The Lily and the Totem; or, The Huguenots in Florida

by William Gilmore Simms

THE
LILY AND THE TOTEM,
OR,
THE HUGUENOTS IN FLORIDA.

A SERIES OF SKETCHES, PICTURESQUE AND HISTORICAL, OF THE COLONIES OF COLIGNI, IN NORTH AMERICA.

1562–1570.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE YEMASSEE,” “LIFE OF MARION,” “LIFE OF BAYARD” ETC.

NEW YORK:
BAKER AND SCRIBNER,
145 NASSAU STREET AND 36 PARK ROW.
1850.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by
W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
C. W. BENEDICT,
Stereotyper,
201 William st.

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[EPISTLE DEDICATORY.]

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TO THE
HON. JAMES H. HAMMOND,
OF
SOUTH CAROLINA.

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MY DEAR HAMMOND:

I very well know the deep interest which you take in all researches which aim to develope the early history of our State and country, and sympathize with you very sincerely in that local feeling which delights to trace, on your own grounds, and in your own neighborhood, the doubtful progresses of French and Spaniard, in their wild passion for adventure or eager appetite for gold. I have no doubt that the clues are in your hands which shall hereafter conduct you along a portion of the route pursued by that famous cavalier, Hernando de Soto; and I am almost satisfied that the region of Silver Bluff was that distinguished in the adventures of the Spanish Adelantado, by the presence of that dusky but lovely princess of Cofachiqui, who welcomed him with so much favor and whom he treated with an ingratitude as unhandsome as unknightly. But I must not dwell on a subject go seductive; particularly, as I entertain the hope, in some future labor, to weave her legend into an appropriate, and I trust not unworthy history. For the present, inscribing these pages to you, as a memorial of a long and grateful intimacy, and of inquiries and conjectures, musings and meditations, enjoyed together, which, it is my hope, have resulted no less profitably to you than to myself, I propose briefly to give you the plan of the volume in your hands.

The design of the narrative which follows, contemplates, in nearly equal degree, the picturesque and the historical. It belongs to a class of writings with which the world has been long since made familiar, through a collection of the greatest interest, the body of which continues to expand, and which has been entitled the “Romance of History.” This name will justly apply to the present sketches, yet must not be construed to signify any large or important departure, in the narrative, from the absolute records of the Past. The romance here is not suffered to supersede the history. On the contrary, the design of the writer has been simply to supply the deficiencies of the record. Where the author, in this species of writing, has employed history, usually, as a mere loop, upon which to hang his lively fancies and audacious inventions, embodying in his narrative as small a portion of the chronicle as possible, I have been content to reverse the process, making the fiction simply tributary, and always subordinate to the fact. I have been studious to preserve all the vital details of the event, as embodied in the record, and have only ventured my own “graffings” upon it in those portions of the history which exhibited a certain baldness in their details, and seemed to demand the helping agency of art. In thus interweaving the history with the fiction, I have been solicitous always of those proprieties and of that vraisemblance, in the introduction of new details, which are essential to the chief characteristics of the history; seeking equally to preserve the general integrity of the record from which I draw my materials, and of that art which aims to present them in a costume the most picturesque. My labor has been not to make, but to perfect, a history; not to invent facts, but to trace them out to seemingly inevitable results;—to take the premise and work out the problem;—recognize the meagre record which affords simply a general outline; and endeavor, by a severe induction, to supply its details and processes. I have been at no such pains to disguise the chronicle, as will prevent the reader from separating,—should he desire to do so,—the certain from the conjectural; and yet, I trust, that I have succeeded in so linking the two together, as to prevent the lines of junction from obtruding themselves offensively upon his consciousness. Upon the successful prosecution of this object, apart from the native interest which the subject itself possesses, depends all the merit of the performance. It is by raising the tone of the history, warming it with the hues of fancy, and making it dramatic by the continued exercise of art, rather than by any actual violation of its recorded facts, that I have endeavored to awaken interest. To bring out such portions of the event as demand elevation—to suppress those which are only cumbrous, and neither raise the imposing, nor relieve the unavoidable; and to supply, from the probable, the apparent deficiencies of the actual, have been the chief processes in the art which I have employed. What is wholly fictitious will appear rather as episodical matter, than as a part of the narrative; and a brief historical summary, even in regard to the episode, shall occasionally be employed to determine, for the reader, upon how much, or how little, he may properly rely as history.

The experiment of Coligny, in colonizing Florida, is one of those remarkable instances in the early settlement of this country, which deserve the particular attention of our people. Its wild and dark events, its startling tragedies, its picturesque and exciting incidents, long since impressed themselves upon my imagination, as offering suitable materials for employment in romantic fiction. In the preparation of the work which follows, I have rather yielded to the requisitions of publishers and the public, than followed the suggestions of my own taste and judgment. Originally, I commenced the treatment of this material, in the form of poetry; but the stimulus to a keen prosecution of the task was wanting: not so much, perhaps, in consequence of my own diminished interest in the subject, as because of the indifference of readers; who, in all periods have determined the usual direction of the writer. Hereafter, I may prosecute the experiment upon this history in still another fashion. I do not regard this work as precluding me from trying the malleability of its subject, and from seeking to force it into a mould more grateful to the dictates of my imagination. In abandoning the design, however, of shaping it to the form of narrative poetry, I may, at least, submit to the reader such portions of the verse as are already written. My purpose, as will be seen, by the fragmentary passages which follow (in the Appendix at the close of the volume) was to seize upon the strong points of the subject, and exhibit the whole progress of the action, in so many successive scenes; as in the plan adopted by Rogers in his “Columbus”—the one scene naturally forming the introduction to the other, and the whole, a complete and single history. To these fragments let me refer you. With these, my original design found its limit; the spirit which had urged me thus far, no longer quickening me with that impatient eagerness which can alone justify poetic labors. The plan is one which I am no longer likely to pursue. It will no doubt have a place of safe-keeping and harborage in some one of Astolpho’s mansions. It need not be deplored on earth. I shall be but too happy if those who read the performance which follows, shall forbear the wish that it had shared the same destiny. To you, at least, I venture to commend it with a very different hope.

Very truly yours, as ever,

THE AUTHOR.

CHARLESTON, S. C.,	}
May 1, 1850.

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[CONTENTS.]

[I.]
THE FIRST VOYAGE OF RIBAULT,	[1]
[II.]
THE COLONY UNDER ALBERT,	[29]
[III.]
THE LEGEND OF GUERNACHE, Chap. I.	[37]
[IV.]
THE LEGEND OF GUERNACHE, Chap. II.	[44]
[V.]
THE LEGEND OF GUERNACHE, Chap. III.	[59]
[VI.]
THE LEGEND OF GUERNACHE, Chap. IV.	[71]
[VII.]
LACHANE, THE DELIVERER,	[81]
[VIII.]
FLIGHT, FAMINE, AND THE BLOODY FEAST OF THE FUGITIVES,	[100]
[IX.]
THE SECOND EXPEDITION OF THE HUGUENOTS TO FLORIDA,	[110]
[X.]
HISTORICAL SUMMARY,	[123]
[XI.]
THE CONSPIRACY OF LE GENRÉ—HISTORICAL SUMMARY,	[131]
[XII.]
THE CONSPIRACY OF LE GENRÉ,	[133]
[XIII.]
HISTORICAL SUMMARY,	[164]
[XIV.]
THE SEDITION AT LA CAROLINE,	[166]
[XV.]
THE MUTINEERS AT SEA,	[185]
[XVI.]
THE ADVENTURE OF D’ERLACH,	[193]
[XVII.]
THE NARRATIVE OF LE BARBU,	[218]
[XVIII.]
HISTORICAL SUMMARY,	[251]
[XIX.]
CAPTIVITY OF THE GREAT PARACOUSSI,	[263]
[XX.]
IRACANA,	[294]
[XXI.]
HISTORICAL SUMMARY,	[310]
[XXII.]
THE FATE OF LA CAROLINE,	[321]
[XXIII.]
THE FORTUNES OF RIBAULT,	[364]
[XXIV.]
ALPHONSE D’ERLACH,	[387]
[XXV.]
DOMINIQUE DE GOURGUES,	[414]
[APPENDIX],	[463]

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THE LILY AND THE TOTEM.
I.
THE FIRST VOYAGE OF RIBAULT.

Introduction—The Huguenots—Their Condition in France—First Expedition for the New World, under the auspices of the Admiral Coligny, Conducted by John Ribault—Colony Established in Florida, and confided to the charge of Captain Albert.

The Huguenots, in plain terms, were the Protestants of France. They were a sect which rose very soon after the preaching of the Reformation had passed from Germany into the neighboring countries. In France, they first excited the apprehensions and provoked the hostility of the Roman Catholic priesthood, during the reign of Francis the First. This prince, unstable as water, and governed rather by his humors and caprices than by any fixed principles of conduct—wanting, perhaps, equally in head and heart—showed himself, in the outset of his career, rather friendly to the reformers. But they were soon destined to suffer, with more decided favorites, from the caprices of his despotism. He subsequently became one of their most cruel persecutors. The Huguenots were not originally known by this name. It does not appear to have been one of their own choosing. It was the name which distinguished them in the days of their persecution. Though frequently the subject of conjecture, its origin is very doubtful. Montluc, the Marshal, whose position at the time, and whose interests in the subject of religion were such as might have enabled him to know quite as well as any other person, confesses that the source and meaning of the appellation were unknown. It is suggested that the name was taken from the tower of one Hugon, or Hugo, at Tours, where the Protestants were in the habit of assembling secretly for worship. This, by many, is assumed to be the true origin of the word. But there are numerous etymologies besides, from which the reader may make his selection,—all more or less plausibly contended for by the commentators. The commencement of a petition to the Cardinal Lorraine—“Huc nos venimus, serenissime princeps, &c.,” furnishes a suggestion to one set of writers. Another finds in the words “Heus quenaus,” which, in the Swiss patois, signify “seditious fellows,” conclusive evidence of the thing for which he seeks. Heghenen or Huguenen, a Flemish word, which means Puritans, or Cathari, is reasonably urged by Caseneuve, as the true authority; while Verdier tells us that they were so called from their being the apes or followers of John Hus—“les guenons de Hus;”—guenon being a young ape. This is ingenious enough without being complimentary. The etymology most generally received, according to Mr. Browning, (History of the Huguenots,) is that which ascribes the origin of the name to “the word Eignot, derived from the German Eidegenossen, q. e. federati. A party thus designated existed at Geneva; and it is highly probable that the French Protestants would adopt a term so applicable to themselves.” There are, however, sundry other etymologies, all of which seem equally plausible; but these will suffice, at least, to increase the difficulties of conjecture. Either will answer, since the name by which the child is christened is never expected to foreshadow his future character, or determine his career. The name of the Huguenots was probably bestowed by the enemies of the sect. It is in all likelihood a term of opprobrium or contempt. It will not materially concern us, in the scheme of the present performance, that we should reach any definite conclusion on this point. Their European history must be read in other volumes. Ours is but the American episode in their sad and protracted struggle with their foes and fortune. Unhappily, for present inquiry, this portion of their history attracted but too little the attention of the parent country. We are told of colonies in America, and of their disastrous termination, but the details are meagre, touched by the chronicler with a slight and careless hand; and, but for the striking outline of the narrative,—the leading and prominent events which compelled record,—it is one that we should pass without comment, and with no awakening curiosity. But the few terrible particulars which remain to us in the ancient summary, are of a kind to reward inquiry, and command the most active sympathies; and the melancholy outline of the Huguenots’ progress, in the New World, exhibits features of trial, strength and suffering, which render their career equally unique in both countries;—a dark and bloody history, involving details of strife, of enterprise, and sorrow, which denied them the securities of home in the parent land, and even the most miserable refuge from persecution in the wildernesses of a savage empire. Their European fortunes are amply developed in all the European chronicles. Our narrative relates wholly to those portions of their history which belong to America.

It is not so generally known that the colonies of the Huguenots, in the new world, were almost coeval with those of the Spaniards. They anticipated them in the northern portions of the continent. These settlements were projected by the active genius of the justly-celebrated French admiral, Gaspard de Coligny, one of the great leaders of the Huguenots in France. His persevering energies, impelled by his sagacious forethought, effected a beginning in the work of foreign colonization, which, unhappily for himself and party, he was not permitted to prosecute, with the proper vigor, to successful completion. His sagacity led him to apprehend, from an early experience of the character of the Queen-mother, in the bigoted and brutal reign of Charles the Ninth, that there would, in little time, be no safety in France for the dissenters from the established religion. The feebleness of the youthful Prince, the jealous and malignant character of Catharine—her utter faithlessness, and the hatred which she felt for the Protestants, which no pact could bind, and no concession mollify,—to say nothing of the controlling will of Pius the Fifth, who had ascended the Papal throne, sworn to the extermination of all heresies,—all combined to assure the Protestants of the dangers by which their cause was threatened. The danger was one of life as well as religion. It was in the destruction of the one, that the enemies of the Huguenots contemplated the overthrow of the other. Coligny was not the man to be deceived by the hollow compromises, the delusive promises, the false truces, which were all employed in turn to beguile him and his associates into confidence, and persuade them into the most treacherous snares. He combined a fair proportion of the cunning of the serpent with the dove’s purity, and, maintaining strict watch upon his enemies, succeeded, for a long period, in eluding the artifices by which he was overcome at last. Availing himself of the influence of his position, and of a brief respite from that open war which preceded the famous Edict of January, 1562, by which the Huguenots were admitted, with some restrictions, to the exercise of their religion, Coligny addressed himself to the task of establishing a colony of Protestants in America. He readily divined the future importance, to his sect, of such a place of refuge. The moment was favorable to his objects. The policy of the Queen-mother was not yet sufficiently matured, to render it proper that she should oppose herself to his desires. Perhaps, she also conceived the plan a good one, which should relieve the country of a race whom she equally loathed and dreaded.[1] It is possible that she did not fully conjecture the ultimate calculations of the admiral. The king, himself, was a minor, entirely in her hands, who could add nothing to her counsels, or, for the present, interfere with her authority; and, without seeking farther to inquire by what motives she was governed in according to Coligny the permission which he sought, it is enough that he obtained the necessary sanction. Of this he readily availed himself. It was not, by the way, his first attempt at colonization. Having in view the same objects by which he was governed in the present instance, he had, in 1555, sent out an expedition to Brazil under Villegagnon. This enterprise had failed through the perfidy of that commander. Its failure did not discourage the admiral. Though the full character of Catharine had not developed itself, in all its cruel and heartless characteristics, it was yet justly understood by him, and he never suffered himself to forget how necessary to the sect which he represented was the desired haven of security which he sought, in a region beyond her influence.

From Brazil he turned his eyes on Florida. This terra incognita, at the period of which we speak, was El Dorado to the European imagination. It was the New Empire, richer than Peru or Mexico, in which adventurers as daring as Cortes and Pizarro were to compass realms of as great magnificence and wealth. Already had the Spaniard traversed it with his iron-clad warriors, seeking vainly, and through numberless perils, for the treasure which he worshipped. Still other treasures had won the imagination of one of their noblest knights; and in exploring the wild realm of the Floridian for the magical fountain which was to restore youth to the heart of age, and a fresh bloom to its withered aspect, Ponce de Leon pursued one of the loveliest phantoms that ever deluded the fancy or the heart of man. To him had succeeded others; all seeking, in turn, the realization of those unfruitful visions which, like wandering lights of the swamp forest, only glitter to betray. Vasquez d’Ayllon, John Verazzani, Pamphilo de Narvaez, and the more brilliant cavalier than all, Hernando de Soto, had each penetrated this land of hopes and fancies, to deplore in turn its disappointments and delusions. With the wildest desires in their hearts, they had disdained the merely possible within their reach. They had sought for possessions such as few empires have been known to yield; and had failed to see, or had beheld with scorn, the simple treasures of fruit and flower which the country promised and proffered in abundance. This vast region, claimed equally by Spain, France, and England, still lay derelict. “Death,” as one of our own writers very happily remarks, “seemed to guard the avenues of the country.” None of the great realms which claimed it as their domain, regarded it in any light but as a territory which they might ravage. Yet, well might its delicious climate, the beauty of its groves and forests, the sweets of its flowers, which beguiled the senses of the ocean pilgrim a score of leagues from land—to say nothing of the supposed wealth of its mountains, and of the great cities hid among their far recesses—have persuaded the enterprise, and implored the prows of enterprise and adventure. To these attractions the previous adventurers had not wholly shown themselves insensible. Ponce de Leon, enraptured with its rich and exquisite vegetation, as seen in the spring season of the year, first conferred upon it the name of beauty, which it bears. Nor, had he not been distracted by baser objects, would he have failed utterly to discover the salubrious fountains which he sought. Here were met natives, who, quaffing at medicinal streams by which the country was everywhere watered, grew to years which almost rival those of the antediluvian fathers. Verazzani, the Florentine, unfolds a golden chronicle of the innocence and delight which distinguished the simple people by whom the territory was possessed, and whose character was derived from the gentle influences of their climate, and the exquisite delicacy, beauty, and variety of the productions of the soil. He, too, had visited the country in the season of spring, when all things in nature look lovely to the eye. But such verdure as blessed his vision on this occasion, constituted a new era in his life, and seemed to lift him to the crowning achievement of all his enterprises. The region, as far his eye could reach, was covered with “faire fields and plaines,” “full of mightie great woodes,” “replenished with divers sort of trees, as pleasant and delectable to behold as is possible to imagine;”—“Not,” says the voyager, “like the woodes of Hercynia or the wilde deserts of Tartary, and the northerne coasts full of fruitlesse trees,” but “trees of sortes unknowen in Europe, which yeeld most sweete savours farre from the shoare.” Nor did these constitute the only attractions. The appearance of the forests and the land “argued drugs and spicery,” “and other riches of golde.”

The woods were “full of many beastes, as stags, deere and hares, and likewise of lakes and pooles of fresh water, with great plentie of fowles, convenient for all kinde of pleasant game.” The air was “goode and wholesome, temperate between hot and colde;” “no vehement windes doe blowe in these regions, and those that do commonly reigne are the southwest and west windes in the summer season;” “the skye cleare and faire, with very little raine; and if, at any time, the ayre be cloudie and mistie with the southerne winde, immediately it is dissolved and waxeth cleare and faire againe. The sea is calme, not boisterous, and the waves gentle.” And the people were like their climate. The nature which yielded to their wants, without exacting the toil of ever-straining sinews, left them unembittered by necessities which take the heart from youth, and the spirit from play and exercise. No carking cares interfered with their humanity to check hospitality in its first impulse, and teach avarice to withhold the voluntary tribute which the natural virtues would prompt, in obedience to a selfishness that finds its justification in serious toils which know no remission, and a forethought that is never permitted to forget the necessities of the coming day. Verazzani found the people as mild and grateful as their climate. They crowded to the shore as the stranger ships drew nigh, “making divers synes of friendship.” They showed themselves “very courteous and gentle,” and, in a single incident, won the hearts of the Europeans, who seldom, at that period, in their intercourse with the natives, were known to exhibit an instance so beautiful, of a humanity so Christian. A young sailor, attempting to swim on shore, had overrated his strength. Cast among the breakers, he was in danger of being drowned. This, when the Indians saw, they dashed into the surf, and dragged the fair-skinned voyager to land. Here, when he recovered from his stupor, he exhibited signs of the greatest apprehension, finding himself in the hands of the savages. But his lamentations, which were piteously loud, only provoked theirs. Their tears flowed at his weeping. In this way they strove to “cheere him, and to give him courage.” Nor were they neglectful of other means. “They set him on the ground, at the foot of a little hill against the sunne, and began to behold him with great admiration, marveiling at the whitenesse of his fleshe;” “Putting off his clothes, they made him warme at a great fire, not without one great feare, by what remayned in the boate, that they would have rosted him at that fire and have eaten him.” But the fear was idle. When they had warmed and revived the stranger, they reclothed him, and as he showed an anxiety to return to the ship, “they, with great love, clapping him fast about with many embracings,” accompanied him to the shore, where they left him, retiring to a distance, whence they could witness his departure without awakening the apprehensions of his comrades. These people were of “middle stature, handsome visage and delicate limmes; of very little strength, but of prompt wit.”

We need not pursue the details of these earlier historians. They suffice to direct attention to Florida, and to persuade adventure with fanciful ideas of its charming superiority over all unknown regions. But the adventurers, until Coligny’s enterprise was conceived, meditated the invasion of the country, and the gathering of its hidden treasures, rather than the establishment of any European settlements in its glorious retreats. It was not till the eighteenth day of February, in the Year of Grace, one thousand five hundred and sixty-two, that the plan of the Admiral of France was sufficiently matured for execution. On that day he despatched two vessels from France, well manned and furnished, under the command of one John Ribault,[2] for the express purpose of making the first permanent European establishment in these regions of romance. The narrative of this enterprise is chiefly drawn from the writings of René

Laudonniere, who himself went out as a lieutenant in the expedition. Laudonniere, in his narrative of their progress, says nothing of the secret objects of Coligny, of which he probably knew nothing. He ascribes to the King—the Queen-mother, rather—a nobler policy than either of them ever entertained. “My Lord of Chastillon,” (Coligny) thus he writes,—“A nobleman more desirous of the publique than of his private benefits, understanding the pleasure of the King, his Prince, which was to discover new and strange countries, caused vessels for this purpose to be made ready with all diligence, and men to be levied meet for such an enterprise.”

This is merely courtly language, wholly conventional, and which, spoken of Charles the Ninth,—a boy not yet in his teens—savors rather of the ridiculous. There is no question that the expedition originated wholly with Coligny; as little is it questionable, though Laudonniere says nothing on this subject, that it was designed in consequence of that policy which showed him the ever present danger of the Huguenots. It does not militate against this policy that he made use of a pretext which was suggested by the passion for maritime discovery common in those days. By the assertion of this pretext, he was the more easily enabled to persuade the Queen-mother to a measure upon which she otherwise would never have suffered the ships of the Huguenots to weigh anchor.

But this question need not detain us. Laudonniere speaks of the armament as ample for the purpose for which it was designed—“so well furnished with gentlemen and with oulde souldiers that he (Ribault) had meanes to achieve some notable thing, and worthie of eternall memorie.” This was an exaggeration, something Spanish in its tenor,—one of those flourishes of rhetoric among the voyagers of that day, which had already grown to be a sound without much signification. The vessels were small, as was the compliment of men dispatched. The objects of the expedition were limited, did not contemplate exploration but settlement, and, consequently, were not likely to find opportunity for great enterprises. The voyage occupied two months; the route pursued carefully avoided that usually taken by the Spaniards, whom already our adventurers had cause to fear. At the end of this period, land was made in the latitude of St. Augustine, to the cape of which they gave the name of St. François. From this point, coasting northwardly, they discovered “a very faire and great river”—the San Matheo of the Spaniards, now the St. John’s, to which Ribault, as he discovered it on the first of May, gave the name of that month. This river he penetrated in his boats. He was met on the shore by many of the natives, men and women. These received him with gentleness and peace. Their chief man made an oration, and honored Ribault, at the close, with a present of “chamois skinnes.” On the ensuing day, he “caused a pillar of hard stone to be planted within the sayde river, and not farre from the mouth of the same, upon a little sandie knappe,” on which the arms of France were engraved. Crossing to the opposite shores of this river, a religious service was performed in the presence of the Indians. There the red-men, perhaps for the first time, beheld the pure and simple rites of the genuine Christian. Prayers were said, and thanks given to the Deity, “for that, of his grace, hee had conducted the French nation into these strange places.” This service being ended, the Indians conducted the strangers into the presence of their king,[3] who received them in a sitting posture, upon a couch made of bay leaves and palmetto. Speeches were made between the parties which were understood by neither. But their tenor was amicable, the savage chieftain giving to Ribault, at parting, a basket wrought very ingeniously of palm leaves, “and a great skinne painted and drawen throughout with the pictures of divers wilde beastes; so livly drawen and portrayed that nothing lacked life.” Fish were taken for the Frenchmen by the hospitable natives, in weirs made of reeds, fashioned like a maze or labyrinth—“troutes, great mullets, plaise, turbots, and marvellous store of other sorts of fishes altogether different from ours.” Another chief upon this river received them with like favors. Two of the sons of this chief are represented as “exceeding faire and strong.” They were followed by troops of the natives, “having their bowes and arrowes, in marveilous good order.”

From this river, still pursuing a northwardly course, Ribault came to another which he explored and named the Seine, (now the St. Mary’s,) because it appeared to resemble the river of that name in France.[4] We pass over the minor details in this progress—how he communed with the natives—who, everywhere seemed to have entertained our Huguenots with equal grace and gentleness, and who are described as a goodly people, of lively wit and great stature. Ribault continued to plant columns, and to take possession of the country after the usual forms, conferring names upon its several streams, which he borrowed for the purpose from similar well-known rivers in France. Thus, for a time, the St. Mary’s became the Seine; the Satilla, the Somme; the Altamaha, the Loire; the Ogechee, the Garonne; and the Savannah, the Gironde. The river to which his prows were especially directed, was that to which the name of Jordan had been given by Vasquez de Ayllon, some forty years before. This is our present Combahee. In sailing north, in this search, other smaller rivers were discovered, one of which was called the Belle-a-veoir. Separated by a furious tempest from his pinnaces, which had been kept in advance for the purpose of penetrating and exploring these streams, Ribault, with his ships, was compelled to stand out to sea. When he regained the coast and his pinnaces, he was advised of a “mightie river,” in which they had found safe harborage from the tempest, a river which, “in beautie and bignesse” exceeded all the former. Delighted with this discovery, our Huguenots made sail to reach this noble stream.

The object of Ribault had been some safe and pleasant harborage, in which his people could refresh themselves for a season. His desires were soon gratified. He cast anchor at the mouth of a mighty river, to which, “because of the fairnesse and largenesse thereoff,” he gave the name of Port Royale, the name which it still bears. The depth of this river is such, that, according to Laudonniere, “when the sea beginneth to flowe, the greatest shippes of France, yea, the argosies of Venice, may enter there.” Ribault, at the head of his soldiers, was the first to land. Grateful, indeed, to the eye and fancy of our Frenchmen, was the scene around them. They had already passed through a fairy-like region, of islet upon islet, reposing upon the deep,—crowned with green forests, and arresting, as it were, the wild assaults of ocean upon the shores of which they appeared to keep watch and guard. And, passing between these islets and the main, over stillest waters, with a luxuriant shrubbery on either hand, and vines and flowers of starred luxuriance trailing about them to the very lips of this ocean, they had arrived at an imperial growth of forest. The mighty shafts that rose around them, heavy with giant limbs, and massed in their luxuriant wealth of leaves, particularly impressed the minds of our voyagers—“mightye high oakes and infinite store of cedars,” and pines fitted for the masts of “such great ammirals” as had never yet floated in the European seas. Their senses were assailed with fresh and novel delights at every footstep. The superb magnolia, with its great and snow-white chalices; the flowering dogwood with its myriad blossoms, thick and richly gleaming as the starry host of heaven; the wandering jessamine, whose yellow trophies, mingling with grey mosses of the oak, stooped to the upward struggling billows of the deep, giving out odor at every rise and fall of the ambitious wavelet,—these, by their unwonted treasures of scent and beauty, compelled the silent but profound admiration of the strangers. “Exceeding pleasant” did the “very fragrant odour” make the place; while other novelties interposed to complete the fascinations of a spot, the peculiarities of which were equally fresh and delightful. Their farther acquaintance with the country only served to increase its attractions. As they wandered through the woods, they “saw nothing but turkey cocks flying in the forests, partridges, gray and red, little different from ours, but chiefly in bignesse;”—“we heard also within the woods the voices of stagges, of beares, of hyenas, of leopards, and divers other sorts of beasts unknown to us. Being delighted with this place, we set ourselves to fishing with nets, and caught such a number of fish that it was wonderful.”

The same region is still renowned for its fish and game, for the monsters as well as the multitudes of the deep, and for the deer of its spacious swamps and forests, which still exercise the skill and enterprise of the angler and the hunter. This is the peculiar region also, of the “Devil fish,” the “Vampire of the Ocean,” described by naturalists as of the genus Ray, species Dio-don, a leviathan of the deep, whose monstrous antennæ are thrown about the skiff of the fisherman with an embrace as perilous as that wanton sweep of his mighty extremities with which the whale flings abroad the crowding boats of his hardy captors. Sea and land, in this lovely neighborhood, still gleam freshly and wondrously upon the eye of the visitor as in the days of our Huguenot adventurers; and still do its forests, in spite of the cordon which civilization and society have everywhere drawn around them, harbor colonies of the bear which occasionally cross the path of the sportsman, and add to his various trophies of the chase.

With impressions of the scene and region such as realized to our Frenchmen the summer glories of an Arabian tale, it was easy to determine where to plant their colony. Modern conjecture, however, is still unsatisfied as to the site which was probably chosen by our voyagers. The language of Laudonniere is sufficiently vague and general to make the matter doubtful; and, unhappily, there are no remains which might tend to lessen the obscurity of the subject. The vessels had cast anchor at the mouth of Port Royal River. The pilots subsequently counselled that they should penetrate the stream, so as to secure a sheltered roadstead. They ascended the river accordingly, some three leagues from its mouth, when Ribault proceeded to make a closer examination of the country. The Port Royal “is divided into two great armes, whereof the one runneth toward the west, the other toward the north.” Our Huguenot captain chose the western avenue, which he ascended in his pinnace. For more than twelve leagues he continued this progress, until he “found another arme of the river which ranne towards the east, up which the captain determined to sail and leave the greate current.”

The red men whom they encounter on this progress are at first shy of the strangers and take flight at their approach, but they are soon encouraged by the gentleness and forbearance of the Frenchmen, who persuade them finally to confidence. An amiable understanding soon reconciles the parties, and the Floridian at length brings forward his gifts of maize, his palm baskets with fruits and flowers, his rudely-dressed skins of bear and beaver, and these are pledges of his amity which he does not violate. He, in turn, persuades the voyagers to draw near to the shore and finally to land. They are soon surrounded by the delighted and simple natives, whose gifts are multiplied duly in degree with the pleasure which they feel. Skins of the chamois—deer rather—and baskets of pearls, are offered to the chief among the whites, whom they proceed to entertain with shows of still greater courtesy. A bower of forest leaves and shrubs is soon built to shelter them “from the parching heate of the sunne,” and our Frenchmen lingered long enough among this artless and hospitable people to get tidings of a “greate Indian Lorde which had pearles in great abundance and silver also, all of which should be given them at the king’s arrival.” They invited the strangers to their dwellings—proffering to show them a thousand pleasures in shooting, and seeing the death of the stag.

Our Huguenots, excellent Christians though they were, were by no means insensible to the tidings of pearl and gold. These glimpses of treasures, already familiar to their imaginations, greatly increase, in their sight, the natural beauties of the country. The narratives of the red men, imperfectly understood, and construed by the desires of the strangers, rather than their minds, were full of marvels of neighboring lands and nations,—great empires of wealth and strength,—cities in romantic solitudes,—high places among almost inaccessible mountains, in which the treasures are equally precious and abundant. Listening to such legends, our Frenchmen linger with the red men, until the approach of night counsels them to seek the security of their ships.

But, with the dawning of the following day the explorations were resumed. Before leaving his vessel, however, Ribault provides himself with “a pillar of hard stone, fashioned like a column, whereon the armes of France were graven,” with the purpose of planting “the same in the fairest place that he coulde finde.” “This done, we embarked ourselves, and sayled three leagues towards the west; where we discovered a little river, up which wee sayled so long, that, in the ende, wee found it returned into the great current, and in his return, to make a little island separated from the firme lande, where wee went on shore, and by commandment of the captain, because it was exceeding faire and pleasant, there we planted the pillar upon a hillock open round about to the view and environed with a lake halfe a fathom deepe, of very good and sweete water.”

We are particular in these details, in the hope that future explorers may be thus assisted in the work of identifying the places marked by our Huguenots. Everything which they see in the new world which surrounds them, is imposing to the eye and grateful to the sense. They wander among avenues of gigantic pines that remind them of the mighty colonnades in the great cathedrals of the old world. They are at once exhilarated by a sense of unwonted freshness and beauty in what they behold, and by aspects of grandeur and vastness which solemnize all their thoughts and fancies. With these feelings, when, in their wanderings, they arouse from the shady covers where they browsed “two stagges of exceeding bignesse, in respect of those which they had seene before,” their captain forbids that they should shoot them, though they might easily have done so. The anecdote speaks well for Ribault’s humanity. It was not wholly because he was “moved with the singular fairenesse and bignesse of them,” as Laudonniere imagines, but because his soul was lifted with religious sentiment—filled with worship at that wondrous temple of nature in which the great Jehovah seemed visibly present, in love and mercy, as in the first sweet days of the creation.

To the little river which surrounded the islet, on which the pillar was raised, they gave the name of “Liborne.” The island itself is supposed to be that which is now called Lemon Island. The matter is one which still admits of doubt, though scarcely beyond the reach of certainty, in a close examination from the guide posts which we still possess. It is a question which may well provoke the diligence of the local antiquary. “Another isle, not far distant from” that of the pillar, next claimed the attention of the voyagers. Here they “found nothing but tall cedars, the fairest that were seene in this country. For this cause wee called it the Isle of Cedars.”

This ended their exploration for the day. A few days were consumed in farther researches, without leading to any new discoveries. In the meantime, Ribault prepared to execute the commands of his sovereign, in the performance of one of the tasks which civilization but too frequently sanctions at the expense of humanity. He was commanded by the Queen-mother to capture and carry home to France a couple of the natives. These, as we have seen, were a mild race, maintaining among themselves a gentle intercourse, and exercising towards strangers a grateful hospitality. It was with a doubtful propriety that our Frenchman determined to separate any of them from their homes and people. But it was not for Ribault to question the decrees of that sovereign whom it was the policy of the Huguenots, at present, to conciliate. Having selected a special and sufficient complement of soldiers, he determined “to returne once againe toward the Indians which inhabiteth that arme of the river which runneth toward the West.” The pinnace was prepared for this purpose. The object of the voyage was successful. The Indians were again found where they had been at first encountered. The Frenchmen were received with hospitality. Ribault made his desires known to the king or chief of the tribe, who graciously gave his permission. Two of the Indians, who fancied that they were more favored than the rest of their brethren, by the choice of the Frenchmen, yielded very readily to the entreaties which beguiled them on board one of the vessels. They probably misunderstood the tenor of the application; or, in their savage simplicity, concluded that a voyage to the land of the pale-faces was only some such brief journey as they were wont to make, in their cypress canoes, from shore to shore along their rivers—or possibly as far down as the great frith in which their streams were lost. But it was not long before our savage voyagers were satisfied with the experiment. They soon ceased to be pleased or flattered with the novelty of their situation. The very attentions bestowed upon them only provoked their apprehensions. The cruise wearied them; and, when they found that the vessels continued to keep away from the land, they became seriously uneasy. Born swimmers, they had no fear about making the shore when once in the water: and it required the utmost vigilance of the Frenchmen to keep them from darting overboard. It was in vain, for a long time, that they strove to appease and to soothe the unhappy captives. Their detention, against their desires, now made them indignant. Gifts were pressed upon them, such as they were known to crave and to esteem above all other possessions. But these they rejected with scorn. They would receive nothing in exchange for their liberty. The simple language in which the old chronicler describes the scene and their sorrows, has in it much that is highly touching, because of its very simplicity. They felt their captivity, and were not to be beguiled from this humiliating conviction by any trappings or soothings. Their freedom—the privilege of eager movements through billow and forest—sporting as wantonly as bird and fish in both—was too precious for any compensation. They sank down upon the deck, with clasped hands, sitting together apart from the crew, gazing upon the shores with mournful eyes, and chaunting a melancholy ditty, which seemed to the watchful and listening Frenchmen a strain of exile and lamentation—“agreeing so sweetly together, that, in hearing their song, it seemed that they lamented the absence of their friendes.” And thus they continued all night to sing without ceasing.

The pinnace, meanwhile, lay at anchor, the tide being against them; with the dawn of day the voyage was resumed, and the ships were reached in safety where they lay in the roadstead. Transferred to these, the two captives continued to deplore their fate. Every effort was made to reconcile them to their situation, and nothing was withheld which experience had shown to be especially grateful to the savage fancy. But they rejected everything; even the food which had now become necessary to their condition. They held out till nearly sunset, in their rejection of the courtesies, which, with a show of kindness, deprived them of the most precious enjoyment and passion of their lives. But the inferior nature at length insisted upon its rights. “In the end they were constrained to forget their superstitions,” and to eat the meat which was set before them. They even received the gifts which they had formerly rejected; and, as if reconciled to a condition from which they found it impossible to escape, they put on a more cheerful countenance. “They became, therefore, more jocunde; every houre made us a thousand discourses, being marveillous sorry that we could not understand them.” Laudonniere set himself to work to acquire their language. He strove still more to conciliate their favor; engaged them in frequent conversation; and, by showing them the objects for which he sought their names, picked up numerous words which he carefully put on paper. In a few days he was enabled to make himself understood by them, in ordinary matters, and to comprehend much that they said to him. They flattered him in turn. They told him of their feats and sports, and what pleasures they could give him in the chase. They would take food from no hands but his; and succeeded in blinding the vigilance of the Frenchmen. They were not more reconciled to their prison-bonds than before. They had simply changed their policy; and, when, after several days’ detention, they had succeeded in lulling to sleep the suspicions of their captors, they stole away at midnight from the ship, leaving behind them all the gifts which had been forced upon them, as if, to have retained them, would have established, in the pale-faces, a right to their liberties—thus showing, according to Laudonniere, “that they were not void of reason.”

Ribault was not dissatisfied with this result of his endeavor to comply with the commands of the Queen-mother. His sense of justice probably revolted at the proceeding; and the escape of the Indians, who would report only the kindness of their treatment, would, in all likelihood, have an effect favorable to his main enterprise,—the establishment of a colony. This design he now broached to his people in an elaborate speech. He enlarged upon the importance of the object, drawing numerous examples from ancient and modern history, in favor of those virtues in the individual which such enterprise must develope. There is but one passage in this speech which deserves our special attention. It is that in which he speaks to his followers of their inferior birth and condition. He speaks to them as “known neither to the king nor to the princes of the realme, and, besides, descending from so poore a stock, that few or none of your parents, having ever made profession of armes, have beene knowne unto the great estates.” This is in seeming conflict with what Laudonniere has already told us touching the character and condition in society of the persons employed in the expedition. He has been careful to say, at the opening of the narrative, that the two ships were “well furnished with gentlemen (of whose number I was one) and old soldiers.”[5] The apparent contradiction may be reconciled by a reference to the distinction, which, until a late period, was made in France, between the noblesse and mere gentlemen. The word gentleman had no such signification, in France, at that period, as it bears to-day. To apply it to a nobleman, indeed, would have been, at one time, to have given a mortal affront, and a curious anecdote is on record, to this effect in the case of the Princess de la Roche Sur Yon, who, using the epithet “gentilhomme” to a nobleman, was insulted by him; and, on demanding redress of the monarch, was told that she deserved the indignity, having been guilty of the first offence.

But Ribault’s speech suggested to his followers that their inferior condition made nothing against their heroism. He, himself, though a soldier by profession, from his tenderest years, had never yet been able to compass the favor of the nobility. Yet he had applied himself with all industry, and hazarded his life in many dangers. It was his misfortune that “more regard is had to birth than virtue.” But this need not discourage them, as it has never discouraged him from the performance of his duties. The great examples of history are in his eyes, and should be in theirs.

“Howe much then ought so many worthy examples move you to plant here? Considering, also, that hereby you shall be registered forever as the first that inhabited this strange country. I pray you, therefore, all to advise yourselves thereof, and to declare your mindes freely unto me, protesting that I will so well imprint your names in the King’s eares, and the other princes, that your renowne shall hereafter shine unquenchable through our realm of France.”

Ribault was evidently not insensible to fame. Had his thoughts been those of his sovereign, also, how different would have been the history! His soldiers responded in the proper spirit, and declared their readiness to establish a colony in the wild empire, the grandeur and beauty of which had already commended it to their affections. Delighted with the readiness and enthusiasm of his men, he weighed anchor the very next day, in order to seek out the place most fit and convenient for his settlement. “Having sayled up the great river on the north side, in coasting an isle which ended with a sharpe point toward the mouth of the river;—having sailed awhile he discovered a small river which entered into the islande, which hee would not faile to search out, which done, he found the same deep enough to harbour therein gallies and galliots in good number. Proceeding farther, he found an open place joyning upon the brinke thereof, where he went on land, and seeing the place fit to build a fortresse in, and commodious for them that were willing to plant there, he resolved incontinently to cause the bignesse of the fortification to be measured out.” The colony was to be a small one. Twenty-six persons had volunteered to establish it; as many, perhaps, as had been called for. The dimensions of the fort were small accordingly. They were taken by Laudonniere, and one Captain Salles, under Ribault’s directions. The fort was at once begun. Its length was sixteen fathoms, its breadth thirteen, “with flanks according to the proportion thereof.” Then, for the first time, the European axe was laid to the great shafts of the forest trees of America, waking sounds, at every stroke, whose echoes have been heard for three hundred years, sounding, and destined to resound, from the Atlantic to the Pacific seas; leaving no waste of wood and wild, unawakened by this first music of civilization.

The site thus chosen by Ribault for his colony, though no traces have been left of the labor of his hands, is scarcely doubtful to the present possessors of the country. All the proofs concur in placing Fort Charles somewhere between North Edisto and Broad River, and circumstances determine this situation to be that of the beautiful little town of Beaufort, in South Carolina. The Grande Riviere of the French is our Broad River.[6] It was at the mouth of this river, in an island with a safe and commodious port, that the fort was established; and of the numerous islands which rise everywhere along the coast in this region, as a fortress to defend the verdant shores from the assaults of ocean, there is none which answers so well as this all the requisitions of this description. Besides, it is actually in the very latitude of the site, as given by Laudonniere; and the tradition of the Indians, as preserved by our own people, seems to confirm and to conclude the conjectures on this subject. They state that the first place in which they saw the pale faces of the Europeans was at Coosawhatchie, in South Carolina. Now, the Coosawhatchie is the principal stream that forms the Grande Riviere of the Frenchmen; and was, questionless, the first of the streams that was penetrated by the pinnace of Ribault. It is highly probable that it bore the name of Coosawhatchie through its entire course, until it emptied itself into the ocean. The testimony of the Indians, based simply upon their tradition, is of quite as much value as that of any other people. It is well known with what tenacity they preserve the recollection of important events, and with what singular adherence to general truthfulness. The island upon which Beaufort now stands was most probably that which yielded the first American asylum to the Huguenots of France!

Our Frenchmen travailed so diligently that, in a short space, the fortress was in some sort prepared for the colonists. It was soon in a defensible condition. “Victuals and warlike munition” were transferred from the shipping to the shore, and the garrison were furnished with all things necessary for the maintenance of their fortress and themselves. The fort was christened by the name of Charles, the King of France; while the small river upon which it was built received the name of Chenonceau. All things being provided, the colonists marched into their little and lovely place of refuge. They were confided to the charge of one Captain Albert, to whom, and to whose followers, Ribault made a speech at parting. His injunctions were of a parental and salutary character. He exhorted their Captain to justice, firmness and moderation in his rule, and his people to obedience; promising to return with supplies from France, and reinforcements before their present resources should fail them. But these exhortations do not seem to have been much regarded by either party. It will be for us, in future chapters, to pursue their fortunes, and to pluck, if possible, from the unwritten history, the detailed events of their melancholy destiny. Sad enough will it have been, even if no positive evil shall befall them,—that severance from their ancient comrades—that separation from the old homes of their fathers in La Belle France—that lonesome abode, on the verge of “ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,” on the one hand, and the dense, dark, repelling forests of Apalachia on the other;—doubtful of all they see,—in spite of all that is fresh and charming in their sight;—apprehensive of every sound that reaches them from the wilderness,—and filled with no better hope than that which springs up in the human bosom when assured that all hope is cut off—that one hope excepted, which is born of necessity, and which blossoms amid the nettles of despair. The isolation was the more oppressive and likely to be grievous, as we have reason to doubt that, though founding a colony for the refuge of a religious and persecuted people, they brought any becoming sense of religion with them. Our progress thus far with the adventurers has shown us but few proofs of the presence among them of any feelings of devotion. Ribault himself was but a soldier, and his ambition was of an earthly complexion. Had they been elevated duly by religion, they would have been counselled and strengthened in the solitude by God. Unhappily, they were men only, rude, untaught, and full of selfish passions,—badly ruled and often ill-treated, and probably giving frequent provocation to the pride and passions of those who had them under rule. But they began their career in the New World with sufficient cheerfulness. Its climate was delicious, like that of their own country. Its woods and forests were of a majesty and splendor beyond any of which their wildest fancies had ever dreamed; and the security which the remoteness of the region promised them, and the novelty which invested every object in their eyes made the parting from their comrades a tolerably easy one. They heard with lively spirits the farewell shouts of their companions, and answered them with cheers of confidence and pride. The simple paragraph which records the leave-taking of the parties, is at once pleasing and full of pathos. “Having ended his (Ribault’s) exhortations, we took our leaves of each of them, and sayled toward our shippes. We hoysed our sayles about ten of the clocke in the morning. After wee were ready to depart, Captain Ribault commanded to shoote off our ordnance, to give a farewell unto our Frenchmen; which fayled not to do the like on their part. This being done, wee sayled toward the north.” That last shout, that last sullen roar of their mutual cannon, and the great waves of the Atlantic rolled, unbroken by a sail, between our colonists and La Belle France.

[II.]
THE COLONY UNDER ALBERT.

The Colonists, thus abandoned by their countrymen, proceeded to make themselves secure in their forest habitations. Day and night did they address themselves to the completion of their fortress. They have seen none of the natives in the immediate neighborhood of the spot in which they had pitched their tents; but, aware of the wandering habits of the red-men, they might naturally look for them at any moment. Their toils, quickened by their caution, enabled them to make rapid progress. While they labored, they felt nothing of their loneliness. The employments which accompanied their situation, and flowed from its necessities, might be said to exercise their fancies, and to subdue the tendency to melancholy which might naturally grow out of their isolation. Besides, the very novelty of the circumstances in which they found themselves had its attractions, particularly to a people so lively as the French. Our Huguenots, at the outset, were very sensible to the picturesque beauties of their forest habitation. For a season, bird, and beast, and tree, and flower, presented themselves to their delighted eyes, in guises of constantly varying attraction. The solitude, itself, possessed its charm, most fascinating of all,—until it became monotonous—to those who had been little favored of fortune in the crowded world of civilization; and, with the feeling of a first freshness in their hearts, and, while in the performance of duties which were equally necessary to their safety, and new to their experience, the whole prospect before them was beheld through that rose-colored atmosphere which the fancy so readily flings before the mind, beguiling the soberer thought into forgetfulness. During this period they toiled successfully upon their fortifications. They raised the parapet, they mounted the cannon for defence; built rude dwellings within the walls, and in their boundless contiguity of shade, with the feeling that they were in some sort “monarchs of all they beheld;” they felt neither loneliness nor fear.

Their homes built, their fortifications complete, they proceeded, in small detachments to explore the neighboring streams and woods. They had, so far, finished all their tasks without meeting with the natives. They did not shrink from this meeting. They now desired it from motives of policy. They had no reason to believe, from the specimens of the red-men whom they had already encountered, that they should have any difficulty in soothing any of the tribes; and they were justified in supposing that the impression already made upon those whom they met, would operate favorably upon their future intercourse. Boldly, then, our Frenchmen darted into the adjacent forests, gathering their game and provisions in the same grounds with the proprietors. But the latter were never to be seen. They were shy of the strangers, or they had not yet discovered their settlement. One day, however, a fortunate chance enabled a party of the Huguenots to discover, and to circumvent an Indian hunter, upon whom they came suddenly in the forests. At first the poor fellow was exceedingly dismayed at the encounter; but, subduing his fears, he submitted with a good grace to the wishes of his captors, and was conducted to the fortress. Here he was treated with consideration, and made happy by several trifles which were given him. His confidence was finally won, and his mouth was opened. He became communicative, and described his people and their territories. He avowed himself the subject of a great monarch, whom he called Audusta,[7]—a name, in which, under the corruptions of a French pronunciation, we recognize the well-known modern name of Edisto. He described the boundaries of empire belonging to this forest chieftain; and gave a general and not incorrect idea of the whole surrounding country.

Captain Albert was exceedingly delighted with his acquisition. It was important that he should open an intercourse with the natives, to whose maize-fields and supplies of venison his necessities required he should look. He treated the hunter with liberality and courtesy, dismissing him at night-fall with many presents, of a kind most grateful to the savage taste. These hospitalities and gifts, it was not doubted, would pave the way for an intercourse equally profitable and pleasant to both the parties. Suffering a few days to elapse after the departure of the hunter, Albert prepared to follow his directions, and explore the settlements of King Audusta. He did so, and was received with great kindness by the stately savage. The Indian hunter had made a favorable report of the Frenchmen, and Audusta adopted them as his friends and allies. He promised them provisions and assistance, and the friendship of four other chiefs or princes, his tributaries, whose names are given as Mayou, Hoya, Touppa, and Stalamè.[8] These were all, in turn,—except the last,—visited by Albert, who found a frank and generous welcome wherever he came. He consumed several days in these visits; and the intercourse, in a little while, between the French and red-men, grew so great, “that, in a manner, all things were soon common between them.” Returning to Audusta, Albert prepared to visit Stalamè, whose country lay north of Fort Charles some fifteen leagues. This would make his abode somewhere on the Edisto, near Givham’s, perhaps; or, inclining still north, to the head of Ashley River. Sailing up the river, (the Edisto probably,) they encountered a great current, which they followed, to reach the abode of Stalamè. He, too, received the strangers with hospitality and friendship. The intercourse thus established between the party soon assumed the most endearing aspect. The Indian kings took counsel of Albert in all matters of importance. The Frenchmen were called to the conference in the round-house of the tribe, quite as frequently as their own recognized counsellors. In other words, the leaders of the Huguenots were adopted into the tribe, that being the usual mode of indicating trust and confidence. Albert was present at all the assemblages of state in the realm of Audusta; at all ceremonials, whether of business or pleasure; at his great hunts; and at the singular feasts of his religion. One of these feasts, that of TOYA,[9] which succeeded the visit of Albert to the territories of Audusta and the four tributary kings, will call for an elaborate description hereafter, when we narrate the legend of Guernache, upon whose fate that of the colony seems to have depended.

The intercourse of our Huguenots with Audusta was of vital importance to the former. In the form of gifts, he yielded them a regular tribute of maize and beans, (corn and peas, in modern parlance,) and was easily persuaded to do so by the simple trifles, of little value, which the colonists proffered in return. It is not difficult to win the affections of an inferior people, where the superior is indulgent. Kindness will disarm the hostility of the savage, and justice will finally subdue the jealousy of conscious ignorance. Sympathy in sports and amusements, above all things, will do much towards bringing together tribes who differ in their laws and language, and will make them forgetful of all their differences. The French have been usually much more successful than any other people in overcoming the prejudices of the red-men of America. The moral of their nation is much more flexible than that of the Englishman and Spaniard;—the former of whom has always subdued, and the latter usually debased or destroyed, the races with which they came in conflict.

The policy of Albert did not vary from that which usually distinguished his countrymen in like situations. The French Protestant was, by no means, of the faith and temper of the English Puritan. In simplifying his religion, he did not clothe his exterior in gloom; he did not deny that there should be sunshine and blossoms in the land. Our colonists at Fort Charles did not perplex the Indians with doctrinal questions. It is greatly to be feared, indeed, that religion did not, in any way, disturb them in their solitudes. At all events, it was not of such a freezing temper as to deny them the indulgence of an intercourse with the natives, which, for a season, was very agreeable and very inspiriting to both the parties.

But smiles and sunshine cannot last forever. The granaries of the Indians began to fail under their own profligacy and the demands of the Frenchmen. The resources of the former, never abundant, were soon exhausted in providing for the additional hungry mouths which had come among them. Shrinking from labor, they addressed as little of it as they well could, to the cultivation of their petty maize fields. They planted them, as we do now, a couple of grains of corn to each hill, at intervals of three or four square feet, and as the corn grew to a sufficient height, peas were distributed among the roots, to twine about the stalks when the vines could no longer impair its growth. They cropped the same land twice in each summer. The supplies, thus procured, would have been totally inadequate to their wants, but for the abundant game, the masts of the forest, and such harsh but wholesome roots as they could pulverize and convert into breadstuffs. Their store was thus limited always, and adapted to their own wants simply. Any additional demand, however small, produced a scarcity in their granaries. The improvidence of Audusta, or his liberality, prevented him from considering this danger, until it began to be felt. He had supplied the Frenchmen until his stock was exhausted; no more being left in his possession than would suffice to sow his fields.

“For this reason,”—such was the language of the savage monarch—“we must retire to the forests, and live upon its mast and roots, until harvest time. We are sorry that we can supply you no longer; you must now seek the granaries of our neighbors. There is a king called COUEXIS, a prince of great might and renown in this country, whose province lies toward the south. His lands are very fertile. His stores are ample at all seasons. He alone can furnish you with food for a long time. Before you approach the territories of Couexis, there is his brother, king Ouade, who is scarcely less wealthy. He is a generous chief, who will be very joyful if he may but once behold you. Seek out these, and your wants shall be supplied.”

The advice was taken. The Frenchmen had no alternative. They addressed themselves first to Ouade. His territories lay along the river Belle, some twenty-five leagues south of Port Royal. He received them with the greatest favor and filled their pinnace with maize and beans. He welcomed them to his abode with equal state and hospitality. His house is described as being hung with a tapestry richly wrought of feathers. The couch upon which he slept, was dressed with “white coverlettes, embroidered with devises of very wittie and fine workmanship, and fringed round about with a fringe dyed in the colour of scarlet.” His gifts to our Frenchmen were not limited to the commodities they craved. He gave them six coverlets, and tapestry such as decorated his couch and dwelling; specimens of a domestic manufacture which declare for tastes and a degree of art which seems, in some degree, to prove their intimacy with the more polished and powerful nations of the south. In regard to food hereafter, king Ouade promised that his new acquaintance should never want.

Thus was the first intercourse maintained by our Huguenots with their savage neighbors. It was during this intimacy, and while all things seemed to promise fair in regard to the colony, that the tragical events took place which furnish the materials for the legend which follows, the narrative of which requires that we should mingle events together, those which occurred in the periods already noted, and those which belong to our future chapters. Let it suffice, here, that, with his pinnace stored with abundance, the mil (meal), corn and peas, of Ouade, Albert returned in safety to Fort Charles.

[III.]
THE LEGEND OF GUERNACHE.—CHAP. I.

Showing how Guernache, the Musician, a great favorite with our Frenchmen, lost the favor of Captain Albert, and how cruelly he was punished by the latter.

Guernache, the drummer, was one of the finest fellows, and the handsomest of our little colony of Frenchmen. Though sprung of very humble origin, Guernache, with a little better education, might have been deemed to have had his training among the highest circles of the Court. He was of tall and erect figure, and of a carriage so noble and graceful that, even among his associates, he continued to be an object of admiration. Besides, he was a fellow of the happiest humor. His kindness of heart was proverbial. His merriment was contagious. His eye flashed out in gayety, and his spirit was ever on the alert to seize upon the passing pleasure, and subject it to the enjoyment of his companions. Never was fellow so fortunate in finding occasion for merriment; and happy, indeed, was the Frenchman who could procure Guernache as a comrade in the performance of his daily tasks. The toil was unfelt in which he shared—the weight of the task was dissipated, and, where it wore heavily, he came to the succor of his drooping companion, and his superior expertness soon succeeded in doing that which his pleasantry had failed to effect. He was the best fisherman and hunter—was as brave as he was light-hearted—was, altogether, so perfect a character, in the estimation of the little band of Albert, that he found no enemy among his equals, and could always choose his companion for himself. His successes were not confined to his own countrymen. He found equal favor in the sight of the Indians. Among his other accomplishments, he possessed the most wonderful agility—had belonged, at one time, to a company of strolling players, and his skill on tight and slack rope—if we are to credit old stories—would put to the blush the modern performances of the Ravels and Herr Cline. It was through his means, and partly by his ingenuity, that the Indian hunter was entrapped and brought into the fort,—through whose agency the intimacy had been effected with the people of Audusta and the other chiefs; and, during this intimacy, Guernache had proved, in various ways, one of the principal instruments for confirming the favorable impressions which the Indian had received in his intercourse with the Frenchmen. He was everywhere popular with the red men. Nothing, indeed, could be done without him. Ignorant of his inferior social position among the whites, the simple savages sent for him to their feasts and frolics, without caring for the claims of any other person. He had but to carry his violin—for, among his other accomplishments, that of fiddling was not the smallest—to secure the smiles of the men and the favors of the women; and it was not long before he had formed, among the savages, a class for dancing, after the European fashion, upon the banks of the Edisto. Think of the red men of Apalachia, figuring under a Parisian teacher, by night, by torch-light, beneath the great oaks of the original forest! Such uncouth antics might well offend, with never-lessening wonder, the courtly nymphs of the Seine and the Loire. But the Indians suffered from no conventional apprehensions. They were not made to feel their deficiencies under the indulgent training of Guernache, and footed it away as merrily, as if each of their damsels sported on a toe as light and exquisite as that of Ellsler or Taglioni. King Audusta, himself, though well stricken in years, was yet seduced into the capricious mazes which he beheld with so much pleasure, and, for a season, the triumph of Guernache among the palms and pines of Grande Riviere, was sufficiently complete, to make him wonder at times how his countrymen ever suffered his departure from the shores of La Belle France!

At first, and when it was doubtful to what extent the favor of the red-men might be secured for the colony, Captain Albert readily countenanced the growing popularity of his fiddler among them. His permission was frequently given to Guernache, when king Audusta solicited his presence. His policy prompted him to regard it as highly fortunate that so excellent an agent for his purposes was to be found among his followers; and, for some months, it needed only a suggestion of Guernache, himself, to procure for him leave of absence. The worthy fellow never abused his privileges—never was unfaithful to his trust—never grew insolent upon indulgence. But Captain Albert, though claiming to be the cadet of a noble house, was yet a person of a mean and ignoble nature. Small and unimposing of person, effeminate of habit, and accustomed to low indulgences, he was not only deficient in the higher resources of intellect, but he was exceedingly querulous and tyrannical of temper. His aristocratical connexions alone had secured him the charge of the colony, for which nature and education had equally unfitted him. His mind was contracted and full of bitter prejudices; and, as is the case commonly with very small persons, he was always tenacious, to the very letter, of the nicest observances of etiquette. After a little while, and when he no longer had reason to question the fidelity of the red men, he began to exhibit some share of dislike towards Guernache; and to withhold the privileges which he had hitherto permitted him to enjoy. He had become jealous of the degree of favor in which his musician was held among the savages, and betrayed this change in his temper, by instances of occasional severity and denial, the secret of which the companions of Guernache divined much sooner than himself. Though not prepared, absolutely, to withhold his consent, when king Audusta entreated that the fiddler might be spared him, he yet accorded it ungraciously; and Guernache was made to suffer, in some way, for these concessions, as if they had been so many favors granted to himself.

They were, indeed, favors to the musician, though, to what extent, Albert entertained no suspicion. It so happened that among his other conquests, Guernache had made that of a very lovely dark-eyed damsel, a niece of Audusta, and a resident of the king’s own village. After the informal fashion of the country, into which our Frenchmen were apt readily to fall, he had made the damsel his wife. She was a beautiful creature, scarcely more than sixteen; tall and slender, and so naturally agile and graceful, that it needed but a moderate degree of instruction to make her a dancer whose airy movements would not greatly have misbeseemed the most courtly theatres of Paris. Monaletta,—for such was the sweet name of the Indian damsel,—was an apt pupil, because she was a loving one. She heartily responded to that sentiment of wonder—common among the savages—that the Frenchmen should place themselves under the command of a chief, so mean of person as Albert, and so inferior in gifts, when they had among them a fellow of such noble presence as Guernache, whose qualities were so irresistible. The opinions of her head were but echoes from the feelings in her heart. Her preference for our musician was soon apparent and avowed; but, in taking her to wife, Guernache kept his secret from his best friend. No one in Fort Charles ever suspected that he had been wived in the depth of the great forests, through pagan ceremonies, by an Indian Iawa,[10] to the lovely Monaletta. Whatever may have been his motive for keeping the secret, whether he feared the ridicule of his comrades, or the hostility of his superior, or apprehended a difficulty with rivals among the red men, by a discovery of the fact, it is yet very certain that he succeeded in persuading Monaletta, herself, and those who were present at his wild betrothal, to keep the secret also. It did not lessen, perhaps, the pleasure of his visits to the settlements of Audusta, that the peculiar joys which he desired had all the relish of a stolen fruit. It was now, only in this manner that Monaletta could be seen. Captain Albert, with a rigid austerity, which contributed also to his evil odor among his people, had interdicted the visits of all Indian women at the fort. This interdict was one, however, which gave little annoyance to Guernache. A peculiar, but not unnatural jealousy, had already prompted him repeatedly to deny this privilege to Monaletta. The simple savage had frequently expressed her desire to see the fortress of the white man, to behold his foreign curiosities, and, in particular, to hearken to the roar of that mimic thunder which he had always at command, and which, when heard, had so frequently shaken the very hearts of the men of her people.

In this relation stood the several parties, when, one day, a messenger came to Fort Charles from King Audusta, bearing a special invitation to Captain Albert to attend, with the savage tribes, the celebration of the great religious “feast of Toya.” He was invited to bring as many of his men as he thought proper, but, in particular, not to forget their favorite Guernache. The feast of Toya, seems to have constituted the great religious ceremonial of the nation. It took place about the middle, or the close of summer, and seems to have been a sort of annual thanksgiving, after the laws of a natural religion, for the maturing of their little crops. Much of the solemnities were obvious and ostentatious in their character. Much more, however, was involved and mysterious, and held particularly sacred by the priesthood. The occasion was one, at all events, to which the Indians attached the greatest importance; and, naturally anxious to acquire as great a knowledge as possible of their laws, customs and sentiments, Captain Albert very readily acceded to the invitation,—preparing, with some state, to attend the rustic revels of Audusta. He took with him a fair proportion of his little garrison, and did not omit the inimitable Guernache. Ascending the river in his pinnace, he soon reached the territories of the Indian monarch. Audusta, with equal hospitality and dignity, anticipated his approach, and met him, with his followers, at the river landing. With a hearty welcome, he conducted him to his habitations, and gave him, at entrance, a draught of the cassina beverage, the famous tea of the country. Then came damsels who washed their hands in vessels of water over which floated the leaves of the odorous bay, and flowers of rare perfume; drying them after with branches of plumes, scarlet and white, which were made of the feathers of native birds of the most glorious variety of hue. Mats of reed, woven ingeniously together by delicate wythes of all colors, orange and green, and vermillion, dyed with roots of the forest, were then spread upon the rush-strewn floor of the royal wigwam; and, with a grace not unbecoming a sovereign born in the purple, Audusta invited our Frenchmen to place themselves at ease, each according to his rank and station. The king took his place among them, neither above the first, nor below the last, but like a friend within a favorite circle, in which some might stand more nearly than others to his affections. They were then attended with the profoundest deference, and served with the rarest delicacies of the Indian cuisine. As night came on, fresh rushes were strewed upon the floor, and they slept with the cheerful music of songs and laughter, which reached them at intervals, through the night, from the merry makers in the contiguous forests. With the dawning of the next day, preparations for the great festival were begun.

[IV.]
THE LEGEND OF GUERNACHE.—CHAP. II.
THE FESTIVAL OF TOYA.

Being a continuation of the legend of Guernache; showing the superstitions of the Red-Men; how Guernache offended Captain Albert, and what followed from the secret efforts of the Frenchmen to penetrate the mysteries of Toya!

It would be difficult to say, from the imperfect narratives afforded us by the chroniclers, what were the precise objects of the present ceremonials;—what gods were to be invoked;—what evil beings implored;—what wrath and anger to be deprecated and diverted from the devoted tribes. As the Frenchmen received no explanation of their mystic preparations, so are we left unenlightened by their revelations. They do not even amuse us by their conjectures, and Laudonniere stops short in his narrative of what did happen, apologizing for having said so much on so trifling a matter. We certainly owe him no gratitude for his forbearance. What he tells us affords but little clue to the motive of their fantastic proceedings. The difficulty, which is at present ours, was not less that of Albert and his Frenchmen. They were compelled to behold the outlines of a foreign ritual whose mysteries they were not permitted to explore, and had their curiosity provoked by shows of a most exciting character, which only mocked their desires, and tantalized their appetites. On the first arrival of Albert, and after he had been rested and refreshed, Audusta himself had conducted him, with his followers, to the spot which had been selected for the ceremonies of the morrow. “This was a great circuit of ground with open prospect and round in figure.” Here they saw “many women roundabout, which labored by all means to make the place cleane and neate.” The ceremonies began early on the morning of the ensuing day. Hither they repaired in season, and found “all they which were chosen to celebrate the feast,” already “painted and trimmed with rich feathers of divers colours.” These led the way in a procession from the dwelling of Audusta to the “place of Toya.” Here, when they had come, they set themselves in new order under the guidance of three Indians, who were distinguished by plumes, paint, and a costume entirely superior to the rest. Each of them carried a tabret, to the plaintive and lamenting music of which they sang in wild, strange, melancholy accents; and, in slow measures, dancing the while, they passed gradually into the very centre of the sacred circle. They were followed by successive groups, which answered to their strains, and to whose songs they, in turn, responded with like echoes. This continued for awhile, the music gradually rising and swelling from the slow to the swift, from the sad to the passionate, while the moods of the actors and the spectators, also varying, the character of the scene changed to one of the wildest excitement. Suddenly, the characters—those who were chief officiators in this apparent hymn of fate—broke from the enchanted circle—darted through the ranks of the spectators, and dashed, headlong, with frantic cries, into the depths of the neighboring thickets. Then followed another class of actors. As if a sudden and terrible doom overhung the nation, the Indian women set up cries of grief and lamentation. Their passion grew to madness. In their rage, the mothers seized upon the young virgins of the tribe, and, with the sharp edges of muscle shells, they lanced their arms, till the blood gushed forth in free streams, which they eagerly flung into the air, crying aloud at every moment, “He-to-yah! He-to-yah! He-to-yah!”[11]

These ceremonies, though not more meaningless, perhaps, in the eyes of the Christian, than would be our most solemn religious proceedings in those of the Indian, provoked the laughter of Albert and some of his Frenchmen. This circumstance awakened the indignation of their excellent friend, Audusta. His displeasure was now still farther increased by a proceeding of Captain Albert. It was an attempt upon their mysteries. That portion of the officiating priesthood—their Iawas—who fled from the sacred enclosure to deep recesses of the woods, sought there for the prosecution, in secret, of rites too holy for the vulgar eye. Here they maintained their sanctum sanctorum. This was the place consecrated to the communion of the god with his immediate servants—the holy of holies, which it was death to penetrate or pass. Albert suffered his curiosity to get the better of his discretion. Offended by the laughter of the Frenchmen, at what they had already beheld, and fearing lest their audacity should lead them farther, the king, Audusta, had gathered them again within the royal wigwam, where he sought, by marked kindness and distinction, to make them forgetful of what had been denied. They had seen, as he told them, the more impressive portions of the ceremonial. There were others, but not of a kind to interest them. But the fact that there was something to conceal, stimulated the curiosity of Albert. In due degree with the king’s anxiety to keep his secret, was that of the French captain’s to fathom it. Holding a brief consultation with his men, accordingly, he declared his desire to this effect; and proposed, that one of their number should contrive to steal forth, and, finding his way to the forbidden spot, should place himself in such a position as would enable him to survey all the mysterious proceedings. To this course, Guernache frankly opposed his opinions. His greater intimacy with the red-men led him properly to conceive the danger which might ensue, from their discovery of the intrusion. He had been well taught by Monaletta, the degree of importance which they attached to the security of their mystic rites. Arguing with the honesty of his character, he warned his captain of the risk which such unbecoming curiosity would incur—the peril to the offender, himself, if detected; and the hazards to the colony from the loss of that friendship to which they had been already so largely indebted. But the counsels of Guernache were rejected with indignity. Prepared, already, to regard him with dislike and suspicion, Albert heard his suggestions only as so much impertinence; and rudely commanded him not to forget himself and place, nor to thrust his undesired opinions upon the consideration of gentlemen. The poor fellow was effectually silenced by this rebuke. He sank out of sight, and presumed no farther to advise. But the counsel was not wholly thrown away. Disregarded by Albert, it was caught up, and insisted on, by others, who had better conventional claims to be heard, and the proposition might have been defeated but for the ready interposition of one Pierre Renaud, a young fellow, who, perceiving the captain’s strong desire to seek out the mystery, and anxious to ingratiate himself with that person, boldly laughed at the fears of the objectors, and volunteered, himself, to defy the danger, in his own person, in order to gratify his chief. This silenced the controversy. Albert readily availed himself of the offer, and Pierre Renaud was commanded to try his fortune. This he did, and, notwithstanding the surveillance maintained over them by Audusta and his attendants, “he made such shift, that, by subtle meanes, he gotte out of the house of Audusta, and secretly went and hid himselfe behinde a very thick bush, where, at his pleasure, he might easily descry the ceremonies of the feaste.”

We will leave Renaud thus busy in his espionage, while we rehearse the manner in which the venerable Audusta proceeded to treat his company. A substantial feast was provided for them, consisting of venison, wild fowl, and fruits. Their breadstuffs were maize, batatas, and certain roots sodden first in water, and then prepared in the sun. A drink was prepared from certain other roots, which, though bitter, was refreshing and slightly stimulant. Our Frenchmen, in the absence of the beverages of Italy and France, did not find it unpalatable. They ate and drank with a hearty relish, which gratified the red-men, who lavished on them a thousand caresses. The feast was followed by the dance. In a spacious area, surrounded by great ranks of oaks, cedars, pines, and other trees, they assembled, men and women, in their gayest caparison. The men were tatooed and painted, from head to foot, and not inartistically, in the most glowing colors. Birds and beasts were figured upon their breasts, and huge, strange reptiles were made to coil up and around their legs and arms. From their waists depended light garments of white cotton, the skirts being trimmed with a thick fringe of red or scarlet. Some of them wore head-dresses consisting of the skins of snakes, or eagles, the panther or the wild cat, which, stuffed ingeniously, were made to sit erect above the forehead, and to look abroad, from their novel place of perch, in a manner equally natural and frightful. The women were habited in a similarly wild but less offensive manner. The taste which presided in their decorations, was of a purer and a gentler fashion. Their cheeks were painted red, their arms, occasionally but slightly tattooed, and sometimes the figure of a bird, a flower or a star, might be seen engrained upon the breast. A rather scanty robe of white cotton concealed, in some degree, the bosom, and extended somewhat below the knees. Around the necks of several, were hung thick strands of native pearls, partially discolored by the action of fire which had been employed to extricate them from the shells. Pearls were also mingled ingeniously with the long tresses of their straight, black hair; trailing with it, in not unfrequent instances, even to the ground. Others, in place of this more valuable ornament, wore necklaces, anklets and tiaras, formed wholly of one or other of the numerous varieties of little sea shells, by which, after heavy storms, the low and sandy shores of the country were literally covered. Strings of the same shell encircled the legs, which were sometimes of a shape to gratify the nicest exactions of the civilized standard. The forms of our Indian damsels were generally symmetrical and erect, their movements at once agile and graceful—their foreheads high, their lips thin, and, with a soft, persuasive expression, inclining to melancholy; while their eyes, black and bright, always shone with a peculiar forest fire that seemed happily to consort with their dark, but not unpleasing complexions. Well, indeed, with a pardonable vanity, might their people call them the “Daughters of the Sun.” He had made them his, by his warmest and fondest glances. These were the women, whose descendants, in after days, as Yemassees and Muscoghees and Seminoles, became the scourge of so large a portion of the Anglo-American race.

When the Frenchmen beheld this rude, but really brilliant assemblage, and saw what an attractive show the young damsels made, they were delighted beyond measure. Visions of the rout and revel, as enjoyed in La Belle France, glanced before their fancies; and the lively capering that followed among the young Huguenots, informed Captain Albert of the desire which was felt by all. In stern, compelling accents, he bade Guernache take his violin, and provide the music, while the rest prepared to dance. But Guernache excused himself, alleging the want of strings for his instrument. These were shown, in a broken state, to his commander. He had broken them, we may state en passant, for the occasion. His pride had been hurt by the treatment of his captain. He felt that the purpose of the latter was to degrade him. Such a performance as that required at his hands, was properly no part of his duty; and his proud spirit revolted at the idea of contributing, in any way, to the wishes of his superior, when the object of the latter was evidently his own degradation. Albert spoke to him testily, and with brows that did not seek to subdue or conceal their frowns. But Guernache was firm, and though he studiously forebore, by word or look, to increase the provocation which he had already given, he yet made no effort to pacify the imperious nature which he had offended. The excuse was such as could not but be taken. There was the violin, indeed, but there, also, were the broken strings. Albert turned from the musician with undisguised loathing; and the poor fellow sunk back with a secret presentiment of evil. He but too well knew the character of his superior.

Meanwhile, the red men had resort to their own primitive music. Their instruments consisted of simple reeds, which, bound together, were passed, to and fro, beneath the lips and discoursed very tolerable harmonies;—and a rude drum formed by stretching a raw deer skin over the mouth of a monstrous calabash, enabled them, when the skin had been contracted in the sun, to extort from it a very tolerable substitute for the music of the tambourine. There were other instruments, susceptible of sound if not of sweetness. Numerous damsels, none over fifteen, lithe and graceful, carried in their hands little gourds, which were filled with shells and pebbles, and tied over with skins, dried also in the sun. With these, as they danced, they kept time so admirably as might have charmed the most practised European master. Thus, all provided, some with the drum, and others with flute-like reeds and hollow, tinkling gourds, they only awaited the summons of their partners to the area. Shaking their tinkling gourds, as if in pretty impatience at the delay, the girls each waited, with anxious looks, the signal from her favorite.

The Frenchmen were not slow in seeking out their partners. At the word and signal of their captain, they dashed in among the laughing group of dusky maidens, each seeking for the girl whose beauties had been most grateful to his tastes. Nor was Captain Albert, himself, with all his pride and asceticism, unwilling to forget his dignity for a season, and partake of the rude festivities of the occasion. When, indeed, did mirth and music fail to usurp dominion in the Frenchman’s heart? Albert greedily cast his eyes about, seeking a partner, upon whom he might bestow his smiles. He was not slow in the selection. It so happened, that Monaletta, the spouse of Guernache, was not only one of the loveliest damsels present, but she was well known as the niece of King Audusta. Her beauty and royal blood, equally commended her to the favor of our captain. She stood apart from all the rest, stately and graceful as the cedar, not seeming to care for the merriment in which all were now engaged. There was a dash of sadness in her countenance. Her thoughts were elsewhere—her eyes scarcely with the assembly, when the approach of Albert startled her from her reverie. He came as Cæsar did, to certain conquest; and was about to take her hand, as a matter of course, when he was equally astounded and enraged to find her draw it away from his grasp.

“You will not dance with me, Monaletta?”

“No,” she answered him in broken French—“No dance with you—dance with him!” pointing to Guernache.

Speaking these words, she crossed the floor, with all the bold imprudence of a truly loving heart, to the place where stood our sorrowful and unhappy violinist. He had followed the movements of Albert, with looks of most serious apprehension, and his heart had sunk, with a sudden terror, when he saw that he approached Monaletta. The scene which followed, however grateful to his affections, was seriously calculated to arouse his fears. He feared for Monaletta, as he feared for himself. Nothing escaped him in the brief interview, and he saw, in the vindictive glances of Albert, the most evil auguries for the future. Yet how precious was her fondness to his heart! He half forgot his apprehensions as he felt her hand upon his shoulder, and beheld her eyes looking with appealing fondness up into his own. That glance was full of the sweetest consolation,—and said everything that was grateful to his terrified affections. She, too, had seen the look of hate and anger in the face of Albert, and she joyed in the opportunity of rebuking the one with her disdain, and of consoling the other with her sympathies. It was an unhappy error. Bitter, indeed, was the look with which the aroused and mortified Albert regarded the couple as they stood apart from all the rest. Guernache beheld this look. He knew the meaning of that answering glance of his superior which encountered his own. His looks were those of entreaty, of deprecation. They seemed to say, “I feel that you are offended, but I had no purpose or part in the offence.” His glance of humility met with no answering indulgence. It seemed, indeed, still farther to provoke his tyrant, who, advancing midway across the room, addressed him in stern, hissing accents, through his closed and almost gnashing teeth.

“Away, sirrah, to the pinnace! See that you remain in her until I summon you! Away!”

The poor fellow turned off from Monaletta. He shook himself free from the grasp which she had taken of his hand. He prepared to obey the wanton and cruel order, but he could not forbear saying reproachfully as he retired—

“You push me too hard, Captain Albert.”

“No words, sir! Away!” was the stern response. The submissive fellow instantly disappeared. With his disappearance, Albert again approached Monaletta, and renewed his application. But this time he met with a rejection even more decided than before. He looked to King Audusta; but an Indian princess, while she remains unmarried, enjoys a degree of social liberty which the same class of persons in Europe would sigh for and supplicate in vain. There were no answering sympathies in the king’s face, to encourage Albert in the prosecution of his suit. Nay, he had the mortification to perceive, from the expression of his countenance, that his proceedings towards Guernache—who was a general favorite—had afforded not more satisfaction to him, than they had done to Monaletta. It was, therefore, in no very pleasant mood with himself and those around him, that our captain consoled himself in the dance with the hand of an inferior beauty. Jealous of temper and frivolous of mind—characteristics which are frequently found together—Albert was very fond of dancing, and enjoyed the sport quite as greatly as any of his companions. But, even while he capered, his soul, stung and dissatisfied, was brooding vexatiously over its petty hurts. His thoughts were busied in devising ways to revenge himself upon the humble offender by whom his mortification originally grew. Upon this sweet and bitter cud did he chew while the merry music sounded in his ears, and the gaily twinkling feet of the dusky maidens were whirling in promiscuous mazes beneath his eye. But these festivities, and his own evil meditations, were destined to have an interruption as startling as unexpected.

While the mirth was at its highest, and the merriment most contagious, the ears of the assembly were startled by screams, the most terrible, of fright and anguish. The Frenchmen felt a nameless terror seizing upon them. The cries and shrieks were from an European throat. Wild was the discord which accompanied them,—whoops of wrath and vengeance, which, as evidently issued only from the throats of most infuriated savages. The music ceased in an instant. The dance was arrested. The Frenchmen rushed to their arms, fully believing that they were surrounded by treachery—that they had been beguiled to the feast only to become its victims. With desperate decision, they prepared themselves for the worst. While their suspense and fear were at their highest, the cause of the alarm and uproar soon became apparent to their eyes. Bursting, like a wounded deer, suddenly, from the woods by which the dwelling of Audusta was surrounded, a bloody figure, ghastly and spotted, appeared before the crowd. In another moment the Frenchmen recognized the spy, Pierre Renaud, who had volunteered to get at the heart of the Indian mysteries—to follow the priesthood to their sacred haunts, and gather all the secrets of their ceremonials.

We have already seen that he reached his place of watch in safety. But here his good fortune failed him: his place of espionage was not one of concealment. In the wild orgies of their religion,—for they seem to have practised rites not dissimilar to, and not less violent and terrible than those of the British Druids,—the priests darted over the crouching spy. Detected in the very act, where he lay, “squat like a toad,” the Iawas fell upon him with the sharp instruments of flint with which they had been lancing and lacerating their own bodies. With these they contrived, in spite of all his struggles and entreaties, to inflict upon him some very severe wounds. Their rage was unmeasured, and the will to slay him was not wanting. But Renaud was a fellow equally vigorous and active. He baffled their blows as well as he could, and at length breaking from their folds, he took fairly to his heels. Howling with rage and fury, they darted upon his track, their wild shrieks ringing through the wood like those of so many demons suffering in mortal agony. They cried to all whom they saw, to stay and slay the offender. Others joined in the chase, as they heard this summons. But fortune favored the fugitive. His terror added wings to his flight. He was not, it seems, destined to such a death as they designed him. He outran his pursuers, and, dodging those whom he accidentally encountered, he made his way into the thick of the area, where his comrades, half bewildered by the uproar, were breaking up the dance. He sank down in the midst of them, exhausted by loss of blood and fatigue, only a moment before the appearance of his pursuers.

The French instantly closed around their companion. They had not put aside their weapons, and they now prepared themselves to encounter the worst. The aspect of the danger was threatening in the last degree. The Iawas were boiling with sacred fury. They were the true rulers of their people. Their will was sovereign over the popular moods. They demanded, with violent outcry, the blood of the individual by whom their sacred retreats had been violated, and their shekinah polluted by vulgar and profane presence. They demanded the blood of all the Frenchmen, as participating in the crime. They called upon Audusta to assert his own privileges and theirs. They appealed to the people in a style of phrenzied eloquence, the effects of which were soon visible in the inflamed features and wild action of the more youthful warriors. Already were these to be seen slapping their sides, tossing their hands in air, and, with loud shrieks, lashing themselves into a fury like that which enflamed their prophets. King Audusta looked confounded. The Frenchmen were his guests. He had invited them to partake of his hospitality, and to enjoy the rites of his religion. He was in some sort pledged for their safety, though one of them had violated the conditions of their coming. His own feelings revolted at giving any sanction for the assault, yet he appeared unable or unwilling to resist the clamors of the priesthood. But he also demanded, though with evident reluctance, the blood of the offender. He was not violent, though urgent, in this demand. He showed indignation rather than hostility; and he gave Albert to understand that in no way could the people or the priesthood be appeased, unless by the sacrifice of the guilty person.

But Albert could not yield the victim. The French were prepared to perish to a man before complying with any such demand. They were firm. They fenced him in with their weapons, and declared their readiness to brave every peril ere they would abandon their comrade. This resolution was the more honorable, as Pierre Renaud was no favorite among them. Though seriously disquieted by the event, and apprehensive of the issue, Albert was man enough to second their spirit. Besides, Renaud had been his own emissary in the adventure which threatened to terminate so fatally. His denial was inferred from his deportment; and the clamor of the Indians was increased. The rage of the Iawas was renewed with the conviction that no redress was to be given them. Already had the young warriors of Audusta procured their weapons. More than an hundred of them surrounded our little band of Frenchmen, who were only thirteen in number. Bows were bent, lances were set in rest, javelins were seen lifted, and ready to be thrown; and the drum which had been just made to sound, in lively tones, for the dance, now gave forth the most dismal din, significant of massacre and war. Already were to be seen, in the hands of some more daring Indian than the rest, the heavy war-club, or the many-teethed macana, waving aloft and threatening momently to descend upon the victim; and nothing was wanting but a first blow to bring on a general massacre. Suddenly, at this perilous moment, the fiddle of Guernache was heard without; followed, in a moment after, by the appearance of the brave fellow himself. Darting in between the opposing ranks, attended by the faithful Monaletta, with a grand crash upon his instrument, now newly-strung, followed by a rapid gush of the merriest music, he took both parties by the happiest surprise, and instantly produced a revulsion of feeling among the savages as complete as it was sudden.

“Ami! ami! ami!” was the only cry from an hundred voices, at the reappearance of Guernache among them. They had acquired this friendly epithet among the first words which they had learned at their coming, from the French; and their affection for our fiddler had made its application to himself, in particular, a thing of general usage. He was their friend. He had shown himself their friend, and they had a faith in him which they accorded to no other of his people. The people were with him, and the priesthood not unfriendly. Time was gained by this diversion; and, in such an outbreak as that which has been described, time is all that is needful, perhaps, to stay the arm of slaughter. Guernache played out his tune, and cut a few pleasant antics, in which the now happy Monaletta, though of the blood royal, readily joined him. The musician had probably saved the party from massacre. The subsequent work of treaty and pacification was comparatively easy. Pierre Renaud was permitted to depart for the pinnace, under the immediate care of Guernache and Monaletta. The Iawas received some presents of gaudy costume, bells, and other gew-gaws, while a liberal gift of knives and beads gratified their warriors and their women. The old ties of friendship were happily reunited, and the calumet went round, from mouth to mouth, in token of restored confidence and renewed faith. Before nightfall, happily relieved from his apprehensions, Albert, with his detachment, was rapidly making his way with his pinnace, down the waters of the swiftly-rolling Edisto.

[V.]
THE LEGEND OF GUERNACHE.—CHAP. III.

The Legend of Guernache is continued, showing how the Fortress of the Huguenots was destroyed, and what happened thereafter to Guernache the Musician.

The fidelity which Guernache had shown in the recent difficulty with the Indians, did not appear to lessen in any degree the unfavorable impressions which Capt. Albert had received of that worthy fellow. Indeed, the recent and remarkable service which he had rendered, by which, in all probability, the whole party had been preserved from massacre, rather increased, if any thing, the hostile temper of his superior. The evil spirit still raged within the bosom of Capt. Albert, utterly baffling a judgment at no period of particular excellence, and blinding every honorable sentiment which might have distinguished him under other influences. He was now doubly mortified, that he should be supposed to owe his present safety to the person he had wronged—a mortification which found due increase as he remembered how much greater had been the respect and deference of the savages for his drummer than for himself. This recollection was a perpetual goad to that working malice in his heart, which was already busied in devising schemes of revenge, which were to salve his hurts of pride and vanity, by the sufferings as well as humiliation of his subordinate. It will scarcely be believed that, when fairly out of sight of the village of Audusta, he rebuked Guernache sharply, for leaving the pinnace against his orders, and even spoke of punishing him for this disobedience.[12] But the murmurs of some of his officers, and, perhaps, a little lurking sentiment of shame in his own bosom, prevented him from attempting any such disgraceful proceeding. But the feeling of hostility only rankled the more because of its suppression, and he soon contrived to show Guernache and, indeed, everybody besides, that from that hour he was his most bitter and unforgiving enemy, with a little and malignant spirit, he employed various petty arts, which a superior of a base nature may readily command on all occasions, by which to make the poor fellow feel how completely he was at his mercy; and each day exposed him to some little snare, or some stern caprice, by which Guernache became involuntarily an offender. His tyrant subjected him to duties the most troublesome and humiliating, while denying, or stinting him of all those privileges which were yet commonly accorded to his comrades. But all this would have been as nothing to Guernache, if he had not been denied permission to visit, as before, the hamlet of Audusta, where his princess dwelt. On the miserable pretext that the priesthood might revenge upon him the misconduct of Renaud, Albert insisted upon his abstaining wholly from the Indian territories. But this pretence deceived nobody, and nobody less than Guernache. Little did the petty tyrant of Fort Charles imagine that the object of his malice enjoyed a peculiar source of consolation for all these privations. His comrades were his friends. They treated him with a warmth and kindness, studiously proportioned to the ill-treatment of his superior. They assisted him in the severer tasks which were allotted him to fulfil—gave him their company whenever this was possible, while he was engaged in the execution of his most cheerless duties, and soothed his sorrows by the expression of their almost unanimous sympathies. Nor did they always withhold their bitter denunciations of the miserable despotism under which he suffered, and which they feared. Dark hints of remedy were spoken, brows frowned at the mention of the wrongs of their companion, and the head shaken ominously, when words of threatening significance were uttered—appealed gratefully to certain bitter desires which had taken root in the mind of the victim. But these sympathies, though grateful, were of small amount in comparison with another source of consolation, which contributed to sustain Guernache in his tribulation. This was found in the secret companionship of his young and beautiful Indian wife. Denied to see him at the village of Audusta, the fond and fearless woman determined to seek him at all hazards in his own domain. She stole away secretly to the fortress of the Huguenots. Long and earnest was the watch which she maintained upon its portals, from the thickets of the neighboring wood. Here, vigilant as the sentinel that momently expects his foe, she harbored close, in waiting for the beloved one. Her quick instincts had already taught her the true cause of his denial, and of her disappointment; and her Indian lessons had made that concealment, which she now believed to be necessary to her purpose, a part of the habitual policy of her people. She showed herself to none of the people of the fortress. She suspected them all; she had no faith but in the single one. And he, at length, came forth, unaccompanied, in the prosecution of an occasional labor—that of cutting and procuring wood. She suffered him to make his way into the forests—to lose sight of the fortress, and, with a weary spirit and a wounded soul, to begin his lonely labors with the axe. Then did she steal behind him, and beside him; and when he moaned aloud—supposing that he had no auditor—how startling fell upon his ear the sweet, soft whisper of that precious voice which he had so lovingly learned to distinguish from all others. He turned with a gush of rapturous delight, and, weeping, she rushed into his arms, pouring forth, in a wild cry, upon his breast, the whole full volume of her warm, devoted heart!

That moment, in spite of all his fears, was amply compensative to Guernache for all his troubles. He forgot them all in the intensity of his new delights. And when Monaletta led him off from his tasks to the umbrageous retreat in the deeper woods where her nights had been recently passed,—when she conducted him to the spot where her own hands had built a mystic bower for her own shelter—when she declared her purpose still to occupy this retreat, in the solitude alone,—that she might be ever near him, to behold him at a distance, herself unseen, when he came forth accompanied by others—to join him, to feel his embrace, hear his words of love, and assist him in his labors when he came forth unattended—when, speaking and promising thus, she lay upon the poor fellow’s bosom, looking up with tearful and bright eyes in his wan and apprehensive countenance—then it was that he could forget his tyrant—could lose his fears and sorrows in his love, and in the enjoyment of moments the most precious to his heart, forget all the accompanying influences which might endanger his safety.

But necessity arose sternly between the two, and pointed to the exactions of duty. The tasks of Guernache were to be completed. His axe was required to sound among the trees of the forest, and a certain number of pieces of timber were required by sunset at his hands. It was surprising as it was sweet to behold the Indian woman as she assisted him in his tasks. Her strength did not suffice for the severer toils of the wood-cutter, but she contrived a thousand modes for contributing to his performances. Love lightens every labor, and invents a thousand arts by which to do so. Monaletta anticipated the wants of Guernache. She removed the branches as he smote them, she threw the impediments from his way,—helped him to lift and turn the logs as each successive side was to be hewn. She brought him water, when he thirsted, from the spring. She spoke and sung to him in the most encouraging voice when he was weary. He was never weary when with her.

Guernache combatted her determination to remain in the neighborhood of the fortress; but his objections were feebly urged, and she soon overcame them. He had not the courage to insist upon his argument, as he had not the strength to resist the consolations which her presence brought him. She soon succeeded in assuring him that there was little or no danger of detection by their enemy. She laughed at the idea of the Frenchmen discovering her place of concealment, surprising her in her progress through the woods, or overtaking her in flight; and Guernache knew enough of Indian subtlety readily to believe that the white was no match for the dusky race in the exercise of all those arts which are taught by forest life. “But her loneliness and privation, exposed to the season’s changes, and growing melancholy in the absence from old associates?” But how could she be lonely, was her argument, when near the spot where he dwelt—when she could see and hear and speak with him occasionally? She wished no other communion. As for the exposure of her present abode, was it greater than that to which the wandering life of the red-man subjects his people at all seasons? The Indian woman is quite as much at home in the forest as the Indian warrior. She acquires her resources of strength and dexterity in his company, and by the endurance of similar necessities and the employment of like exercises. She learns even in childhood to build her own green bower at night, to gather her own fuel, light her own fire, dress her own meat—nay, provide it; and, weaponed with bow, and javelin and arrow, bring down buck or doe bounding at full speed through the wildest forests. Her skill and spirit are only not equal to those of the master by whom she is taught, but she acquires his arts to a degree which makes her sometimes worthy to be lifted by the tribe from her own rank into his. Monaletta reminded Guernache of all these things. She had the most conclusive and convincing methods of argument. She reassured him on all his doubts, and, in truth, it was but too easy to do so. It was unhappy for them both, as we shall see hereafter, that the selfish passion of the poor musician too readily reconciled him to a self-devotion on the part of his wife, which subjected her to his own perils, and greatly tended to their increase. With the evil eye of Albert upon him, he should have known that safety was impossible for him in the event of error. And error was inevitable now, with the pleasant tempter so near his place of coventry. We must not wonder to discover now that Guernache seldom sleeps within the limits of the fortress. At midnight, when all is dark and quiet, he leaps over the walls, those nights excepted when it is his turn of duty to watch within. His secret is known to some of his comrades; but they are too entirely his friends to betray him to a despot who had, by this time, outraged the feelings of most of those who remained under his command. Guernache was now enabled to bear up more firmly than ever against the tyranny of Albert. His, indeed, were nights of happiness. How sweetly sped the weeks, in which, despite his persecutions, he felt that he enjoyed a life of luxurious pleasures, such as few enjoy in any situation. His were the honest excitements of a genuine passion, which, nourished by privation and solitude, and indulged in secresy, was of an intensity corresponding with the apparent denial, and the real embarrassments of such a condition. His pleasures were at once stolen and legitimate; the apprehension which attends their pursuit giving a wild zest to their enjoyment; though, in the case of Guernache, unlike that of most of those who indulge in stolen joys, they were honest, and left no cruel memories behind them.

It was the subject of a curious study and surprise to Captain Albert, that our musician was enabled to bear up against his tyranny with so much equal firmness and forbearance. He watched the countenance of Guernache, whenever they met, with a curious interest. By what secret resource of fortitude and hope was it that he could command so much elasticity, exhibit so much cheerfulness, bear with so much meekness, and utter no complaint. He wondered that the irksome duties which he studiously thrust upon him, and the frequently brutal language with which his performances were acknowledged, seemed to produce none of the cruel effects which he desired. His victim grew neither sad nor sullen. His violin still was heard resounding merrily at the instance of his comrades; and still his hearty, whole-souled laughter rang over the encampment, smiting ungraciously upon the senses of his basely-minded chief. In vain did this despot study how to increase and frame new annoyances for his subordinate. His tyranny contrived daily some new method to make the poor fellow unhappy. But, consoled by the peculiar secret which he possessed, of sympathy and comfort, the worthy drummer bore up cheerfully under his afflictions. He was resolved to wait patiently the return of Ribault with the promised supplies for the colony, and meanwhile to submit to his evil destiny without a murmur. It was always with a secret sense of triumph that he reminded himself of the near neighborhood of his joys, and he exulted in the success with which he could baffle nightly the malice of his superior. But, however docile, the patience and forbearance of Guernache availed him little. They did not tend to mitigate the annoyances which he was constantly compelled to endure. We are now to recall a portion of the preceding narrative, and to remind our reader of the visit which Captain Albert paid to the territories of Ouade, and the generous hospitalities of the King thereof. Guernache had been one of the party, and the absence of several days had been a serious loss to him in the delightful intercourse with his dusky bride. He might naturally hope, after his return from a journey so fatiguing, to be permitted a brief respite from his regular duties. But this was not according to the policy of his malignant superior. Some hours were consumed after arriving at the fort, in disposing of the provisions which had been obtained. In this labor Guernache had been compelled to partake with others of his companions. Whether it was that he betrayed an unusual degree of eagerness in getting through his task—showing an impatience to escape which his enemy detected and resolved to baffle, cannot now be said; but to his great annoyance and indignation, he was burdened with a portion of the watch for the night—a duty which was clearly incumbent only upon those who had not shared in the fatigues of the expedition. But to expostulate or repine was alike useless, and Guernache submitted to his destiny with the best possible grace. The provisions were stored, the gates closed, the watches set, and the garrison sunk to sleep, leaving our unhappy musician to pace, for several hours, the weary watch along the ramparts. How he looked forth into the dense forests which harbored his Monaletta! How he thought of the weary watch she kept! What were her fears, her anxieties? Did she know of his return? Did she look for his coming? The garrison slept—the woods were mysteriously silent! How delightful it would be to surprise her in the midst of her dreams, and answer to her murmurs of reproach—uttered in the sweetest fragmentary Gallic—“Monaletta! I am here! Here is your own Guernache!”

The temptation was perilously sweet! The suggestion was irresistible; and, in a moment of excited fancy and passion, Guernache laid down his piece, and leaped the walls of the fortress. He committed an unhappy error to enjoy a great happiness, for which the penalties were not slow to come. In the dead of midnight, the garrison, still in a deep sleep, they were suddenly aroused in terror by the appalling cry of “fire!” The fort, the tenements in which they slept, the granary, which had just been stored with their provisions, were all ablaze, and our Frenchmen woke in confusion and terror, unknowing where to turn, how to work, or what to apprehend. Their military stores were saved—their powder and munitions of war—but the “mils and beanes,” so recently acquired from the granaries of King Ouade, with the building that contained them, were swept in ashes to the ground.

This disaster, full of evil in itself, was productive of others, as it led to the partial discovery of the secret of our drummer. Guernache was not within the fort when the alarm was given. It is not improbable that, had he not left his post, the conflagration would have been arrested in time to save the fort and its provisions. His absence was noted, and he was discovered, approaching from the forests, by those who bore forth the goods as they were rescued from the flames. These were mostly friends of Guernache, who would have maintained a generous silence; but, unhappily, Pierre Renaud was also one of the discoverers. This person not only bore him no good will,—though gratitude for the service rendered him at the feast of Toya should have bound him forever to the cause of Guernache,—but he was one who had become a gross sycophant and the mere creature of the governor. He knew the hatred which the latter bore to Guernache, and a sympathizing nature led him promptly to divine the cause. Overjoyed with the discovery which he had made, the base fellow immediately carried the secret to his master, and when the first confusion was over, which followed the disaster, Guernache was taken into custody, and a day assigned for his trial as a criminal. To him was ascribed the fire as well as desertion from his post. The latter fact was unquestionable—the former was inferred. It might naturally be assumed, indeed, that, if the watch had not been abandoned, the flames could not have made such fearful headway. It was fortunate for our Frenchmen that the intercourse maintained with the Indians had been of such friendly character. With the first intimation of their misfortune, the kings, Audusta and Maccou, bringing with them a numerous train of followers, came to assist them in the labor of restoration and repair. “They uttered unto their subjects the speedy diligence which they were to use in building another house, showing unto them that the Frenchmen were their loving friends and that they had made it evident unto them by the gifts and presents which they had received;—protesting that he whosoever put not his helping hand to the worke with all his might, should be esteemed as unprofitable.” The entreaties and commands of the two kings were irresistible. But for this, our Huguenots, “being farre from all succours, and in such extremitie,” would have been, in the language of their own chronicler, “quite and cleane out of all hope.” The Indians went with such hearty good will to the work, and in such numbers, that, in less than twelve hours, the losses of the colonists were nearly all repaired. New houses were built; new granaries erected; and, among the fabrics of this busy period, it was not forgotten to construct a keep—a close, dark, heavy den of logs, designed as a prison, into which, as soon as his Indian friends had departed, our poor fiddler, Guernache, was thrust, neck and heels! The former were rewarded and went away well satisfied with what they had seen and done. They little conjectured the troubles which awaited their favorite. He was soon brought to trial under a number of charges—disobedience of orders, neglect of duty, desertion of his post, and treason! To all of these, the poor fellow pleaded “not guilty;” and, with one exception, with a good conscience. But he had not the courage to confess the truth, and to declare where he had been, and on what mission, when he left the fort, on the night of the fire. He had committed a great fault, the consequences of which were serious, and might have been still more so; and the pleas of invariable good conduct, in his behalf, and the assertion of his innocence of all evil intention, did not avail. His judges were not his friends; he was found guilty and remanded to his dungeon, to await the farther caprices and the judgment of his enemy.

[VI.]
THE LEGEND OF GUERNACHE.—CHAP. IV.
THE DUNGEON AND THE SCOURGE.

Being the continuation of the melancholy Legend of Guernache.

The absence of Guernache from his usual place of meeting with Monaletta, brought the most impatient apprehension to the heart of the devoted woman. As the time wore away—as night after night passed without his coming, she found the suspense unendurable, and gradually drew nigh to the fortress of the Huguenots. More than once had he cautioned her against incurring a peril equally great to them both. But her heart was already too full of fears to be restrained by such dangers as he alone could have foreseen; and she now lurked about the fort at nightfall, and continued to hover around long after dawn, keeping watch upon its walls and portal. So close and careful, however, was this watch, that she herself remained undetected. One day, however, to her great satisfaction, one of the inmates came forth whom she knew to be a friend and associate of Guernache. This was one Lachane, affectionately called La Chere[13] by the soldiery, by whom he was very much beloved. Lachane was a sergeant, a good soldier, brave as a lion, but with as tender a heart, when the case required it, as ever beat in human bosom. He had long since learned to sympathize with the fate of Guernache, and had made frequent attempts to mollify the hostile feelings of his captain, in behalf of his friend. To the latter he had given much good counsel; and, but for his earnest entreaties and injunctions, he would have revealed to Albert the true reason for the absence of Guernache from his post. But Guernache dreaded, as well he might, that the revelation would only increase the hate and rage of his superior, and, perhaps, draw down a portion of his vengeance upon the head of the unoffending woman. Lachane acquiesced in his reasoning, and was silent. But he was not the less active in bringing consolation, whenever he could, to the respective parties. He afforded to Monaletta, whose approach to the fort he suspected, an opportunity of meeting with him; and their interviews, once begun, were regularly continued. Day by day he contrived to convey to her the messages, and to inform her of the condition of the prisoner; to whom, in turn, he bore all necessary intelligence, and every fond avowal which was sent by Monaletta. But the loving and devoted wife was not satisfied with so frigid a mode of intercourse; and, in an evil hour, Lachane, whose own heart was too tender to resist the entreaties of one so fond, was persuaded to admit her within the fort, and into the dungeon of Guernache. We may censure his prudence and hers, but who shall venture to condemn either? The first visit led to a second, the second to a third, and, at length, the meetings between the lovers took place nightly. Lachane, often entreating, often exhorting, was yet always complying. Monaletta was admitted at midnight, and conducted forth by the dawn in safety; and thus meeting, Guernache soon forgot his own danger, and was readily persuaded by Monaletta to believe that she stood in none. The hours passed with them as with any other children, who, sitting on the shores of the sea, in the bright sunset, see not the rising of the waters, and feel not the falling of the night, until they are wholly overwhelmed. They were happy, and in their happiness but too easily forgot that there was such a person as Captain Albert in their little paradise.

But the pitcher which goes often to the well, is at last broken. They were soon destined to realize the proverb in their own experience. Something in the movements of Lachane, awakened the suspicions of Pierre Renaud, whose active hostility to Guernache has been shown already. This man now bore within the fortress the unenviable reputation of being the captain’s spy upon the people. This miserable creature, his suspicion’s once awakened, soon addressed all his abilities to the task of detecting the connection of Lachane with his prisoner; and it was not long before he had the malignant satisfaction of seeing him accompany another into the dungeon of Guernache. Though it was after midnight when the discovery was made, it was of a kind too precious to suffer delay in revealing it, and he hurried at once to the captain’s quarters, well aware that, with such intelligence as he brought, he might safely venture to disturb him at any hour. But his eagerness did not lessen his caution, and every step was taken with the greatest deliberation and care. Albert was immediately aroused; but, unwilling, by a premature alarm, to afford the offenders an opportunity to escape, or to place themselves in any situation to defy scrutiny, some time was lost in making arrangements. The progress of Albert, and his satellites, going the rounds, was circuitous. The sentries were doubled with singular secrecy and skill. Such soldiers as were conceived to be most particularly bound to him, were awakened, and placed in positions most convenient for action and observation;—for Albert and Renaud, alike, conscious as it would seem of their own demerits, had come to suspect many of the soldiers of treachery and insurrection. These, perhaps, are always the fears most natural to a tyranny. Accordingly, with everything prepared for an explosion of the worst description, Captain Albert, in complete armor, made his appearance upon the scene.

Meantime, however, the proceedings of Renaud had not been carried on without, at length, commanding the attention and awakening the fears of so good a soldier as Lachane. Having discovered, on his rounds, that the guards were doubled, and that the sentinel at the sally-port had not only received a companion, but that the individual by whom Monaletta had been admitted was now removed to make way for another, he hurried away to the dungeon of Guernache. Here, whispering hurriedly his apprehensions, he endeavored to hasten the departure of the Indian woman. But his efforts were made too late. He was arrested, even while thus busied, by the Commandant himself, who, followed by Renaud and two other soldiers, suddenly came upon him from the rear of the building, where they had been harboring in ambush. Lachane was taken into immediate custody. An uproar followed, the alarm was given to the garrison, torches were brought, and Guernache, with the devoted Monaletta, were dragged forth together from the dungeon. She was wrapped up closely in the cloak of Lachane, but when Renaud waved a torch before her eyes, in order to discover who she was, she boldly threw aside the disguise, and stood revealed to the malignant scrutiny of the astonished but delighted despot. Upon beholding her, the fury of Albert knew no bounds. The secret of Guernache was now apparent; and the man whose vanity she had outraged, by preferring another in the dance, was now in full possession of the power to revenge himself upon both offenders. In that very moment, remembering his mortification, he formed a resolution of vengeance, which declared all the venom of a mean and malignant nature. He needed no art beyond his own to devise an ingenious torture for his victim. A few words sufficed to instruct the willing Renaud in the duty of the executioner. He commanded that the Indian woman should be scourged from the fort in the presence of the garrison. Then it was that the sullen soul of Guernache shuddered and succumbed beneath his tortures. With husky and trembling accents, he appealed to his tyrant in behalf of the woman of his heart.

“Oh! Captain Albert, as you are a man, do not this cruel thing. Monaletta is innocent of any crime but that of loving one so worthless as Guernache. She is my wife! Do with me as you will, but spare her—have mercy on the innocent woman!”

“Ah! you can humble yourself now, insolent. I have found the way, at last, to make you feel. You shall feel yet more. I will crush you to the dust. What, ho! there, Pierre Renaud! Have I not said? the lash! the lash! Wherefore do ye linger?”

“Do not, Captain Albert! I implore you, for your own sake, do not lay the accursed lash upon this young and innocent creature. Remember! She is a woman—a princess—a blood relation of our good friend, King Audusta. Upon me—upon my back bestow the punishment, but spare her—spare her, in mercy!”

But the prayers and supplications of the wretched man were met only by denunciation and scorn. The base nature of Albert felt only his own mortification. His appetite for revenge darkened his vision wholly. He saw neither his policy nor humanity; and the creatures of his will were not permitted to hesitate in carrying out his brutal resolution. Armed with little hickories from the neighboring woods, they awaited but his command, and with its repeated utterance, the lash descended heavily upon the uncovered shoulders of the unhappy woman. With the first stroke, she bounded from the earth with a piercing shriek, at once of entreaty, of agony, and horror. Up to this moment, neither she, nor, indeed, any of the spectators, except Renaud, and possibly Guernache himself, had imagined that Albert would put in execution a purpose so equally impolitic and cruel. But when the blow fell upon the almost fair and naked shoulders of the woman—when her wild, girlish, almost childlike shriek rent the air, then the long suppressed agonies of Guernache broke forth in a passion of fury that looked more like the excess of the madman than the mere ebullition, however intense, of a simply desperate man. He had struggled long at endurance. He had borne, hitherto, without flinching, everything in the shape of penalty which his petty tyrant could fasten upon him—much more, indeed, than the ordinary nature, vexed with frequent injustice, is willing to endure. But, in the fury and agony of that humiliating moment, all restraints of prudence or fear were forgotten, or trampled under foot. He flung himself loose from the men who held him, and darting upon the individual by whom the merciless blow had been struck, he felled him to the earth by a single blow of his Herculean fist. But he was permitted to do no more. In another instant, grappled by a dozen powerful arms, he was borne to the earth, and secured with cords which not only bound his limbs but were drawn so tightly as to cut remorselessly into the flesh. Here he lay, and his agony may be far more easily conceived than described, thus compelled to behold the further tortures of the woman of his heart, without being able to struggle and to die in her defence. His own tortures were forgotten, as he witnessed hers. In vain would his ears have rejected the terrible sound, stroke upon stroke, which testified the continuance of this brutal outrage upon humanity. Without mercy was the punishment bestowed; and, bleeding at every blow from the biting scourge, the wretched innocent was at length tortured out of the garrison. But with that first shriek to which she gave utterance, and which declared rather the mental horror than the bodily pain which she suffered from such a cruel degradation, she ceased any longer to acknowledge her suffering. Oh! very powerful for endurance is the strength of a loving heart! The rest of the punishment she bore with the silence of one who suffers martyrdom in the approving eye of heaven; as if, beholding the insane agonies of Guernache, she had steeled herself to bear with any degree of torture rather than increase his sufferings by her complaints. In this manner, and thus silent under her own pains, she was expelled from the fortress. She was driven to the margin of the cleared space by which it was surrounded. She heard the shouts which drove her thence, and heard nothing farther. She had barely strength to totter forward, like the deer with a mortal hurt, to the secret cover of the forest, when she sank down in exhaustion;—nature kindly interposing with insensibility, to save her from those physical sufferings which she could no longer feel and live!

With the morning of the next day, Guernache was brought before the judgment-seat of Albert. The charges were sufficiently serious under which he was arraigned. He had neglected his duty—had permitted, if not caused, the destruction of the fort by fire—had violated the laws, resisted their execution, and used violence against the officer of justice! In this last proven offence all of these which had been alleged were assumed against him. He was convicted by the rapid action of his superior, as a traitor and a mutineer; and, to the horror of his friends, and the surprise of all his comrades, was condemned to expiate his faults by death upon the gallows. Few of the garrison had anticipated so sharp a judgment. They knew that Guernache had been faulty, but they also knew what had been his provocations. They felt that his faults had been the fruit of the injustice under which he suffered. But they dared not interpose. The prompt severity with which Captain Albert carried out his decisions—the merciless character of his vindictiveness—discouraged even remonstrance. Guernache, as we have shown, was greatly beloved, and had many true friends among his people; but they were taken by surprise; and, so much stunned and confounded by the rapidity with which events had taken place, that they could only look on the terrible proceedings with a mute and self-reproachful horror. The transition from the seat of judgment to the place of execution was instantaneous. Guernache appealed in vain to the justice of Ribault, whose coming from France was momently expected. This denied, he implored the less ignoble doom of the sword or the shot, in place of that upon the scaffold. But it did not suit the mean malice of Albert to omit any of his tortures. Short was the shrift allowed the victim;—ten minutes for prayer—and sure the cord which stifled it forever. In deep horror, in a hushed terror, which itself was full of horror, his gloomy comrades gathered at the place of execution, by the commands of their petty despot. There was no concert among them, by which the incipient indignation and fury in their bosoms might have declared itself in rescue and commotion. One groan, the involuntary expression of a terror that had almost ceased to breathe, answered the convulsive motion which indicated the last struggle of their beloved comrade.[14] Then it was that they began to feel that they could have died for him, and might have saved him. But it was now too late; and prudence timely interposed to prevent a rash explosion. The armed myrmidons of Albert were about them. He, himself, in complete armor, with his satellite, Pierre Renaud, also fully armed, standing beside him; and it was evident that every preparation had been made to quell insubordination, and punish the refractory with as sharp and sudden a judgment as that which had just descended upon their comrade.

The poor Monaletta, crouching in the cover of the woods, recovered from her stupor in the cool air of the morning, but it was sunset before she could regain the necessary strength to move. Then it was, that, with the natural tendency of a loving heart, curious only about the fate of him for whom alone her heart desired life, she bent her steps towards that cruel fortress which had been the source of so much misery to both. Very feeble and slow was her progress, but it was still too rapid; it brought her too soon to a knowledge of that final blow which fell, with worse terrors than the scourge, upon the soul. She arrived in season to behold the form of the unfortunate Guernache, abandoned by all, and totally lifeless, waving in the wind from the branches of a perished oak, directly in front of the fortress. The deepest sorrows of the heart are those which are born dumb. There are some woes which the lip can never speak, nor the pen describe. There are some agonies over which we draw the veil without daring to look upon them, lest we freeze to stone in the terrible inspection. There is no record of that grief which seized upon the heart of the poor Indian woman, Monaletta, as she gazed upon the beloved but unconscious form of her husband. She approached it not, though watching it from sunset till the gray twilight lapsed away into the denser shadows of the night. But, with the dawn of day, when the Frenchmen looked forth from the fortress for the body of their comrade, it had disappeared. They searched for it in vain. From that day Monaletta disappeared also. She was neither to be found in the neighboring woods, nor among the people of her kindred. But, long afterwards they told, with shuddering and apprehension, of a voice upon the midnight air, which resembled that of their murdered comrade, followed always by the piercing shriek of a woman, which reminded them of the dreadful utterance of the Indian woman, when first smitten upon the shoulders by the lash of the ruffian. Thus endeth the legend of Guernache, and the Princess Monaletta.

[VII.]
LACHANE, THE DELIVERER.

But the sacrifice of Guernache brought no peace to the colony. Our Huguenots were scarcely Christians. They were of a rude, wild temper, to which the constant civil wars prevailing in France had brought a prejudicial training. Our chronicler tells us nothing of their devotions. We hear sometimes that they prayed, but rather for the benefit of the savages than their own. Their public religious services were ostentatious ceremonials, designed to impress the red-men with an idea of their superior faith and worship. Laudonniere, who writes for them, and was one of their number, seldom deals in a religious phraseology, which he might reasonably be expected to have done as one of a people leaving their homes for the sake of conscience. But there is good reason to suppose that, with our Huguenots, as in the case of the New England Puritans, the idea of religion was more properly the idea of party. It was a struggle for political power that moved the Dissenters, as well in France as England, quite as much as any feeling of denial or privation on the score of their religion. This pretext was made to justify a cause which might have well found its sanction in its intrinsic merits; but which it was deemed politic to urge on the higher grounds of conscience and duty to God. Certain it is that we do not anywhere see, in the history of the colony established by Coligny, any proofs of that strong devotional sentiment which has been urged as the motive to its establishment. Doubtless, this was a prevailing motive, along with others, for Coligny himself; but the adventurers chosen to begin the settlement for the reception of the persecuted sect in Florida, were evidently not very deeply imbued with religion of any kind. They were a wild and reckless body of men, whose deeds were wholly in conflict with the pure and lovely profession of sentiment which has been made in their behalf. How far their deeds are to be justified by the provocations which they received, and the tyrannies which they endured, may be a question; but there can be no question with regard to the general temper which they exhibited—the tone of their minds—the feelings of their hearts—by all of which they are shown as stubborn, insubordinate and selfish. It is not denied that they had great provocation to violence; but Laudonniere himself admits that they were, in all probability, “not so obedient to their captain as they should have been.” “Misfortune,” he adds, “or rather the just judgment of God would have it that those which could not bee overcome by fire nor water, should be undone by their ownselves. This is the common fashion of men, which cannot continue in one state, and had rather to overthrow themselves, than not to attempt some new thing dayly.”

Not only was no peace in the colony after the execution of Guernache, but the evil spirit, in the mood of Captain Albert, was very far from being laid. “His madness,” in the language of the chronicler, “seemed to increase from day to day.” He was not content to punish Guernache; he determined to extend his severities to the friends and associates of the unhappy victim. Some of these he only frowned upon and threatened; but his threats were apt to be fulfilled. Others he brought up for punishment;—sympathy with his enemy, being a prime offence against the dignity and safety of our petty sovereign. Among those who had thus rendered themselves obnoxious, Lachane was necessarily a conspicuous object. In the same unwise and violent spirit in which he had pursued Guernache, Captain Albert was determined to proceed against this man, who was really equally inoffensive with Guernache, and quite as much beloved among the people. But the aspect of the two cases was not precisely the same. The friends of Lachane, warned by the fate of Guernache, were somewhat more upon their guard,—more watchful and suspicious,—and inclined to make the support and maintenance of the one, a tribute to the manes of the other. Besides, Pierre Renaud, who had some how been the deadly enemy of Guernache, had no hostility to Lachane. The latter, too, had not so singularly offended the amour propre of Captain Albert, by his successful rivalry among the damsels of Audusta. They had not so decidedly shown the preference for him as they had for the fiddler, over his superior. No doubt he was preferred, for he, too, like Guernache, was a person very superior in form and physiognomy to Albert. But, if they felt any preference for the former, they had not so offensively declared it, as the indiscreet Monaletta had done; and, with these qualifying circumstances, in his favor, Lachane was brought up for judgment. His offence, such as it was, did not admit of denial. Some palliation was attempted by a reference to the claims of Guernache, the excellence of his character, his usefulness, and the general favor he had found equally among the red-men and his own people. These suggestions were unwisely made. They censured equally the justice and the policy of the tyrant, and thus irritated anew his self-esteem. He thought himself exceedingly merciful, accordingly, in banishing the offender, whom it was just as easy and quite as agreeable to him, to hang. Lachane was accordingly sentenced to perpetual exile to a desert island along the sea. To this point he was conducted in melancholy state, by the trusted creatures of the despot.

It is not known to us at the present day, though the matter is still, probably, within the province of the antiquarian, to which of the numerous sea islands of the neighborhood the unhappy man was banished. It was one divided from the colony, and from the main, by an arm of the sea of such breadth, and so open to the most violent action of the waves, that any return of the exile by swimming, or without assistance from his comrades, was not apprehended or hoped for. His little desolate domain is described as about three leagues from Fort Charles, as almost entirely barren, a mere realm of sand, treeless and herbless, without foliage sufficient to shelter from sun and storm, or to provide against famine by its fruits. Should this island ever be identified with that of Lachane’s place of exile, it should receive his name to the exclusion of every other.

Here, then, hopeless and companionless, was the unhappy victim destined to remain, until death should bring him that escape which the mercy of his fellows had denied. Yet he was not to be abandoned wholly; a certain pittance of provisions was allowed him that he might not absolutely die of famine. This allowance was calculated nicely against his merest necessities. It was to be brought him on the return of every eighth day, and this period was that, accordingly, on which, alone, could he be permitted to gaze upon the face of a fellow being and a countryman.

Certainly, a more cruel punishment, adopted in a mere wanton exercise of despotic power, could not have been devised for any victim by the ingenuity of any superior. Death, even the death by which Guernache had perished, had been a doom more merciful; for if, as was the case, the colonists at Fort Charles themselves had already begun to find their condition of solitude almost beyond endurance—if they, living as they did together, cheered by the exercise of old sports and homely converse, the ties and assurances of support and friendship, the consciousness of strength—duties which were necessary and not irksome, and the interchange of thoughts which enliven the desponding temper;—if, with all these resources in their favor, they had sunk into gloomy discontent, eager for change, and anxious for the returning vessels of Ribault, that they might abandon for their old, the new home which they found so desolate; what must have been the sufferings and agonies of him whom they had thus banished, even from such solace as they themselves possessed—uncheered even by the familiar faces and the well-known voices of his fellows, and deprived of all the resources whereby ingenuity might devise some methods of relief, and totally unblessed by any of those exercises which might furnish a substitute for habitual employments. No sentence, more than this, could have shown to our Frenchmen so completely the utter absence of sympathy between themselves and their commander; could have shown how slight was the value which he put upon their lives, and with what utter contempt he regarded their feelings and affections. Albert little dreamed how actively he was at work, while thus feeding his morbid passions, in arousing the avenging spirit by which they were to be scourged and punished.

These rash and cruel proceedings of their chief produced a great and active sensation among the colonists—a sensation not the less deep and active, because a sense of their own danger kept them from its open expression. Had Albert pardoned Lachane, or let him off with some slight punishment, it is not improbable that the matter would have ended there; and the cruel proceedings against Guernache might have been forgiven if not forgotten. But these were kept alive by those which followed against their other favorite; and some of the boldest, feeling how desperate their condition threatened to become, now ventured to expostulate with their superior upon his wanton and unwise severities. But they were confounded to find that they themselves incurred the danger of Lachane, in the attempt to plead against it. It was one of the miserable weaknesses in the character of Captain Albert, to suppose his authority in danger whenever he was approached with the language of expostulation. To question his justice seemed to him to defy his power—to entreat for mercy, such a showing of hostility as to demand punishment also. He resented, as an impertinence to himself, all such approaches; and his answer to the prayers of his people was couched in the language of contumely and threat. They retired from his presence accordingly, with feelings of increased dislike and disgust, and with a discontent which was the more dangerous as they succeeded most effectually in controlling its exhibition.

But if such was the state of the relations between Albert and his people, how much worse did they become, when, at the close of the first eighth day after the banishment of Lachane, it was discovered that the orders for providing him with the allowance of food had been suspended, or countermanded. The captain was silent; and no one, unless at his bidding, could venture to carry the poor exile his allotted pittance. The eighth day passed. The men murmured among themselves, and their murmurs soon encouraged the utterance of a bolder voice. Nicholas Barré, a man of great firmness and intelligence, one of their number, at length presented himself before the captain. He boldly reminded him of the condition of Lachane, and urged him to hasten his supplies of food before he perished. But the self-esteem and consequence of Albert, under provocation, became a sort of madness. He answered the suggestion with indignity and insult.

“Begone!” he exclaimed, “and trouble me no more with your complaints. What is it to me if the scoundrel does perish? I mean that he shall perish! He deserves his fate! I shall be glad when ye can tell me that he no longer needs his allowance. Away! you deserve a like punishment. Let me hear another word on this subject, and the offender shall share his fate!”

The insulting answer was accompanied by all the tokens of brute anger and severity. The most furious oaths sufficed equally to show his insanity and earnestness. His, indeed, was now an insanity such as seizes usually upon those whom God is preparing for destruction. Barré deemed it only prudent to retire from the presence of a rage which it was no longer politic to provoke; but, in his soul, the purpose was already taking form and strength, which contemplated resistance to a tyranny so wild and reckless. He was not alone in this purpose. The sentiment of resistance and disaffection was growing all around him, and it only needed one who should embody it for successful exercise. But, for this, time was requisite. To decide for action, on the part of a conspiracy, it is first required that what is the common sentiment shall become the common necessity.

“Meanwhile,” said Barré, “our poor comrade must not starve!”

This was said to certain of his associates when they met that night in secret. When two or three get together to complain of a tyranny, resistance is already begun. They echoed his sentiments, and arrangements were at once made for transmitting provisions to the exile. A canoe was procured for this purpose, and Barré, with one other comrade, set forth secretly at midnight on their generous and perilous mission.

The night was calm and beautiful—the sea, unruffled by a breeze, lay smooth as a mirror between the lonely island and the main. Though barren, and without shrub or tree, the island looked lovely also—a very realm of faery, in the silver smiling of the moon. With active and sinewy limbs, cheered by the sight, our adventurous comrades pulled towards it, reaching it with little effort, the current favoring their course. What, however, was their surprise and consternation, when, on reaching the islet, there was no answer to their summons. Drawing their boat upon the shore, they soon compassed the little empire with hasty footsteps; but they found nothing of the exile. The islet lay bare and bright in the unshadowed moonlight, so that, whether asleep or dead, his prostrate form must still have been perceptible. What bewildering imaginations seized upon the seekers? What had become of their comrade? Had he been carried off by the savages, by a foreign vessel, or, in his desperation, had he cast himself into the devouring sea? What more probable? Yet, as there was no answer to their questioning, there was no solution of their doubts. Hopeless of his fate, after a frequent and a weary search, and dreading the worst, they re-entered their canoe, and re-crossed the bay in safety—their hearts more than ever filled with disgust and indignation at the cruelty and malice of their commander.

But their quest was not wholly hopeless. When they had reached the main, and while approaching the garrison, they were greatly surprised by the sudden appearance of a human form between the fortress and the river. They remembered the poor Guernache, and, for a moment, a fearful superstition fastened upon their hearts. At first, the fugitive seemed to be approaching them; but, in an instant, wheeling about, as if in panic, he darted into the woods, and sought concealment in the thicket. This re-inspired them. They gave chase instantly. The efforts of the pursued were feebly made, and they soon overtook him. To their great relief and surprise, they found him to be the person they had been seeking—the banished and half-starved Lachane!

His story was soon told. He was nearly perished of hunger. Beyond the crude berries and bitter roots which he had gathered in the woods, he had not eaten for three days. The food which had been furnished him from the garrison had been partly carried from him by birds or beasts—he knew not which—while he slept; and, in the failure of his promised supplies, he had become desperate.

“For that matter,” said the wretched exile, “I had become desperate before. Food was not my only or my chief want. I wanted shade from the desolating sun. I wanted rescue from the heavy hand of fire upon my brain; and, by day, I could scarcely keep from quenching the furnace that seemed boiling in my blood, by plunging deep down into the bowels of the sea. By night, when the fiery feeling passed away, then I yearned, above all, for the face and voice of man. It was this craving which made me resolve to brave the death which threatened me which-ever way I turned—that, if I perished, it should still be in the struggle once more to behold the people of my love.”

How closely did they press the poor fellow to their hearts!

“You should not have perished,” said Nicholas Barré, boldly. “I, for one, have become tired of this tyranny, under which we no longer breathe in safety. I am resolved to bear it no longer than I can. There are others who have resolved like me. But of this hereafter. Tell us, Lachane, how you contrived to swim across this great stretch of sea?”

“By the mercy of God which made me desperate—which made the seas calm—which gave me a favoring current, and which threw yon fragment of a ship’s spar within my reach. But I nearly sunk. Twice did I feel the waters going over me; but I thought of France, and all, and the strength came back to me. I can say no more. I am weak—very weak. Give me to eat.”

A flask of generous wine with which they had provided themselves, cheered and inspirited the sufferer. They laid him down at the foot of a broad palmetto, while one of them brought food from the canoe. Much it rejoiced them to see him eat. Ere he had satisfied his hunger, Lachane spoke again as follows:

“I rejoice to hear that you, and others, have resolved to submit no longer to this tyranny. It was not the desire of food, or friendship, only, that strengthened me to throw myself into the sea, in the desperate desire to see the garrison once more. But while my head flamed beneath the sun’s downward blaze upon that waste of sand, while mine eyes burned like living coals fresh from the furnace, and my blood leaped and bounded like a mad thing about my temples and in all my veins, I saw all the terrible sufferings of our poor Guernache anew. I heard his voice—his bitter reproaches—and then the terrible scream of the poor Indian woman when the heavy rods descended upon her shoulder. Then I felt that I had not done what my soul commanded!—that I had abandoned my innocent comrade like a lamb to the butcher. I swore to do myself justice—to seek the garrison at Fort Charles, if, for no other purpose, to have revenge upon Albert. I verily believe, mes amis, that it was that oath that strengthened me in the sea—that lifted me when the waves went over me, and my heart was sinking with my body. I thought of the blows which might yet be struck for vengeance and freedom. I thought of Guernache and his murderer,—and I rose,—I struck out. I had no fear! I got a strength which I had not at the beginning; and I am here; the merciful God be praised forever more—ready to strike a fair blow at the tyrant, though I die the moment after!”

“That blow must now be struck very soon,” said Nicholas Barré. “We are no longer safe. Albert rules us just as it pleases him, by his mere humor, and not according to the laws or usages of France. Every day witnesses against him. Some new tyranny—some new cruelty—adds hourly to our afflictions, and makes life, on such terms, endurable no longer. We are not men if we submit to it.”

“Hear me,” said Lachane; “you have not laid the plan for his overthrow?”

“Not yet! But we are ready for it. All’s ripe. The proper spirit is at work.”

“Let it work! All right; but look you, comrades, it is for this hand to strike the blow. I demand the right, because Guernache was my closest friend. I demand it in compensation for my own sufferings.”

“It is yours, Lachane! You have the right!”

“Thanks, mes amis! And now for the plan. You have resolved on none yourselves. Hearken to mine.”

They lent willing ears, and Lachane continued. His counsel was that Captain Albert should be advised of an unusual multitude of deer on one of the “hunting islands” in the neighborhood. These islands are remarkable—some of them—for the luxuriance and beauty of their forests. Here, the deer were accustomed to assemble in great numbers, particularly when pressed by clouds of Indian hunters along the main; nor were they loth to visit them at other seasons, when the tides were low and the seas smooth. Swimming across the dividing rivers, and arms of the sea, at such periods, in little groups of five or ten, they found here an almost certain refuge and favorite browsing patches. To one of these islands, Barré, or some other less objectionable person, was to beguile Captain Albert. His fondness for the chase was known, and was gratified on all convenient occasions. He was to be advised of numerous herds upon the island, which passed to it the night before. They had been seen crossing in the moonlight from the main. Lachane, meanwhile, possessing himself of the canoe which his friends had just employed, armed with weapons which they were to provide, was to place himself in a convenient shelter upon the island, and take such a position as would enable him to seize upon the first safe opportunity for striking the blow. Numerous details, not necessary for our purpose, but essential to that of the conspirators, were suggested, discussed, and finally agreed upon, or rejected. Lachane simply concluded with repeating his demand for the privilege of the first blow—a claim farther insisted upon, as, in the event of failure, he who had already incurred the doom of outlawry, and had offended against hope, might thus save others harmless, who occupied a position of greater security. We need not follow the arrangement of the parties. Enough, that, when they were discussed fully, the three separated—Barré and his companion to regain the fort, and Lachane to embark in the canoe, ere day should dawn, for the destined islet where he was equally to find security and vengeance.

Everything succeeded to the wishes of the conspirators. Albert, who was passionately fond of the chase, was easily persuaded by the representations of Barré and his comrades. The pinnace was fitted out at an early hour, and, attended by the two conspirators, and some half dozen other persons, the greater number of whom were supposed to be as hostile to the tyrant as themselves, the Captain set forth, little dreaming that he should be the hunted instead of the hunter. Pierre Renaud, by whom he was also accompanied, was the only person of the party upon whom he could rely. But neither his creature nor himself had the slightest apprehension of the danger. The jealousies of the despot seemed for the moment entirely at rest, and, as if in the exercise of a pleasant novelty, Albert threw aside all the terrors of his authority. He could jest when the fit was on him. He, too, had his moments of play; a sort of feline faculty, in the exercise of which the cat and the tiger seem positively amiable. His jests were echoed by his men, and their laughter gratified him. But there was one exception to the general mirth, which arrested his attention. Nicholas Barré alone preserved a stern, unbroken composure, which the gay humor of his superior failed entirely to overcome. Nothing so much vexes superiority as that it should condescend in vain; and the silence and coldness of Barré, and the utter insensibility with which he heard the good things of his captain, and which occasioned the ready laughter of all the rest, finally extorted a comment from Albert, which gave full utterance to his spleen.

“By my life, Lieutenant Barré,”—such was the rank of this conspirator—“but that I know thee better, I should hold thee to be one of those unhappy wretches to whom all merriment is a hateful thing—to whom a clever jest gives offence only, and whom a cheerful laugh sends off sullenly to bed. Pray, if it be not too serious a humor, tell us the cause of thy present dullness.”

“Verily, Captain Albert,” replied the person addressed, fixing his eyes steadily upon him, and speaking in the most deliberate accents, “I was thinking of the deer that we shall strike to-day. Doubtless, he is even now making as merry as thyself among his comrades—little dreaming that the hunter hath his thoughts already fixed upon the choice morsels of his flanks, which, a few hours hence, shall be smoking above the fire. Truly, are we but little wiser than the thoughtless deer. The merriest of us may be struck as soon. The man hath as few securities from the morrow as the beast that runs.”

Captain Albert was not the most sagacious tyrant in the world, or the moral reflections of our conspirator might have tended to his disquiet. He saw no peculiar significance in the remark, though the matter of it was all well remembered, when the subsequent events came to be known. Little, indeed, did the victim then dream of the fate which lay in wait for him. He laughed at the shallow reflection of Barré, which seemed so equally mistimed and unmeaning, and his merriment increased with every stroke of the oar which sent the pinnace towards the scene chosen for the tragedy. All his severities were thrown aside; never had he shown himself more gracious; and, though his good humor was rather the condescension of one who is secure in his authority, and can resume his functions at any moment, than the proof of any sympathy with his comrades, yet he seemed willing for once that it should not lose any of its pleasant quality by any frequent exhibition of his usual caprice. But for an occasional sarcasm in which he sometimes indulged, and by which he continued to keep alive the antipathies of the conspirators, the gentler mood in which he now suffered them to behold him, might have rendered them reluctant to prosecute their purpose. They might have relented, even at the last moment, had they been prepared to believe that his present good humor was the fruit of any sincere relentings in him. But he did not succeed to this extent, and, with a single significant look to his comrades, the stern Nicholas Barré showed to them that he, at least, was firm in the secret purpose which they had in view. His silence and gravity for a time served to amuse his superior, who exercised his wit at the expense of the sullen soldier, little dreaming, all the while, at what a price he should be required to pay for his temporary indulgence. But as Barré continued in his mood, the pride of the haughty superior was at length hurt; and, when they reached the shore, the insolence of Albert had resumed much of its old ascendancy.

Albert was the first to spring to land. He was impatient to begin the chase, of which he was passionately fond. The sport, as conducted in that day and region, was after a very simple fashion. It consisted rather in a judicious distribution of the hunters, at various places of watch, than in the possession of any particular skill of weapon or speed of foot. The island was small—the woods not very dense or intricate, and the only outlet of escape was across the little arm of the sea which separated the island from the main. The hunters were required to watch this passage, with a few other avenues from the forest. We need not observe their order or arrangement. It will be enough to note that Barré chose as the sentinel left in charge of the boat one of the firmest of the conspirators. This was a person named Lamotte—a small but fiery spirit—a man of equal passion and vindictiveness, who had suffered frequent indignities from Albert, which his own inferior position as a common soldier had compelled him to endure without complaint. But he was not the less sensible of his hurts, because not suffered to complain of them; and his hatred only assumed a more intense and unforgiving character, because it seemed cut off from all the outlets to revenge.

The arrangements of the hunters all completed, they began to skirt slowly the woody region by which the centre of the island was chiefly occupied. Gradually separating as they advanced, they finally, one by one, found their way into its recesses. A single dog which they carried with them, was now unleashed, and his eager tongue very soon gave notice to the hunters that their victim was afoot. As the bay of the hound became more frequent, the blood of Albert became more and more excited, and, pressing forward, in advance of all his companions, the sinuosities of the route pursued soon scattered the whole party. But this he did not heed. The one consciousness,—that which appealed to his love of sport,—led to a forgetfulness of all others; and it was no disquiet to our captain to find himself alone in forests where he had never trod before, particularly when his eager eye caught a glimpse of a fine herd of the sleek-skinned foresters, well-limbed, and nobly-headed, darting suddenly from cover into the occasional openings before him. A good shot was Captain Albert. He fired, and had the joy to see tumbled, headlong, sprawling, in his tracks, one of the largest bucks of the herd. He shouted his delight aloud;—shouted twice and clapped his hands!

His shouts were echoed, near at hand, by a voice at once strange and familiar! His instinct divined a sudden danger in this strange echo. He stopped short, even as he was about to bound forward to the spot in which the deer had fallen. Another shout!—but this was to his companions! He was now confounded at the new echo and the fearful vision which this summons conjured up. At his side, and in his very ears, rose another shout—a shriek rather—much louder than his own—a wild, indescribable yell,—which sent a thrill of horror through his soul. At the same instant, a gaunt, wild man—a half-naked, half-famished form—darted from the thicket and stood directly before him in his path!

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” howled the stranger.

“Guernache!” was the single word, forced from the guilty soul of the criminal!

“Guernache! Yes! Guernache, in his friend Lachane! Both are here! See you not? Look! Ho! Captain Albert,—look and see, and make yourself ready. Your time is short. You will hang and banish no longer!”

Wild with exulting fury was the face of the speaker—terrible the language of his eyes—threatening the action of the uplifted arm. A keen blade flashed in his grasp, and the discovery which Albert made, that, in the wild man before him, he saw the person whom he had so wantonly and cruelly decreed to perish, sufficed to make him nerveless. The surprise deprived him of resource, while his guilty conscience enfeebled his arm, and took all courage from his soul. His match-lock was already discharged. The couteau de chasse was at his side; but, before this could be drawn, he must be hewn down by the already uplifted weapon of his foe. Besides, even if drawn, what could he hope, by its employment, against the superior muscle and vigor of Lachane? These thoughts passed with a lightning-like rapidity through the brain of Albert. He felt that he had met his fate! He shrunk back from its encounter, and sent up a feeble but a painful cry for his creature,—“Pierre Renaud!”

“Ha! ha! you cry for him in vain!” was the mocking answer of Lachane. “Renaud, that miserable villain—that wretch after thy own heart and fashion—hath quite as much need of thee as thou of him! Ye will serve each other never more to the prejudice of better men. Hark! hear you not? Even now they are dealing with him!”

And, sure enough, even as he spoke, the screams of one in mortal terror, interrupted by several heavy blows in quick succession, seemed to confirm the truth of what Lachane had spoken. In that fearful moment Albert remembered the words, now full of meaning, which Nicholas Barré had spoken while they set forth. The hunter had indeed become the hunted. Lachane gave him little time for meditation.

“They have done with him! Prepare! To your knees, Captain Albert! I give you time to make your peace with God—such time as you gave my poor Guernache! Prepare!”

But, though Albert had not courage for combat, he yet found strength enough for flight. He was slight of form, small, and tolerably swift of foot. Flinging his now useless firelock to the ground, he suddenly darted off through the forests, with a degree of energy and spirit which it tasked all the efforts of the less wieldy frame of Lachane to approach. Life and death were on the event, and Albert succeeded in gaining the beach where the boat had been left before he was overtaken. But Lamotte, to whom the boat had been given in charge, pushed off, with a mocking yell of laughter, at his approach! His cries for succor were unheeded. Lamotte himself would have slain the fugitive but that he knew Lachane had claimed for himself this privilege. His spear had been uplifted as Albert drew nigh the water, but the shout of Lachane, emerging from the woods, warned him to desist. He used the weapon to push the pinnace into deep water, leaving Albert to his fate!

“Save me, Lamotte!” was the prayer, of the tyrant in his desperation, urged with every promise that he fancied might prove potent with the soldier. But few moments were allowed him for entreaty, and they were unavailing. Lamotte contented himself with looking on the event, ready to finish with his spear what Lachane might leave undone. Albert gazed around him, and as Lachane came, with one shriek of terror, darted into the sea. The avenger was close behind him. The water rose to the waist and finally to the neck of the fugitive. He turned in supplication, only to receive the stroke. The steel entered his shoulder, just below the neck. He staggered and fell forwards upon the slayer. The blade snapped in the fall, and the wounded man sunk down irretrievably beneath the waters. Lachane raised the fragment of his sword to Heaven, while, with something of a Roman fervor, he ejaculated—

“Guernache! dear friend, behold! the hand of Lachane hath avenged thee upon thy murderer!”

[VIII.]
FLIGHT, FAMINE, AND THE BLOODY FEAST OF THE FUGITIVES.

The assassination of Captain Albert restored peace, at least, to the little colony of Fort Charles. He had been the chief danger to the garrison, by reason of his vexatious tyranny, fomented ever by the miserable malice and espionage of Pierre Renaud. Both of these had perished, and a sense of new security filled the hearts of the survivors. They had also gratified all revenges. The sequel of the narrative may be told, almost in the very words of the simple chronicle from which our facts are mostly drawn.

“When they (the conspirators) were come home againe, they assembled themselves together to choose one to be Governor over them.” In this selection there was no difficulty. Jealousies and dissensions had ceased to exist, and the choice naturally fell upon Nicholas Barré,[15] whose former position, as Lieutenant under Albert, and whose recent connection with the party by which he was slain, had naturally given him a large influence among the colonists. He was equal to his new duties. He “knewe so well to quite himself of this charge that all rancour and dissention ceased among them, and they lived peaceably one with another.” But, though harmony was restored among them, it was a harmony without hope. They had been abandoned by their countrymen. The supplies which Ribault had promised them had utterly failed. They had never, indeed, been levied. Ribault returned to France only to find it convulsed with a renewal of the civil war, under the auspices of that incarnate mischief, Catherine de Medicis, and her fatherless and cruel son, in whose name she swayed the country to its ruin. Coligny, the father of the colony, had enough to do in fighting the battles of the Huguenots at home. He could do nothing for those whom he had sent abroad. The peace of Longjumean had been of short duration, and there had been really no remission of hostilities on the part of the Catholics. In the space of three months more than two thousand of the former fell victims to the rage of the populace; and, though reluctantly, the Prince of Condé and Coligny were forced into a resumption of arms for the safety of their own persons. The immediate necessities of their situation were such as to defeat their efforts in behalf of the remote settlement at Fort Charles. They needed all their soldiers and Huguenots in France. Feeling themselves abandoned—they knew not why—the colonists in Florida ceased to behold a charm or solace in their solitary realm of refuge. Its securities were no longer sufficient to compensate for its loneliness. Better the strife, perhaps, than this unmeaning and unbroken silence. They were too few for adventure, and the discouragements resulting from their domestic grievances were enough to paralyze any such spirit. But for this there had been no lack of the necessary inducements. In their second voyage to King Ouade, seeking “mil and beans,” they had learned some of the secrets of the country which made their eyes brighten. They had discovered that there was gold in the land, and that the gold of the land was good. This prince had freely given them of his treasure. He had bestowed on them pearls of the native waters, stones of finest chrystal, and certain specimens of silver ore, which he described, in reply to their eager inquiries, as having been gathered at the foot of certain high mountains, the bowels of which contained it in greatest quantity. These were the mountains of Apalachia, and the truth of Ouade’s revelations have been confirmed by subsequent discovery. The intelligence had greatly gladdened the hearts of our Frenchmen, and nothing but the feebleness of the garrison prevented Albert from prosecuting a search which promised so largely to gratify the lusts of avarice. His subsequent errors and fate put an end to the desire among his followers. They longed for nothing now so much as home. They had been temporarily abandoned by the Indians whose granaries they had emptied, and who had been compelled to wander off to remote forests in search of their own supplies. The gloom of the Frenchmen naturally increased in the absence of their allies, who had furnished them equally with food and recreation. Their provisions again began to fail them. Their resources in corn and peas were quite exhausted; and no more could be procured from the red-men, who had preserved a supply barely sufficient for the planting of their little fields. In this condition of want, with this feeling of destitution and abandonment, it was resolved among the Huguenots, to depart the colony. With a fond hope once more of recovering the shores of that country, still most beloved, which had so unkindly cast them forth, they began to build themselves a vessel sufficiently large to bear their little company. “And though there were no men among them,” says the chronicle, “that had any skill, notwithstanding, necessitye, which is the maistresse of all sciences, taught them the way to build it.” But how were they to provide the sails, the tackle and the cordage? “Having no meanes to recover these things they were in worse case than at the first, and almost ready to fall into despayre.” They were succored, when most desponding, by the help of Providence. “That good God, which never forsaketh the afflicted, did favor them in their necessitie.” The Indians, who had been for some time absent, seeking, by the chase, in distant forests, to supply themselves with provisions in place of those which they had yielded to the white men, now began to reappear; and, in the midst of their perplexities, they were visited by the Caciques, Audusta and Maccou, with more than two hundred of their followers. These, our Frenchmen went forth to meet, with great show of satisfaction; and had they been sufficiently re-assured by the return of their red friends—had they not been too much the victims of nostalgia, or homesickness, the cloud might have passed from their fortunes, and the little colony might have been re-established under favoring auspices. But their only thought was of their native land. They declared their wishes to the Indian chieftains, and, showing in what need of cordage they stood, they were told that this would be provided in the space of a few days. The Caciques kept their word, and, in little time, brought an abundance of cordage. But other things were wanted, and “our men sought all meanes to recover rosen in the woodes, wherein they cut the pine trees round about, out of which they drew sufficient reasonable quantitie to bray the vessel. Also they gathered a kind of mosse, which groweth on the trees of this countrie, to serve to caulke the same withall. There now wanted nothing but sayles, which they made of their own shirtes and of their sheetes.” Thus provided with the things requisite, our Frenchmen hastened to finish their brigantine, and “used so speedie diligence,” that they were soon ready to launch forth upon the great deep. They gave to their Indian friends all their surplus goods and chattels, leaving to them all the merchandise of the fort which they could not take away;—a liberality which gave the red-men the “greatest contentation in the worlde.” But they re-embarked their forge, their artillery and other munitions of war. Unhappily, they were too impatient to begin their journey. In the too sanguine hope of reaching France, with a speed proportioned to their eager desires, they laid in no adequate provision for a long voyage. “In the meane season the wind came so fit for their purpose, that it seemed to invite them to put to sea. Being drunken with the too excessive joy which they had conceived for their returning into France, or rather deprived of all foresight and consideration:—without regarding the inconsistencie of the winds which change in a moment, they put themselves to sea, and, with so slender victuals, that the end of their enterprise became unlucky and unfortunate.”

They had not sailed a third part of the distance, when they were surprised with calms, which so much hindered their progress that, during the space of three weeks, they had not advanced twenty-five leagues. In this period their provisions underwent daily diminution. In a short time their stock had sunk so low that it was necessary to limit the allowance to each man. We may conceive their destitution from this allowance. “Twelve grains of mill by the day, which may be in value as much as twelve peason!” But even this poor quantity was not long continued. It was “a felicity,” in the language of the chronicle, which was of brief duration. Soon the “mill” failed them entirely—all at once—and they “had nothing for their more assured refuge, but their shoes and leather jerkins, which they did eate.” But their misfortune was not confined to their food. Their supplies of fresh water failed them also. Never had adventurers set forth upon the seas with such wretched provision. Their beverage finally became the water of the ocean—the thirst-provoking brine. Such beverage as this increased their miseries—atrophy and madness followed—and death stretched himself out among them on every side. Nor were they suffered to escape from the most painful toils while thus contending against thirst and famine. Their wretched vessel sprang a-leak. The water grew upon them. Day and night were they kept busy in casting it forth, without cessation or repose. Each day added to their griefs and dangers. Their shoes and jerkins they had already devoured in their desperation, and where to look for other material to supply the materiel of distension, puzzled their thoughts. While thus distressed by their anxieties, with their comrades dying about them, a new danger assailed them, as if fortune was resolved to crush them at a blow, and thus conclude their miseries. The winds rose, the seas were lashed into fury by the storm. Their vessel, no longer buoyant, “in the turning of a hand” shipped a fearful sea, and was nearly swamped—“filled halfe full of water, and bruised in upon the one side.” This was the last drop in the cup of misfortune which finally makes it overflow. Then it was that the hearts of our Frenchmen sunk utterly within them. They no longer cared to contend for life. They gave themselves up to despair. “Being now more out of hope than ever to escape out of this extreme peril, they cared not for casting out of the water which now was almost ready to drown them; and as men resolved to die, everie one fell downe backwarde, and gave themselves over, altogether unto the will of the waves.”

It was at this moment of extreme despondency, that Lachane tried to cheer them with new hope, and to new exertions. He encouraged them by various assurance, to hold out against fate, and struggle manfully to the last. He told them “how little way they had to sayle, assuring them that if the winde helde, they should see land within three dayes.” “At worst,” he added, “we can die when we can do no better. It will be always time enough for that. But this necessity is not now. We can surely put it off for some time longer. At present, let us live!”

Speaking thus, in the most cheerful manner, the brave fellow set them a proper example by which to dissipate their fears and to provide against them. He began to bail and cast out the water in which, in their extreme indifference to their fate, they either sat or lay. They took heart as they beheld him, and joined in the labor with new vigor, and that elastic spirit which is so characteristic of Frenchmen. But, when the three days had gone by, and still their eyes were unblessed with the sight of the promised land—when they had consumed every remnant of shoe and jerkin, and nothing more was left them to consume, they turned their eyes in bitter reproach upon the man who had persuaded them to live. He met their reproachful glances with a smile, and instantly devised a remedy for their fears and weaknesses, through one of those terrible thoughts which, at any other period, would revolt, with extremest loathing, the humanity of the man, however little human.

“My comrades!” said the noble fellow, “you hunger—you starve! You will perish unless you can get some food. I see it in your eyes. They have no lustre, and the courage seems to have gone out entirely from your hearts. You must not die! You must not lose your courage. You shall not. You shall drink life and courage out of my breast. I have enough there for all who thirst and faint. You shall feed upon my heart—you shall drink the blood of a brave man, and live for your friends and country. I have few friends, and my country can spare me. Better that one of us should die than that all should perish. I am ready to die for you! What! You shake your heads—you would not have it so—but it shall be so! You have loved me—you have suffered for me. Well, Lachane loves you in return—he will die for you. You shall remember him hereafter, when our own dear France receives you again in safety. You will bless his memory!”

A groan was the only reply of those around him. Lachane threw open his breast.

“There!” he cried; “Look! I am ready! I fear not death. Strike! See you not, my bosom is open to the knife. My hand is down—there!”—grasping the seat upon which he sate,—“There! it shall not be lifted to arrest the blow!”

The famished wretches looked with wolfish yearnings upon the white breast of the offered sacrifice; but there was still a human revolting in their hearts that kept them moveless and silent. They longed for the horrible banquet, but still turned from it with a lingering human loathing. But Lachane was resolute.

“Ah!” said he, reproachfully; “you fear—you would not that I should die in this manner; but, mes amis, you know me not. You know not how it will glad my heart to know that its dying pulse shall add new life to yours. Here, Lafourche, Genet—you are both beside me. You are the feeblest. You are dying fast. You thirst; another day and you perish! You have a mother, Genet—a dear sister, Lafourche—why will you not live for them? Lo! you, now,—when I strike the blow,—do you both clap your mouths upon the wound. Drink freely—drink deep—that you may have strength—and let the rest drink after you. There!—my braves!—there.”

With each of these last words, the brave fellow—thence called “Lachane, the Deliverer”—struck two fatal blows, one upon his heart, and one upon his throat. He leaned back between the two famished persons whom he had especially addressed, and, while the consciousness was yet in the eyes of the dying man, they sprang like thirsting tigers, and fastened their mouths upon each streaming orifice. The victim, smarting and conscious to the last, sunk in a few seconds, into the sacred slumber of death. This heroism saved the rest. He had struck with a firm hand and a resolute spirit. In his death they lived. Slow to accept his proffered sacrifice, he was scarcely

cold, ere the survivors fastened upon his body; and, ere the last morsel of the victim was consumed, they had assurances of safety.[16]

It seemed as if expiation had been done; as if the sacrifice had purged their offences and made them acceptable to heaven. The land rose upon their vision,—a glimpse like that of salvation to the doomed one,—a sight “whereof they were so exceeding glad, that the pleasure caused them to remain a long time as men without sense; whereby they let the pinnesse floate this and that way without holding any right way or course.” While thus wandering, in sight of France, but still at the mercy of the winds and waves, they were boarded by an English vessel. Here they were recognized by a Frenchman who happened to be one of the crew that had accompanied Ribault in his voyage. The most feeble were put upon the coast of France; the rest were taken to England, with the design that Queen Elizabeth, who meditated sending an expedition to Florida, might have the benefit of their report.

[IX.]
THE SECOND EXPEDITION OF THE HUGUENOTS TO FLORIDA.

The Fortress of La Caroline and the Colony of Laudonniere.

Thus, unhappily, as we have seen, ended the first experiment of Coligny for the establishment of a Huguenot colony in the territory of the Floridian. The disasters which had attended the fortunes of the garrison at Fort Charles, were due, in some degree, to its seeming abandonment by their founder. But Coligny was blameless in this abandonment. When Ribault returned to France, from his first voyage, the civil wars had again begun, depriving the admiral of the means for succoring the colony, as had been promised. Nearly two years had now elapsed from that period, before he could recover the power which would enable him to send supplies or recruits for its maintenance. In all this time, with the exception of the small domain occupied by Fort Charles, the country lay wholly derelict, and in the keeping of the savages. But Coligny was now in a condition to resume his endeavors in behalf of his colony. He was again in possession of authority. The assassination of the Duke of Guise had restored to France the blessings of peace; and Coligny seized upon this interval of repose, to inquire after the settlement which had been made by Ribault. Three ships, and a considerable amount of money, were accorded to his application; and the new armament was assigned to the command of René Laudonniere—a man of intelligence, a good seaman rather than a soldier, and one who had accompanied Ribault on his first expedition, though he had not remained with the colony.[17] Laudonniere found it easy enough to procure his men, not only for the voyage but the colony. The civil wars had produced vast numbers of restless and destitute spirits, who longed for nothing so much as employment and excitement. Besides, there was a vague attraction for the imagination, in the tales which had reached the European world, of the wondrous sweetness and beauty of the region to which they were invited. Florida still continued, even at this period, to be the country beyond all others in the new world, which appealed to the fancies and the appetites of the romantic, the selfish, and the merely adventurous. Ribault’s own account of it had described the wondrous sweetness of its climate, and the exquisite richness and variety of its fruits and flowers. Then, there were the old dreams which had beguiled the Spanish cavalier, Hernando de Soto, and had filled with the desires and the hopes of youth, the aged heart of Juan Ponce de Leon. It did not matter if death did keep the portals of the country. This guardianship only seemed the more certainly to denote the precious treasures which were concealed within. In the absence of any certain knowledge, men dreamed of spoils within its bowels, such as had been yielded to Cortes and Pizarro, by the great cities and teeming mountains of Tenochtitlan and Peru. They had heard true stories of its fruits and flowers; of its bland airs, so friendly to the invalid; of its delicious fountains, in which healing and joy lay together in sweet communion. It was the region in which, according to tradition, life enjoyed not only an exquisite, but an extended tenure, almost equalling that of the antediluvian ages. Its genial atmosphere was supposed to possess properties particularly favorable to the prolongation of human life. Laudonniere himself tells us of natives whom he had seen who were certainly more than two hundred and fifty years old, and yet, who entertained a reasonable hope of living fifty or a hundred years longer. These may have been exaggerations, but they are such as the human imagination loves to indulge in. But there was comparative truth in the assertion. Portions of the Floridian territory are, to this day, known to be favorable to health and longevity in a far greater degree than regions in other respects more favored; and, in the temperate habits, the hardy exercises, the simple lives of the red-men, unvexed by cares and anxieties, and unsubdued by toils, they probably realized many of the alleged blessings of a golden age. But the attractions of this region were not estimated only with respect to attractions such as these. The fountains of the marvellous which had been opened by the great discoverers, Columbus and Cortes, Balboa and Pizarro, were not to be quickly closed. The passion for adventure, in the exploration of new countries, made men easy of belief; and any number of emigrants were prepared to accompany our second Huguenot expedition. The armament of Laudonniere was ready for sea, and sailed from France on the 22d April, 1564.[18] A voyage of two months brought the voyagers to the shores of New France, which they reached the 25th of June, 1564. The land made was very nearly in the same latitude as in the former expedition. It was a favorable period for seeing the country in all its natural loveliness; and the delight of the voyagers may be imagined, when, at May River, they found themselves welcomed by the Indians, such of the whites particularly as were recognized to have been of the squadron of Ribault. The savages hailed them as personal friends and old acquaintances. When they landed, they were eagerly surrounded by the simple and delighted natives, men and women, and conducted, with great ceremonials, to the spot where Ribault had set up a stone column, with the arms of France, “upon a little sandie knappe, not far from the mouth of the said river.” It was with a pleased surprise that Laudonniere found the pillar encircled and crowned with wreaths of bay and laurel, with which the affectionate red-men had dressed the stone, in proof of the interest which they had taken in this imposing memorial of their intercourse with the white strangers. The foot of the pillar was surrounded by little baskets of maize and beans; and these were brought in abundance, in token of their welcome, and yielded by these generous sons of the forest to their new visitors, at the foot of the pillar which they had thus consecrated to their former friendship. They kissed the column, and made the French do likewise. Their Paracoussy, or king, was named Satouriova, the oldest of whose sons, named Athore, is described by Laudonniere as “perfect in beautie.” Satouriova presented Laudonniere with a “wedge of silver”—one of those gifts which by no means lessened the importance of the giver, or of his country, in the eyes of our voyager. His natural inquiry was whence the silver came.

“Then he showed me by evident signes that all of it came from a place more within the river, by certain days journeyes from this place, and declared unto us that all that which they had thereof, they gat it by force of armes of the inhabitants of this place, named by them Thimogoa, their most ancient and natural enemies, as hee largely declared. Whereupon, when I saw with what affection and passion hee spake when hee pronounced Thimogoa, I understood what he would say; and to bring myself more into his favour, I promised him to accompany him with all my force, if hee would fight against them: which thing pleased him in such sorte, that, from thenceforth, hee promised himselfe the victorie of them, and assured mee that hee would make a voyage thither within a short space, and would commaund his men to make ready their bowes and furnish themselves with such store of arrows, that nothing should bee wanting to give battaile to Thimogoa. In fine, he prayed me very earnestly not to faile of my promise, and, in so doing, he hoped to procure me golde and silver, in such good quantitie, that mine affaires should take effect according to mine owne and his desire.”

Here then we see cupidity beginning to plant in place of religion. Our Huguenot tells us of no prayers which he made, of no religious services which he ordered, in presence of the savages, for their benefit and his own. But his sole curiosity is to know where the gold grows, and to prompt the evil passions of the red-men to violence and strife with one another, in order that he may procure the object of his avarice.

With night, the parties separated, the French retiring to their ships and the Indians to the cover of their forests. But Laudonniere had something more to learn. The next day, “being allured with this good entertainment,” the visit was renewed. “We found him, (the Paracoussy) under shadow of an arbor, accompanied with four-score Indians at the least, and apparelled, at that time, after the Indian fashion; to wit, with a great hart’s skin dressed like chamois, and painted with divers colours, but of so lively a portraiture, and representing antiquity, with rules so justly compassed, that there is no painter so exquisite that coulde finde fault therewith. The natural disposition of this strange people is so perfect and well guided, that, without any ayd and favour of artes, they are able, by the help of nature onely, to content the eye of artizans; yea, even of those which, by their industry, are able to aspire unto things most absolute.”

What Laudonniere means by the paintings of the Indians, “representing antiquity,” is not so clear. But it may be well, in this place, to mention that we do not rely here on the opinions of a mere sailor or soldier. In this expedition, Coligny had sent out a painter of considerable merit, named James Le Moyne, otherwise de Morgues, who was commissioned to execute colored drawings of all the objects which might be supposed likely to interest the European eye. To this painter are we indebted for numerous pictures of the people and the region, their modes of life, costume and exercises, which are now invaluable.

The Huguenots left their Indian friends with reluctance. As the ships coasted along the shores, pursuing their way up the river, the word “ami,” one of the few French words which the simple red-men had retained, resounded, in varied accents, from men and women, who followed the progress of the strangers, running along the margin of the river, as long as the ships continued in sight. The French have not often abused the hospitality of the aborigines. In this respect, they rank much more humanly and honorably than either the English or the Spanish people. With a greater moral flexibility, which yields something to acquire more, they accommodated themselves to the race which they discovered, and, readily conforming to some of the habits of the red-men, acquired an influence over them which the people of no other nation have ever been able to obtain. It was with tears that the simple hunters along May River beheld the vessels of the Frenchmen gradually sinking from their eyes.

The vessels of Laudonniere passed up the river, himself and parties of his people landing occasionally, to examine particular spots of country. They are everywhere received with kindness. Two of the Indian words—“Antipola Bonassou,”—meaning “Friend and Brother,”—the French made use of to secure a favorable welcome everywhere.

Monsieur de Ottigny, a lieutenant of Laudonniere, with a small party, is conducted into the presence of a Cassique, whose great apparent age prompts him to inquire concerning it. “Whereunto he made answer, shewing that he was the first living originall from whence five generations were descended, as he shewed unto them by another olde man that sate directly over against him, which farre exceeded him in age. And this man was his father, which seemed to be rather a dead carkiss than a living body; for his sinewes, his veines, his arteries, his bones and other partes appeared so cleerely thorow his skinne, that a man might easily tell them and discerne them one from one another. Also his age was so great that the goode man had lost his sight, and could not speake one onely word but with exceeding great paine. Monsieur de Ottigni, having seene so strange a thing, turned to the younger of these two olde men, praying him to vouchsafe to answer to him that which he demanded touching his age. Then the olde man called a company of Indians, and striking twise upon his thigh, and laying his hand upon two of them, he shewed him by synes that these two were his sonnes; again smiting upon their thighes, he shewed him others not so olde which were the children of the two first, which he continued in the same manner until the fifth generation. But, though this olde man had his father alive, more olde than himselfe, and that bothe of them did weare their haire very long and as white as was possible, yet it was tolde them that they might yet live thirtie or fortie yeeres more by the course of nature: although the younger of them both was not lesse than two hundred and fiftie yeeres olde. After he had ended his communication he commanded two young eagles to be given to our men, which hee had bred up for his pleasure in his house.”

A fitting gift at the close of such a narrative! Certainly, a patriarchal family; and, though we may doubt the correctness of this primitive mode of computing the progress of the sun, there can be no question that the Floridians were distinguished by a longevity wholly unparalleled in modern experience. It is claimed that the anglo-American races who have since occupied the same region, have shared, in some degree, in this prolonged duration of human life.

While the lieutenant of Laudonniere was thus held in discourse by the aged Indians, his commander was enjoying himself in more luxurious fashion. A particular eminence in the neighborhood of the river had fixed his eye, which he explored. Here he reposed himself for several hours. It is pleasant to hear our Frenchman’s discourse of the beauty of the spot where his siesta was enjoyed.

“Upon the top thereof, we found nothing else but cedars, palms, and bay trees, of so sovereign odor, that balm smelleth nothing in comparison. The trees were environed round with vines, bearing grapes in such quantity that the number would suffice to make the place habitable. Touching the pleasure of the place, the sea may be seen plain and open from it; and more than five leagues off, near the river Belle, a man may behold the meadowes, divided asunder into isles and islets, interlacing one another. Briefly, the place is so pleasant, that those who are melancholie would be forced to change their humour.”

There is no exaggeration in this. Such is the odor of the shrubs—such is the picturesqueness of the prospect.

Laudonniere departed with great reluctance from a region so favorable to health, so beautiful to the eye, and which promised so abundantly of fruits and mineral treasures. His course lay northwardly, in search of the colony of Captain Albert. He passes the river of Seine, four leagues distant from the May, and continues to the mouth of the Somme, some six leagues further. Here he casts anchor, lands, and is received with friendly welcome by the Paracoussy, or king of the place, whom he describes as “one of the tallest and best-proportioned men that may be found. His wife sate by him, which, besides her Indian beautie, wherewith she was greatly endued, had so virtuous a countenance and modest gravitie, that there was not one amongst us but did greatly commend her. She had in her traine five of her daughters, of so good grace and so well brought up, that I easily persuaded myself that their mother was their mistresse.”

Here Laudonniere is again presented with specimens of the precious metals, and here we find him already in consultation with his men, touching the propriety of abandoning the settlement of Fort Charles, the fate of which he has heard in his progress from the Indians, for the more attractive regions of the river May. His arguments for this preference, may be given in his own language.

“If we passed farther to the north to seeke out Port Royall, it would be neither very profitable nor convenient,.... although the haven were one of the fairest of the West Indies: but that, in this case, the question was not so much of the beautie of the place as of things necessary to sustaine life. And that for our inhabiting, it was much more needful for us to plant in places plentiful of victuall, than in goodly havens, faire, deepe and pleasante to the view. In consideration whereof, I was of opinion, if it seemed goode unto them, to seate ourselves about the river of May: seeing also, that, in our first voyage, wee found the same onely, among all the rest, to abounde in maize and corn; besides the golde and silver that was found there; a thing that put me in hope of some happie discoverie in time to come.”

Doubtless the last was the conclusive suggestion. The views of Laudonniere were promptly agreed to by his followers; and, sailing back to the river of May, they reached it at daybreak on the 29th June. “Having cast anchor, I embarked all my stuffe and the souldiers of my company, (in the pinnace we may suppose,) to sayle right towards the opening of the river: wherein we entered a good way up, and found a creeke of a reasonable bignisse which invited us to refresh ourselves a little, while wee reposed ourselves there. Afterward, wee went on shore to seeke out a place, plaine, without trees, which wee perceived from the creeke.”

But this spot, upon examination, does not prove commodious, and it was determined to return to a point they had before discovered when sailing up the river. “This place is joyning to a mountaine (hill), and it seemed unto us more fit and commodious to build a fortresse;..... therefore we took our way towards the forests..... Afterwards, we found a large plaine, covered with high pine trees, distant a little from the other; under which we perceived an infinite number of stagges, which brayed amidst the plaine, athwart the which we passed: then we discovered a little hill adjoyning unto a great vale, very greene and in forme flat: wherein were the fairest meadows of the worlde, and grasse to feede cattel. Moreover, it is environed with a great number of brookes of fresh water, and high woodes which make the vale most delectable to the eye.”

Laudonniere names this pleasant region after himself, the “vale of Laudonniere.” They pass through it, and, at length, after temporary exhaustion from fatigue and heat, they recover their spirits, and, penetrating a high wood, reach the brink of the river, and the spot which they have chosen for the settlement.

We have preferred, at the risk of being tedious, to quote these details, in order that the modern antiquarian may, if he pleases, seek for the traces of this ancient settlement. The foundation was not laid without due solemnity. Laudonniere remembers that his people are Christians; and, at the break of day, on the 30th June, 1564, the trumpets were sounded, and our Huguenots were called to prayer. The banks of the May, otherwise the St. Johns,[19] then echoed, for the first time, with a hymn of lofty cheer from European voices.

“There we sang a psalme of thanksgiving unto God.” Prayer was made, and, gathering courage from the exercise of their devotions, our Huguenots applied themselves to the duty of building themselves a fortress. In this work they were assisted by the Indians.[20] A few days sufficed, with this help, to give their fabric form. It was built in the shape of a triangle. “The side towarde the west, which was towarde the lande, was enclosed with a little trench and raised with towers made in forme of a battlement of nine foote high: the other side, which was towarde the river, was inclosed with a palisado of plankes of timber, after the manner that gabions are made. On the south side, there was a kinde of bastion, within which I caused an house for the munition to be built. It was all builded of fagots and sand, saving about two or three foote high with turfes, whereof the battlements were made. In the middest I caused a great court to be made of eighteen paces long and broad; in the middest whereof, on the one side, drawing toward the south, I builded a corps de garde, and an house, on the other side, towarde the north.” * * * “One of the sides that enclosed my court, which I made very faire and large, reached unto the grange of my munitions: and, on the other side, towarde the river, was mine owne lodgings, round which were galleries all covered. The principal doore of my lodging was in the middest of the great place, and the other was towarde the river. A good distance from the fort, I built an oven.”

It will be an employment of curious interest, whenever the people of Florida shall happen upon the true site of the settlement and structure of Laudonniere, to trace out, in detail, these several localities, and fix them for the benefit of posterity. The work is scarcely beyond the hammer and chisel of some Old Mortality, who has learned to place his affections, and fix his sympathies, upon the achievements of the Past.

[X.]
HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Thus, then, was founded the second European settlement on the Continent of America. The fortress was named LA CAROLINE, in honor of the French monarch, whom it was still the policy of the Huguenots to conciliate. The houses were of frail structure, and thatched with leaves of the palmetto. The domain was a narrow one, but it was probably sufficiently wide for the genius of Laudonniere. He soon shows himself sensible of all his dignities as the sole representative of his master in the New World. From his own account, he does not appear to have been the proper person for the conduct of so difficult, if not so great, an enterprise. There is no doubt that he was sufficiently brave; but bravery, unsustained by judgment, is at best a doubtful virtue, and, in a situation of great responsibility, is apt to show itself at the expense of all discretion. The object of the colony of La Caroline was a permanent establishment—a place of refuge from persecution—where the seeds of a new empire might be planted on a basis which should ensure civil liberty to the citizen. The proper aim of such a settlement should have been security, self-maintenance, and peace with all men. These could only have been found in the economizing of their resources, in the application of all their skill and industry to the cultivation of the soil, and in the preservation of the most friendly relations among the Indians. These, unhappily, were not objects sufficiently appreciated by Laudonniere. His first error was that which arose from the universal passion of his time. He had seen the precious metals of the country—wedges of silver and scraps of gold—which declared the abundance of its treasures, and aroused all his passions for its acquisition. His whole energies were accordingly directed to the most delusive researches. He had scarcely built his fortress before he sent off his exploring expeditions. “I would not lose a minute of an hour,” is his language, “without imploying the same in some vertuous exercise,” and therefore he despatches his Lieutenant, Ottigny, in seeking for Thimogoa; that king, hostile to the Paracoussi Satouriova, whom he has pledged himself to the latter to make war upon. Satouriova gives the lieutenant a couple of warriors as guides, who were delighted at the mission,—“seeming to goe as unto a wedding, so desirous they were to fight with their enemies.”

But Ottigny, whose real purpose is to obtain the gold of the people of Thimogoa, does not indulge his warlike guides in their desires. They encounter some of the people whom they seek, and make inquiries after the treasure. This is promised them hereafter. With the report of a king named Mayrra, who lives farther up the river, and abounds in gold and silver, Ottigny returns to La Caroline. Other adventurers follow, other kings and chiefs are brought to the knowledge of our Frenchmen. Plates of gold and silver are procured; large bars of the latter metal; and the lures are quite sufficient to keep the colonists employed in the one pursuit to the complete neglect of every other. Instead of planting, they rely for their provisions wholly upon the Indians; and, for eighteen

months, the lieutenants of Laudonniere penetrated the forests in every possible direction. They appear not only to have explored the interior of Florida, Georgia and South Carolina, but to have prosecuted their insane search even to the Apalachian mountains. It is not improbable that our antiquarians frequently stumble upon the proofs of their progress, which they fondly ascribe to a much earlier period. We preserve, as subjects of proper comparison with aboriginal words still in use, and by which localities may yet be identified, the names of many of the chiefs with whom our Frenchmen maintained communion. From the Indians of King Mollova, Captain Vasseur obtains five or six pounds of silver. Mollova is the subject of a greater prince, named Olata Ovae Utina. The tributaries of this great chief are numerous;—Cadecha, Chilili, Eclavou, Enacappe, Calany, Anacharaqua, Omittaqua, Acquera, Moquoso, and many others. Satouriova is the chief sovereign along the waters of the May. He too hath numerous tributaries. He is the great rival monarch of Olata Utina. Potanou is one of his chiefs, “a manne cruel in warre, but pitiful in the execution of his furie.” He usually took his prisoners to mercy, branding them upon the arm, and setting them free. Onatheaqua and Hostaqua are great chiefs, abounding in riches, that dwell near the mountains. According to the tales of the Indians of May River, the warriors of Olata Utina “armed their breasts, armes, thighes, legs and foreheads with large plates of gold and silver.” Molona is a chief of the river of May, near the Frenchmen, and hostile also to the Thimogoans. Malicá is another of these chiefs of Satouriova, eager, like all the rest, to shed the blood of the hostile people whom the Frenchmen have unwisely promised to destroy. In order to win the favor of Molona, while that Paracoussi is entertaining them at his dwelling, Capt. Vasseur, returning from an expedition to the territories of Thimogoa, reports that nothing but their flight prevented him from utterly destroying that people. Improving upon his superior, one Francis La Caille, a sergeant, insisted that, with his sword, he has run two of the Thimogoans through the body. But this falsehood demands another for its security. The suspicious Indian insists upon handling the sword, “which the sergeant would not denie him, thinking that hee would have beheld the fashion of his weapon; but hee soon perceived that it was to another ende; for the old man, holding it in his hand, behelde it a long while on every place, to see if he could find any blood upon it which might show that any of their enemies had beene killed. Hee was on the point to say that he had killed none of the men of Thimogoa; when La Vasseur preventing that which hee might object, showing, that, by reason of the two Indians which he had slain, his sword was so bloody, he was enforced to wash and make it cleane a long while in the river.”

Another of the chiefs, dwelling near the Frenchmen, is Omoloa, an ally of Satouriova. These two summon Laudonniere to the expedition for which they have prepared themselves against the Thimogoans, and are offended that he now excuses himself. He was too busy with his explorations for any other object. But he sent to request two of his prisoners from Satouriova, which were denied him; the old savage properly saying that he owed him no service, as he had taken no part in the expedition. This irritated the Frenchman, who, with twenty soldiers, suddenly appeared in the dwelling of the Paracoussi, and demanded and carried off the prisoners. His policy was, by freeing these prisoners, and sending them home to their sovereign, to conciliate his favor; but, in the meantime, he made an enemy of Satouriova. An expedition was prepared to carry back the prisoners to Olata Utina. It was confided to Monsieur D’Erlach, one of Laudonniere’s lieutenants, and consisted of ten soldiers. Their course lay up the river of May, more than fourscore leagues. They were received by the great Paracoussi Utina, with much favor, and were easily persuaded by him to take part in a war which he was even then waging with his hereditary enemy, Potanou. A surprise is attempted, and a battle ensues, in which the fire-arms of the French confound Potanou, and subject him to a sore defeat. One of his towns is captured, and all its men, women, and children, are made prisoners. Monsieur D’Erlach returns to La Caroline, with no inconsiderable spoil of gold and silver, skins painted, and other commodities of the Indians.

While thus engaged in the avaricious search for the precious metals, Laudonniere began to receive some intimations of the error into which he had fallen. The mistakes of his policy were beginning to appear in their consequences. His ships had long since departed for France. He had no present hope but in himself and his neighbors; and his garrison were about to suffer from the want of necessaries such as they should have relied upon their own industry to secure. The provisions furnished by the Indians were rapidly failing them. They had offended Satouriova, and thus forfeited the supplies which his favor might have furnished. In the always limited stores of the natives, there was a natural limit, beyond which they could neither sell nor give; since, to do so, would be to lose the grain necessary for sowing their fields at the approaching season. The exigencies of the colonies finally compelled them to seize upon the stores which the providence of the Indians compelled them to retain. These thus despoiled, withdrew promptly from the dangerous neighborhood, and, but for a fortunate, and seemingly providential circumstance, which afforded them succor for awhile, the distress of the garrison might have realized anew the misfortunes of the people of Fort Charles. We must let Laudonniere himself record the event, which had such beneficial consequences, in his own language:

“Thus,” said he, “things passed on in this manner, and the hatred of Paracoussi Satouriova against mee did still continue, untill that, on the nine and twentieth of August, a lightning from heaven fell within halfe a league of our fort, more worthy, I believe, to be wondered at, and to be put in writing, than all the strange signes which have beene scene in times past. For, although the meadows were at that season all greene, and halfe covered over with water, neverthelesse the lightning, in one instant, consumed above five hundred acres thereof, and burned, with the ardent heate thereof, all the foules which took their pastime in the meadowes—which thus continued for three dayes space—which caused us not a little to muse, not being able to judge whence this fire proceeded. One while we thought that the Indians had burnt their houses and abandoned their places for feare of us. Another while we thought that they had discovered some shippes in the sea, and that, according to their custome, they had kindled many fires here and there. * * * I determined to sende to Paracoussi Serranay to knowe the truth. But, even as I was about to sende one by boate, sixe Indians came unto me from Paracoussi Allimicany, which, at their first entrie, made unto mee a long discourse, and a very large and ample oration (after they had presented mee with certain baskets full of maiz, of pompions, and of grapes), of the loving amity which Allimicany desired to continue with mee, and that he looked, from day to day, when it would please mee to employ him in my service. Therefore, considering the serviceable affection that hee bare unto mee, he found it very strange that I thus discharged mine ordnance against his dwelling, which had burnt up an infinite sight of greene meadowes, and consumed even downe unto the bottom of the water.”

The simple message of the Paracoussi, suggested some advantages to Laudonniere, who did not now scruple to admit that all the mischief had been done by his wanton ordnance. He had shot, not really to injure his neighbor, but to let him form a proper idea of what he might do, in the way of mischief, should he have the provocation at any time. Since, however, the Paracoussi had come to the recollection of his duties, he, Laudonniere, would protect him hereafter. The red-man had only to continue faithful, and the white man would stifle his ordnance.

The sequel of this strange fire from heaven, may be given in few words. For three days it remained unextinguished, and, for two more days, the heat in the atmosphere was insupportable. The river suffered from a sympathetic heat, and seemed ready to seethe. The fish in it died in such abundance, of all sorts, that enough were founde to have laden fiftie carts. The air became putrid with the effluvia; the greater number of the garrison fell sick, and suffered nearly to death; while the poor savages removed to a distance from the region, which, since the settlement of the colonists, had been productive of little but mischief unto them. The distress of Laudonniere, under these events, was increased by discontents and mutinies among his people. They were not of a class so docile as their predecessors under Albert. These, certainly, would not have borne so patiently with such a sway. The government of Laudonniere, if not a wise, was not a brutal or despotic one. But they threatened equally his peace and safety. They had cause for apprehension, if not for commotion. The promised supplies from France, which were to be brought by Ribault, had failed to arrive, and the discontent in the colony was beginning to assume an aspect the most serious. At this point, our narrative must enter somewhat more into details, and, for the sake of compactness, we must somewhat anticipate events.

[XI.]
CONSPIRACY OF LE GENRÉ.
HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

The necessities of the colony now began to open the eyes of Laudonniere in respect to the errors of which he had been guilty. He found it important to discontinue his explorations among the Indian tribes, and to employ his garrison in domestic labors. They must either work or starve. Their tasks in the fields were assigned accordingly. This produced discontent among those who, having for some time, in Europe as well as recently in the new world, been chiefly employed as soldiers, regarded labor as degrading, and still flattered themselves with the more agreeable hope of achieving their fortunes by shorter processes. Their appetite for the precious metals had been sufficiently enlivened by the glimpses which had been given them, during their intercourse with the natives, of the unquestionable treasures of the country. It was still farther whetted by the influence of two persons of the garrison. One of these was named La Roquette, of the country of Perigort; the other was known as Le Genré, a lieutenant, and somewhat in the confidence of Laudonniere. Le Genré was the bold conspirator. La Roquette was perhaps quite as potential, though from art rather than audacity. He pretended to be a great magician, and acquired large influence over the more ignorant soldiers on the score of his supposed capacity to read the book of fate. Among his professed discoveries through this medium, were certain mines of gold and silver, far in the interior, the wealth of which was such—and he pledged his life upon it—that, upon a fair division, after awarding the king’s portion, each soldier would receive not less than ten thousand crowns. The arguments and assurances of La Roquette persuaded Le Genré, among the rest. He was exceedingly covetous, and sought eagerly all royal roads for the acquisition of fortune. He was more easily beguiled into conspiracy, in consequence of the refusal of Laudonniere to give him the command of a packet returning into France. It was determined to depose and destroy the latter. Several schemes were tried for this purpose; by poison, by gunpowder, all of which failed, and resulted in the ruin only of the conspirators. With this introduction we introduce the reader more particularly to the parties of our history.

[XII.]
THE CONSPIRACY OF LE GENRÉ.—