing flesh. He was a prisoner in the very fortress, where, but that day, he exulted in the consciousness of complete command. A light, held above his eyes, revealed to him the persons of his assailants;—the supposed Indians, in the outlaws whom he had banished, and others, whom, for the first time, he knew as enemies. When his eyes were suffered to take in the aspects of the whole group, he was addressed, in his own tongue, by the leading conspirator.
“René Laudonniere,” said Stephen Le Genevois, in his bitter tones, “you are in our power. What prevents that we put you to death as you merit, and thus revenge our disgrace and banishment?”
The wretched man, thus addressed, had no power to answer. The big tears gathered in his eyes and rolled silently down his cheeks. He felt the pang of utter feebleness upon him.
“We will take the gag from your jaws, if you promise to make no outcry. Nod your head in token that you promise.”
The prisoner had no alternative but to submit. He nodded, and the kerchief was taken from his jaws.
“You know us, René Laudonniere?” demanded the conspirator.
“Stephen Le Genevois, I know you!” was the answer.
“’Tis well! You see to what you have reduced me. You have held a trial upon me in my absence. You have sentenced me and my companions to banishment. You have made us outlaws, and we are here! You see around you none but those on whom you have exercised your tyranny. What hope have you at their hands and mine? Savage as you have made me in aspect, what should prevent that I show myself equally savage in performance. The knife is at your throat, and there is not one of us who is not willing to execute justice upon you. Are you prepared to do what we demand?”
“What is it?”
“Read this paper.”
A light was held close to the eyes of the prisoner, and the paper placed near enough for perusal. The instrument was a commission of piracy—a sort of half-legal authority, common enough in that day, to the marine of all European countries, under maxims of morality such as made the deeds of Drake, and Hawkins, and other British admirals, worthy of all honor, which, in our less chivalric era, would consign them very generally to the gallows.
As Laudonniere perused the document, he strove to raise himself, as with a strong movement of aversion;—but the prompt grasp of Genevois fastened him down to the pillow.
“No movement, or this!”—showing the dagger. “Have you read?”
“I will not sign that paper!” said the prisoner, hoarsely.
“Will you not?”
“Never!”
“You have heard the alternative!”
Laudonniere was silent.
“You do not speak! Beware, René Laudonniere. We have no tender mercies! We are no children! We are ready for any crime. We have already incurred the worst penalties, and have nothing to fear. But you can serve us, living, quite as effectually as if dead. We do not want your miserable fortress. We are not for founding colonies. It is your ships that we will take, and your commission. We will spare your life for these. Beware! Let your answer square with your necessities.”
“Genevois!” said the prisoner, “even this shall be pardoned—you shall all be pardoned—if you will forego your present purpose.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the person addressed. “This to me! I scorn your pardon as I do your person! Speak to what concerns you, and what is left for you to do. Speak, and quickly, too, for the dawn must not find us here.”
“I will not sign!” said the prisoner, doggedly.
“Then you die!” and the dagger was uplifted.
“Strike—why do you stop?” exclaimed Fourneaux; “we can slay him, and forge the paper.”
His threatening looks and attitude, with the stern air which overspread the visage of Genevois, and, indeed, of all around him contributed to overcome the resolution of the wretched commander. Besides, a moment’s reflection served to satisfy him, that the conspirators, having gone too far to recede, would not scruple at the further crime which they threatened.
“Will my life be spared if I sign? Have I your oath, Stephen Le Genevois? I trust none other.”
“By G—d and the Blessed Saviour! as I hope to be saved, René Laudonniere, you shall have your life and freedom!”
“Undo my hands and give me the paper.”
“The right hand only,” said Fourneaux, with his accustomed timidity.
“Pshaw, unbind him!” exclaimed Genevois; “unbind him, wholly. There, René Laudonniere, you are free!”
“I cannot forgive you, Genevois; you have disgraced me forever,” said the miserable man, as he dashed his signature upon the paper.
“You will survive it, mon ami,” replied the other, with something like contempt upon his features. “You are not the man to fret yourself into fever, because of your hurts of honor. And now must you go with us to the ships. We will muffle your jaws once more.”
“You will not carry me with you,” demanded the commander, with something like trepidation in his accents.
“No! You were but an incumbrance. We will only take you to the ships, and keep you safe until we are ready to cast off. To your feet, men, and get your weapons ready. Softly, softly—we need rouse no other sleepers. Onward,—the night goes!—away!”
For fifteen days was Laudonniere kept a close prisoner by the conspirators on board of one of his own vessels, attended by one of their own number, and denied all intercourse with his friends and people. One of the objects of this rigid duresse, was the coercion of the garrison. With its captain in their power, even were his followers better prepared, with the proper spirit and energy, to give them annoyance, they were thus able to put them at defiance; since any show of hostility on the part of the garrison might be visited upon the head of their prisoner. By this means they got possession of the armory, the magazines, the granaries; and, when ready to put to sea, and not before, did they release the unhappy commandant from his degrading durance.
It was at dawn on the morning of the 8th of December, that the two barks which the conspirators had prepared for sea, might have been seen dropping down the waters of May River, their white sails gleaming through the distant foliage. At the same moment, with head bowed upon his bosom, the unhappy Laudonniere, for the first time fully conscious of his weakness and his misfortune,—deeply sensible now to all his shame as he reflected upon the roving commission which had been extorted from him by the mutineers,—turned his footsteps from the banks of the river, and made his way slowly towards the fortress;—confident no longer in his strength—suspicious of the faith of all around him—and half tempted to sink his shame forever, with his dishonored person, in the waters of the river which had witnessed his disgrace. But he gathered courage to live when he thought of the revenge which fortune might yet proffer to his embrace.
We must now follow the progress of our maritime adventurers. They had, as we have seen, succeeded in fitting out two barks; one on which was confided to Bertrand Conferrant, one of Laudonniere’s sergeants; the other to a soldier named D’Orange. La Croix was named the ensign to the former; Trenchant, the pilot of Laudonniere, was compelled, against his will, to assume this station on board the vessel of D’Orange. The original plan of the rovers was to pursue a common route, and mutually to support each other: but the plans of those who have given themselves up to excess, are always marked by caprices, and the two parties quarrelled before they had left the mouth of the river. They had arranged to descend together upon one of the Spanish islands of the Antilles, and on Christmas night, while the inhabitants were assembled at the midnight mass, at their church, to set upon and murder the inmates and sack the building and the town. Their dissentions affected this purpose; and when they emerged from the river May, they parted company;—one of the vessels keeping along the coast, in order the more easily to double the cape and make for Cuba;—the other boldly standing out to sea and making for the Lucayos. Both vessels proceeded with criminal celerity to the performance of those acts of piracy which had seduced them from their duties. The bark which took her way along the coast, was that of D’Orange. Near a place called Archaha, he took a brigantine laden with cassavi, the Indian breadstuff, and a small quantity of wine. Two men were slain, two taken in a sharp encounter with the people of Archaha. Transferring themselves and stores to the brigantine which they had captured, on account of its superiority, the pirates made sail for the cape of Santa Maria; and from thence, after repairing a leak in their vessel, to Baracou, a village of the island of Jamaica. Here they found an empty caravel which they preferred to their brigantine; and after a frolic among the people of Baracou, which lasted five days, they made a second transfer of their persons and material to the caravel. Dividing their force between their own and this vessel, which was of fifty or sixty tons burthen, they made for the Cape of Tiburon, where they met with a patach, to which chase was immediately given. A sharp encounter followed. The patach was well manned and provided, for her size. She had particular reasons for giving battle and for fighting bravely. Her cargo was very precious. It consisted of a large supply of gold and silver plate and bullion, merchandise, wines, provisions, and much besides to tempt the rovers, and quite as much to move the crew to a vigorous defence. But, over all, it had a-board the Governor of Jamaica himself, with two of his sons. This nobleman was equally fearless and skilful. He directed the resistance of his people, and gave them efficient example. But the force of our rovers was quite too great to be successfully resisted by one so small as that of the Governor, and he directed his people to yield the combat, as soon as he saw its hopelessness.
Greatly, indeed, were our free companions delighted with their successes. The treasure they had acquired was large, but they were not the persons to be content with it. They were apprised of another caravel laden with greater wealth and a more valuable merchandise, and they followed eagerly after this prey. But she escaped them, getting in safety into the port of Jamaica. The governor was a subtle politician. He soon discovered the character of the men with whom he had to deal, and he wrought successfully upon their cupidity. He proposed to ransom himself at an enormous price; and, with this object, they stood towards the mouth of the harbor in which the caravel had taken shelter. Blinded by their avarice, our rovers were persuaded to suffer the governor to despatch his two boys to their mother, his wife, in a boat which his captors were to furnish. The boys were to procure his ransom, and supplies were to be sent to the vessel also. But the secret counsel of the Governor to his sons, contemplated no such ransom as the free companions desired. They knew not that, in one of the contiguous havens, there lay two or more vessels, superior in burthen to their own, and manned and equipped for war. The Governor, with but a look and a word, beheld his sons depart. The lads knew the meaning of that look, and that single word; they felt all the ignominy of their father’s position, and they knew their duty. A noble and courageous dame was the mother of those boys. With tears and tremors did she clasp her children to her breast; with horror did she hear of her lord’s captivity; but she yielded to no feminine weaknesses which could retard her in the performance of her duty. Her movements were prompt and resolute. The Governor concealed his anxieties, and spoke fairly to his captors. Quite secure in their strength and position, eager with expectations of further gain, rioting in the rich wines they had already won, they entertained no apprehensions of defeat or disappointment. They lay at the mouth of the haven, which stretched away for two leagues into the mainland. Here, suddenly, about the break of day, they saw emerging through a heavy fog, a couple of vessels of greater size than their own. Apprehending no danger, the pirates were taken by surprise. The enemy was upon them before they could prepare for action, and they had scarcely an opportunity to attempt their flight. A volley of Spanish shot soon rang against their sides, and as the trumpets of D’Orange, from his brigantine, blew to announce their danger to those in charge of the captured vessels, he cut his cables and stood off for sea, closely pressed by his swift-footed enemies. Then it was that, watching his moment, the Governor of Jamaica seized upon the enemy nearest him and plunged him into the sea. His example was followed by his people, and the Spaniards coming up with the captured patach at the fortunate moment, the Frenchmen, with whom it was left in charge, threw down their arms, and yielded themselves at discretion to their enemies. Both vessels were recovered, while the brigantine of D’Orange, well navigated by Trenchant, succeeded in showing a clean pair of heels to her pursuers. The chase continued for several leagues without success; and the brigantine, passing Cape des Aigrettes, and the Cape of St. Anthony, swept on to the Havanna. This was the desired destination of D’Orange; but his people were not wholly with him. Several of them, like Trenchant, the pilot, had been forced to accompany the expedition. These were anxious to escape from a connection which was not only against their desires, but was likely, by the crimes of their superiors, to result in the destruction of the innocent. Accordingly, under the guidance of Trenchant, a conspiracy was conceived against the conspirators. The wind serving, while D’Orange slept, Trenchant passed the channel of the Bahamas, and made over for the settlement on May River. The route taken was unsuspected, until the morning of the 25th of March, when they found themselves upon the coast of Florida. By this time, it was too late to prevent the determination of those who had resolved upon their return to La Caroline. The latter had grown strong by consultation together, and the true men urged the less guilty of the conspirators with promises of pardon at the hands of Laudonniere. This hope gradually extended to some of the most guilty; but the discussion which led to this conclusion, was productive of a scene which strikingly illustrates the profligacy of the human heart, particularly when it once throws off the restraints of social authority. The unhappy criminals, in nominal command of the roving brigantine were prepared to dance upon the brink of the precipice,—to sport with the dangers immediately before them, and convert into a farce the very tragedy whose denouêment they had every reason to dread. Well charged with wine, and quaffing full beakers to fortune, they suddenly conceived the idea of a mock court of justice, for the trial of their own offences. The idea was scarcely suggested than it was fastened upon by the wanton imaginations of this besotted crew. The court was convened, on the deck of the vessel, as it would have been at La Caroline. One of the parties personated the character of the judge: another counterfeited the costume and manner of Laudonniere, and appeared as the accuser. Counsel was heard on both sides. There were officers to wait upon and obey the decrees of the court. The cases were elaborately argued. Heavy accusations were made; ingenious pleas put in; and in the very excess of their recklessness, their ingenuity became triumphant. They showed themselves excellent actors, if not excellent men; and caught from their own art, a momentary respite from the oppressive doubts which hung upon their destinies. It was somewhat ominous, however, that their judge—himself one of the most guilty—should say to them, when summing up for judgment—“Make your case as clear as you please—exert your ingenuity as you may, in finding excuses, yet, take my word for it, that, when you reach La Caroline, if Laudonniere causes you not to swing for it, then I will never take him for an honest man again.”
This may have been intended as a mere jocularity. But fate frequently shapes our own words, as she does those of the oracle, in that double sense, which confounds the judgment while it ensures the doom. The counterfeit judge spoke prophetically. It was only when the offenders were fairly in the hands of Laudonniere, beyond escape or remedy, that they were taught to apprehend that they had too greatly exaggerated their sense of his mercy. He detached immediately from the rest four of the leading criminals, who were put in fetters. That was the judgment that prefigured their doom. They were sentenced to be hanged. They strove to question this judgment. The pleasant jest which they had enjoyed on ship-board was quite too recent, to suffer them to forego the hope that this summary decision upon their fate would turn out a jest also. But when they could doubt no longer, three of them took to their prayers with an appearance of much real contrition. The fourth,—a sturdy villain,—still had his faith in human agency. He appealed for protection to his friends and comrades.
“What,” said he, “brethren and companions, will you suffer us to die so shamefully?”
“These are none of your companions,” said Laudonniere;—“they are no authors of seditions—no rebels unto the king’s service. Ye appeal to them in vain.”
A corps of thirty soldiers with their matchlocks ready, and under the command of Alphonse D’Erlach, who had returned from his Indian expedition, and who now stood ready and prompt to execute the orders of the chief, were, perhaps, more potent in silencing the appeal of the mutineer, and quieting the active sympathies of those to whom he prayed, than all the words of Laudonniere. But, at the entreaty of his people, the form of punishment was changed, and the criminals, instead of perishing by the rope, met their death from the matchlock. Among the victims of this necessary justice, were three of the original conspirators, and the ringleader, Stephen le Genevois. Thus ends the history of one of our roving vessels. The other, commanded by Bertrand Conferrent, which we parted with, on her progress towards the Lucayos, was never heard of after, and probably perished in the deeps, with all her besotted crew. Let us now leave the ocean, and follow, for a season, the progress of Alphonse D’Erlach upon the land, and into the territories of Paracoussi Hostaqua.
It was in sullen and half resentful mood that Alphonse D’Erlach parted from his superior at the gates of La Caroline. Not that he felt any chagrin because of an outraged self-esteem, on account of his rejected counsels. His mortification and annoyance arose from his vexation at leaving a man in the hands of his enemies, whom he could not persuade of his danger, and who was, by this very proceeding, depriving himself of the only means with which he may have safely combated their hostility. It was probably with a justifiable sense of his own efficiency, that D’Erlach felt how necessary was his presence in the garrison at this juncture. He was quite familiar with the vanity of Laudonniere, his several weaknesses of character, and the facility with which he might be deluded by the selfish and the artful. But he had counselled him in vain; and it was with a feeling somewhat allied to scorn, that he was taught to see that his superior, having hitherto regarded him with something more than friendship—as a favorite indeed—had now, in consequence of the most important services, begun to look upon him somewhat in the light of a rival. We have witnessed the last interview between them. We are already in possession of the events which followed the absence of the lieutenant; events which positively would not have taken place, had not the scheme proved successful for procuring his absence from the fortress. Laudonniere’s conscience smote him with a sense of his ingratitude, as the flowing plumes of D’Erlach disappeared amidst the distant umbrage; but he had no misgivings of that danger which the prescient thought of his lieutenant had described as already threatening. He had sufficient time allowed him to meditate equally upon his own blindness and the foresight of the youth, while his mutineers, for fifteen days kept him a close prisoner on board his own brigantine!
During this period, his young lieutenant, with his twenty Frenchmen, was making his way from forest to forest, under the somewhat capricious guidance of the subtle savage, Oolenoe. D’Erlach was more than once dissatisfied with this progress. He found himself frequently doubling, as it were, upon his own ground; not steadily ascending the country in the supposed direction of the Apatahhian Mountains, but rather inclining to the southwest, and scarcely seeming to leave those lower steppes which belonged wholly to the province of the sea. Without absolutely suspecting his dusky guide, D’Erlach was eminently watchful of him, and frequently pressed his inquiries in regard to the route they were pursuing,—when—noting the course of the sun, he found himself still turning away from those distant mountain summits which were said to await them in the north, with all their world of treasure. The plea of Oolenoe, while acknowledging a temporary departure from the proper path, alleged the difficulties of the country, the spread of extensive morasses, or the presence of nations of hostile Indians, which cut off all direct communication with the province which they sought.
To all this D’Erlach had nothing to oppose. The pretences seemed sufficiently specious, and he continued to advance deep and deeper into the internal intricacies of the unbroken wild, making a progress, day by day, into regions which the European had never penetrated before. On this progress, each soldier had been provided with a certain allowance of food of a portable nature, which was calculated to last many days. The adoption of the Indian customs, in several respects, had made it easy to provide. The maize and beans of the country constituted the chief supply. The former, and sometimes both, crushed or ground, separately or together, and browned slightly before the fire, furnished a wholesome and literally palatable provision for such a journey. They were also to receive supplies from the contributions of Indian tribes through whose settlements they were to pass, and to traffic with other nations whom as yet they did not know. With this latter object the party was provided with a small stock of European trifles—knives, reaphooks, small mirrors, and things of this description.
Thus provided, they pressed forward for several days, on a journey which brought them no nearer to the province which they sought. Still the country through which they travelled was unbroken by a mountain. Gentle eminences saluted their eyes, and they sometimes toiled over hills which, even their exhaustion, which rendered irksome the ascent, did not venture to compare with those mighty ranges, scaling the clouds, of which the swelling narratives of the savage chiefs, and their own adventurers, had given such extravagant ideas. In this march they probably reached the Savannah, and crossed its waters to the rivers of Carolina. The scenery improved in loveliness, and to those who are accessible to the influences of mere external beauty, the progress at every step was productive of its own charm. Gentle valleys spread away before them in the embrace of guardian ranges of hill, and clear streams gushed out through banks that seemed to gladden in perpetual green. Enormous trees spread over them a grateful cover from the sun, and luscious berries of the wood, and unknown fruits, green and purple, were to be found lying in their path, which was everywhere traversed by the trailing vines which produced them. Birds of unknown plumage, and of wild and startling song, darted out from the brake to cheer them as they passed; and as they reached the steeps of sudden hills, they could catch glimpses of herds of sleek deer, that sped away with arrowy fleetness from the green valleys where they browsed, to the cover of umbrageous thickets where they lodged in safety.
The mind of the soldier, however, particularly the adventurer whom one passionate thirst alone impels, is scarcely ever sensible to the charms and attractions of the visible nature. Where they appeal simply to his sense of the beautiful, they are but wasted treasures, like gems that pave the great bed of ocean, and have no value to the finny tribes that glide below—each seeking the selfish object which marks his nature. The passion for the beautiful, with but few exceptions, is a passion that belongs to training and education; and even these seldom suffice, in the presence of more morbid desires, to wean the attention to the things of taste, unless these are recognized as accessories of the object of a more intense appetite. Even Alphonse D’Erlach, the éleve of a superior class—one who had been benefitted by society and the schools, appreciated but imperfectly the loveliness of the landscape, and the fresh luxuriance of a vegetable life in a region that seemed so immediately from the hands of its Creator. His thoughts were of another nature. His anxieties were elsewhere. His eye was fixed upon his Indian guide, of whom his doubts had now become suspicions. Nightly had Oolenoe disappeared from the encampment. It was in vain that our lieutenant set spies upon his movements. He would disappear without giving the alarm, and re-appear, when least expected, before the dawning. D’Erlach’s vigilance was increased. He did not suffer his men to straggle; marching with care by day, his watches were equally divided by night, and his own eyes were kept open by intense anxiety, through hours when most were sleeping. Occasionally, glimpses of Indians were caught on distant hills, or on the edge of suddenly glancing waters. But any attempt to approach sent them into their canoes, or over the hill side—increasing the suspicions of D’Erlach, and awakening the apprehensions of his men. A something of insolence in the tone and manner of Oolenoe led our young lieutenant to suppose that the moment of trial was at hand; and he already began to meditate the seizure of his guide, as a security for the conduct of the Indians, when an incident occurred which the foresight of our lieutenant, great as it was, had never led him to anticipate.
It was at the close of a lovely evening in September, when the little detachment of Frenchmen were rounding a ravine. Oolenoe was advanced with D’Erlach some few paces before the rest. Both of them were silent; but they pressed forward stoutly, through a simple forest trail, over which the Frenchmen followed in Indian file. Suddenly, their march was arrested by a cry from the foot of the ravine, in the rear of the party, and along the path which they had recently traversed. The cry was human. It was that of a voice very familiar to the ears of the party. It was evidently meant to compel attention and arrest their progress. At the instant, D’Erlach wheeled about and made for the rear. A similar movement changed in like manner the faces of his followers; and, in a moment after, a strange, but human form darted out of the forest and made towards them.
The appearance of the stranger was wild beyond description. He had evidently once been white; but his face, hands, breast, and legs, for these were all uncovered, had been blackened by smoke, bronzed by the sun, and so affected by the weather, that it was with the greatest difficulty that his true complexion was discernible. But sure instincts and certain features soon enabled our Huguenots to see that he was a brother Frenchman. Of his original garments, nothing but tatters remained; but these tatters sufficed to declare his nation. His beard and hair, both black, long, and massive, were matted together, and hung upon neck and shoulders in flakes and bunches, rather than in shreds or tresses. His head was without covering, and the only weapon which he carried was a couteau de chasse, which, as it was of peculiar dimensions, silver-hilted, and altogether of curious shape, was probably the only means by which the Frenchmen identified the stranger.
The keen, quick eye of Alphonse D’Erlach seemed first, of the whites, to have discovered him. It is probable, from what took place at the moment, that Oolenoe had made him out in the same moment. The stranger was no other than Le Genré—the banished man who had headed the first conspiracy against Laudonniere. As he approached, rushing wildly forward, with his couteau de chasse grasped firmly in uplifted hand, D’Erlach raised his sword, prepared to cut him down as he drew nigh; when the words of his voice, shouted at the utmost of his strength, caused them to cast their eyes in another direction.
“Seize upon Oolenoe. Suffer him not to escape you.”
At that moment, the keen, quick glance of the lieutenant beheld the rapid bounds of the savage, as he made for the cover of the neighboring thicket. His orders were instantly given. A dozen bodies instantly sprang forward in pursuit—a dozen matchlocks were lifted in deadly aim, but the lithe savage doubling like a hare, bounding forward, now squat, and seeming to fly along the surface of the ground like a lapwing, stealthy in every movement as a cat, as swift and agile,—succeeded in gaining the woods, though the carbines rang with their volley, and, throwing down their weapons, a score of the light-limbed Frenchmen started in the chase. A wild warwhoop followed the discharge of the pieces, declaring equally the defiance and disdain of the savage. The pursuit was idle, as a few seconds enabled him to find shelter in a morass, which the inexperienced Europeans knew not how to penetrate. Alphonse D’Erlach recalled his men from pursuit, fearing lest they might fall into an ambush, in which, wasting their ammunition against invisible enemies, they would only incur the risk of total destruction. He prepared to confront the stranger, whose first appearance had been productive of such a startling occurrence. Le Genré, meanwhile, had paused in his progress. He no longer rushed forward like a maniac; but satisfied with having given the impulse to the pursuit of Oolenoe, and apparently conscious of how much was startling in his appearance, he now stood beside a pine which overhung the path, one hand resting against the mighty shaft, as if from fatigue, while from the other his couteau de chasse now drooped, its sharp extremity pointing to the ground.
His appearance thus indicated a pacific disposition; but remembering his ancient treacheries only, and suspicious of his relations with Oolenoe, D’Erlach approached him with caution, as if to the encounter with an enemy. As he drew nigh, followed by his band, Le Genré addressed them with mournful accents.
“Is there no faith for me hereafter, mes amis? Am I forever cut off from the communion with my comrades? Shall there be no fellowship between us, D’Erlach? Shall we not forget the past—shall I not be forgiven for my crime, even when I repent it in bitterness and bloody tears. Behold, my brother—I proffer you the last assurance.”
These words were accompanied by a sign, that of the mystic brotherhood—the ancient masons—which none but a few of the party beheld or comprehended. The weapon of Alphonse D’Erlach was dropped instantly, and his hand extended. He, too, belonged to the ancient order, and the security which was guaranteed by the exhibition of its token, on the part of the offender, served, when all other pleas would have failed, to secure him sympathy and protection.
“I have sinned, Alphonse—I know it—beyond forgiveness—sinned like a madman; but I have borne the penalty. Seldom has human sinner suffered from mental penalty, as I from mine. Behold me! look I longer human? I have taken up my covert with the wild beasts of the desert, and they fly from my presence as from a savage more fearful than any they know. In my own desperation I have had no fears. I have herded with beast and reptile, and longed for their hostility. I have lived through all, though I craved not to live, and the food which would have choked or poisoned the man not an outcast from communion with his fellows, has kept me strong, with a cruel vitality that has increased by suffering. The crude berries of the wood, the indigestible roots of the earth, I have devoured with a hideous craving; and, in the griefs and privations of my body, my mind has been purged of its impurities. I have seen my sin in its true colors—my folly, my vicious passions, the wretch that I was—the miserable outlaw and destitute that I am! That I repent of the crimes that I have done and sought to do, is the good fruit of this bitter on which I have rather preyed than fed. I wrote to Laudonniere of my sorrow and repentance, but he refused to hear me. Bourdet I sought, that he might take me once more to France; but he too dreaded communion with me; and when I rushed into his boat, he only bore me to the opposite shore of the river, and set me down to the exploration of new forests, and the endurance of new tortures. I blame them not, that they would not believe me—that they refused faith in one who had violated all faith before—that, equally due to his God and to his sovereign. Oh! brother, do not you drive me from you also!”
And the miserable outlaw clasped his hands passionately together in entreaty, with a face wild with woe and despair, and would have fallen prostrate in humiliation before his comrades, if the arm of Alphonse D’Erlach had not sustained him.
“But what of this savage, Oolenoe!” demanded the lieutenant, when the first burst of grief had subsided from the lips of Le Genré.
“Ah! you know that I have been the prisoner to this savage, and to the very comrades of my sin. For this I have pursued you hither. While you march onward to snares such as the savages of Potanou have provided for you by means of this Oolenoe, treachery is busy and successful at La Caroline.”
“Successful?”
“Ay! successful! But hear me. When I fled to the forest, I took shelter first with the people of Satouriova. I was found out and followed by Fourneaux, Stephen Le Genevois, and La Roquette. To them, at times, came La Croix, whom Laudonniere still trusted, and whom even you did not suspect. They came to me with new plans. They were to contrive pretexts for sending you off to a distance, with the best men of the garrison. Oolenoe was a ready agent at once of Potanou, Satouriova, and the conspirators. In your absence, they were to get possession of the garrison and secure the person of Laudonniere.”
“You mean not to say, Le Genré, that they have succeeded in this?”
“Ay, do I—the garrison is in their hands—the shipping; and Laudonniere is himself a close prisoner on board the unfinished brigantine.”
“God of heaven! and I am here!”
“When the conspirators found that I no longer agreed to second them in their machinations, and when I threatened to expose them to Laudonniere, they employed Oolenoe to secure my person. Five of his people beset me at the same moment, and held me fast in one of their wigwams until their scheme had been carried into execution. With Laudonniere in their hands, I was abandoned by my keepers, and suffered to go forth. From them I learned the history of all that had taken place in the colony. I saw the danger, and felt that the only hope for Laudonniere lay in you. Fortunately, I had only to follow those who had held me captive, in order to find the route that you had taken. The people of Oolenoe were soon upon his tracks. I compassed theirs. It is one profit in the outlawed life which I have been doomed to endure, that it has taught me the arts of the savage—taught me the instincts of the beast,—his stealth, his endurance, his far-sight, and his eager and appreciating scent. Hark! dost hear! Put thy men in order. The subtle savage is about to gird thee in.”
Scarcely had he spoken, when the forest was alive with cries of warfare. Wild whoops rang through the great avenues of wood, and sudden glimpses of the red-men, followed by flights of arrows, warned the Frenchmen still more emphatically to prepare against the danger. But the arrows, though discharged with skill and muscle, were sent from far;—the dread of the European fire-arms prompting a decent caution, which, in a great degree, lessened the superiority which the savages possessed in numbers. The woods were now filled with enemies. Tribe after tribe had collected, along their route, as the Frenchmen had advanced, and every forward step had served only to increase the great impediments in the way of their return. It was due wholly to the excellence of the watch nightly kept by D’Erlach, that they had not been butchered while they slept. It was in consequence of his admirable caution, and provision against attack while they marched, that they had not fallen into frequent ambush, as they moved by noonday. Nightly had the subtle chief, Oolenoe, stolen away to his comrades, arraying his numbers, and counselling their pursuit and progress. His schemes detected, the mask was thrown aside as no longer of use, and open warfare was the cry through the forests. The necessity was before our Frenchmen of fighting their way back. The effort of the red-men was to cut them off in detail, by frequent surprises, by incessant assaults and annoyances, and by straitening them in the search after water and provisions.
It would be a weary task to pursue, day by day, and hour by hour, the thousand details, by which each party endeavored to attain its object. The events of such a conflict must necessarily be monotonous. Enough to say, that the whole genius of Alphonse D’Erlach was brought forth during the constant emergencies of his march and proved equal to them all. His first object was to pursue a new route on his return. This greatly shortened the distance, and increased the chances of food, since it was only from the route along which he came that Oolenoe had contrived the removal of all the provisions. The progress was thus varied on their return. It was enlivened by incessant attacks of the savages. Their arrows were continually showered upon our Frenchmen from every thicket that could afford an ambush; but, habited as they were with the escaupil, or stuffed cotton doublets, which the Spaniards had invented for protection in their warfare with the Indians, the damage from this source was comparatively small. Some few of the Frenchmen were galled by slight wounds, one or two were seriously hurt, and one of them suffered the loss of an eye. In all these conflicts, Le Genré fought with the greatest bravery—with a valor, indeed, that seemed to set at scorn every thought of danger or disaster. He was always the first to rush forward to the assault, and always the last to leave the pursuit, when the trumpets sounded the recal. He proved an admirable second to Alphonse D’Erlach, and materially contributed to the success of the various plans adopted by the latter for the safety of his people.
It was the ninth day from that on which they left La Caroline, when Le Genré made his appearance, and Oolenoe fled to the forests. Six days had they been engaged in their backward journey. In this route, diverging greatly from that which they had pursued before, and following the course indicated by the sun with a remarkable judgment, which tended still more to raise the reputation of Alphonse D’Erlach in the eyes of his followers, they suddenly struck into a path with which Le Genré himself was familiar. It proved to be one of those which he had pursued on a previous occasion, when, in the possession of the confidence of his chief, he had been permitted to lead forth a party for exploration. Our Frenchmen now knew where they were, and thirty-six hours of steady travelling would, they felt assured, bring them within sight of the fortress of La Caroline. But, as if the inveterate chieftain, Oolenoe, had made a like discovery at the same moment, his assaults became more desperate, and were urged with a singular increase of skill and fury. Now it was that the barbarian tribes of Florida seemed to gather into a host—such a host as encountered the famous Ponce de Leon and other Spanish chieftains when they sought to overrun the land. They no longer sped their arrows from a distance, which, in giving themselves security from the fire-arms of the Frenchmen, rendered their own shafts in great degree innocuous. But it was observed that, when they had succeeded in drawing the fire of the Frenchmen by two successive assaults, they usually grew bolder at a third, and came forward with an audacity which seemed to put at defiance equally the weapons and the spirit of their enemies. The inequality of numbers between the respective parties, made this subtle policy of Oolenoe particularly dangerous to the weaker. Alphonse D’Erlach felt his danger, and the openly-expressed apprehensions of Le Genré declared it. The subject was one of great anxiety. The whole day had been spent in conflicts,—conflicts which were interrupted, it is true, by frequent intervals of rest, but which continued to increase in their violence as evening approached. Several of the Frenchmen were now wounded, two of them dangerously, and all of them were greatly wearied. Le Genré urged D’Erlach to a night movement, in which they might leave their enemies behind them, and perhaps cause them to give up the pursuit, particularly as they would then be almost within striking distance of La Caroline; but the coolness and judgment of D’Erlach had not deserted him, or been impaired by his increase of difficulties.
“And how,” said he, “am I to know whether we shall find friends or foes in possession of La Caroline? This is not the least of my dangers. I must preserve my force against that doubt; but keep them fresh, certainly, and if possible without diminution, so that I may rescue Laudonniere or sustain myself. Besides, to attempt the night march I must leave these poor fellows, Mercœur and Dumain, to be scalped by the savages, or force them forward only that they may drop by the way. No! we must take rest ourselves, and give them all the rest we can. We must encamp as soon as possible, and the shelter of yon little bay, to which we are approaching, seems to offer an excellent cover. We will make for that.”
He did as he said. His camp was formed on the edge of one of those basins which, in the southern country is usually termed a bay—so called in consequence of the dense forests of the shrub laurel that covers the region with the most glistening green, and fills the languid atmosphere with a most rich but oppressive perfume. Here he disposed his little command, so that the approaches were few and such as could be easily guarded. Here he was secure from those wild flights of arrows which, in a spot less thickly wooded, might have been made to annoy a company, discharged even in the darkness of the night. But Alphonse D’Erlach had another reason for selecting this as his present place of shelter. As soon as he had taken care of his wounded men, he examined the munitions of all. He had been sparing his powder, and he was now rejoiced to find that the quantity was quite sufficient, according to the exigencies of the warfare of that day, to suffice for two or more days longer. This enabled him to devise a project by which to ensnare the savages to their ruin. Hitherto he had classed his men in three divisions. The first of these encountered the first onslaught of the enemy, and the second were prepared for its renewal, while the third was a reserve for a continuance of the struggle, giving time to the two first divisions to reload. But it had been seen, during the day, that the savages had made a corresponding division of their force;—that successive attacks, followed up with great rapidity, drew the fires of his several squads, and so well aware did the assailants now appear to be of this practice, that, after the third fire, they boldly rushed almost within striking distance of the Frenchmen, hurling their stone hatchets with wonderful dexterity and precision. To provide for this contingency—to convert it to profitable results—was the study of D’Erlach. He felt that, but for some stratagem, it was not improbable that the whole party would lose their scalps before the closing of another day. He had observed that the bay in which he harbored his men contained, interspersed with its laurels, a perfect wilderness of canes, the fluted reeds of the swamp and morass, common to the country, some of which grew to be nearly twenty feet in height. These were still green in September, their feathery tops waving to and fro in every breeze, while, under the pressure of the sudden gust, their shafts, in seeming solid phalanx, laid themselves almost to the earth, to recover, like an artful and plumed warrior, when the danger had overblown. Without declaring his plans, D’Erlach had a number of these canes cut down in secresy, and divided into sections of four or five feet. The extreme barrel of each of these sections was filled tightly with gunpowder, and a fuse introduced at the orifice which received the powder. Strips from the shirts of his people were employed to bind the portion of the reed thus filled, and two of these shafts were lashed tightly to each matchlock, the charged portion protruding near the muzzle. He needed no words to explain his policy to his people. They understood the object in beholding the process, and admired the ingenuity which promised them hereafter the most signal advantages.